I stand at the head of the table, feeling the cold surface beneath my fingertips, anchoring me to this moment. The white wolf stirs beneath my skin, not threatening to emerge but lending me her strength, her clarity. The trembling in my hands has stopped. My heart still pounds but with purpose now, not fear. Cassandra's scent—her perfume, her anxiety, her lies—fills my nostrils, but for the first time in my life, it doesn't make me want to disappear. I take one more breath, tasting the ...