The rest of the day passed in a blur of preparations.

Lyra dragged me through what felt like hours of ceremonial briefings, dress fittings, and etiquette lessons. How to stand. How to speak. How to address the pack. How to accept their oaths of loyalty.

“You need to look powerful,” she said, adjusting the ceremonial gown for the third time. “Not scared. Not broken. Powerful.”

“I don’t feel powerful,” I admitted. “I feel like I’m drowning.”

“That’s normal.” She ...