The conclave wasn’t held in a hall. It was held in a ruin. Ancient stone terraces carved into a mountainside, open to the sky, ringed by broken pillars and crescent sigils that glowed faintly in the moonlight. Wolves gathered in layers—Alphas at the top, enforcers in the shadows, elders like statues along the edges.
Neutral ground in name only.
Calla felt the lie the moment she stepped into the circle. The air tasted wrong—sweet, metallic, threaded with something that made her skin prickle. Binding runes. Not to imprison her completely but to limit her power.
Nyra walked at her side, jaw tight. “He’s set wards,” she murmured. “I know,” Calla replied softly.
Across the terraces, the Moonbound Regent stood at the highest step like a priest before an altar. Cloak dark, expression calm, ey
