LYRA
The council chamber had never felt so claustrophobic, so stifling, as it did that morning. The walls seemed to close in tighter with every breath I took.
Zeviar stood at the head of the long, polished table, both hands pressed flat against the wood, waiting patiently until every seat was filled before breaking the silence. I stood beside him, a chair pulled out for me but ignored, like I wasn’t meant to sit yet.
“Five packs,” Zeviar began, without any hesitation. “Five attacks. All at the same time, the same pattern, the same number of dead every time. Last night, it was Nightshade.” His jaw clenched tight. “My brother’s pack.”
A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, but Kael, sitting near the far end, didn’t flinch.
“We have a note from the scene,” Zeviar went on, his voice
