The palace brimmed with celebration, yet Ivy felt only the coil of dread in her stomach.
Gold banners fluttered from every balcony, and the courtyards filled with laughter as servants prepared for the full moon rites. Wolves in fine silks and polished armor bustled through the halls, carrying trays of food, crates of wine, and bundles of herbs sacred to the ritual. Arthur had spared no expense to make the night resplendent—a spectacle of dominance to remind every wolf of his power.
To the others, it was a festival. To Ivy, it was a cage.
Selra prowled at the edges of her mind, restless, pacing. The air stinks of deceit, the wolf growled. Arthur dresses his cruelty in gold, but rot hides beneath the silk.
Ivy tightened the laces of her ceremonial gown, the silver threads glinting agains
