The war room of the Obsidian Throne looked nothing like Silver Dawn's cramped council chamber. Black marble stretched wall to wall, veined with faint silver that caught the overhead light like frost on stone. A massive table dominated the center, its surface polished to a mirror shine, and screens along one wall already pulled up the Lycan Council's charter on treaty claims, scrolling past clause after clause in stark white text. Fenris stood at the head of it, sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking more like a general planning a siege than a King fighting for a woman he'd known less than a day.
Aria stood beside him, arms crossed, studying the charter with the same intensity she'd once reserved for memorizing Silver Dawn's patrol schedules — a habit born from years of needing to know ex
