The council chamber was quieter than it should have been.

Lyla sat at the head of the long oak table, the ancient wood scarred from centuries of conflict. Morning light filtered through the high windows, cutting soft patterns across the stone floor. The room smelled faintly of smoke and old pine, a reminder that the fires of war had only just been put out.

Across from her, Rowan, the Alder Alpha, sat with his arms crossed, his gaze sharp beneath his russet brows. Vaughn, the Ridge Alpha, ...