The hall was dressed in death.

The tables were carved from the bones of Hollowbone’s fallen. The plates were iron, the goblets silver, the candles thick with tallow that dripped like blood. Wolves feasted on raw meat and roasted flesh. The smell was rich, metallic, intoxicating.

But no one forgot.

Every laugh was sharp. Every glance was edged. Every throat bared in feigned submission was paired with a whisper behind a hand.

This was not a celebration.

This was war dressed as a ...