The Great Hall of the lodge felt smaller than usual. It wasn't the physical dimensions of the room—the vaulted ceilings and massive hearth remained—but the sheer density of the power gathered within. The air was thick with the scent of wet fur, ozone, and the sharp, metallic tang of weapons being sharpened.
Lorenzo sat at the head of the heavy oak table, his presence like a gravitational pull. To his right sat Knox, and to his left sat me. For the first time, my chair was not tucked away in the shadows of the advisors; it was carved from the same dark timber as his, positioned so that our shoulders nearly brushed.
"The Eastern Pack isn't just poking at us," Knox began, unrolling a weathered map across the wood. He pointed to three red marks along the Black Stream. "Silas has moved his pr
