The sky hung low and heavy the next morning, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Lyander stood at the heart of the Stonefang stronghold, flanked by shamans and elders, his wounds stiff beneath fresh bandages.
Despite the fatigue in his bones, his back was straight, his jaw set. Today would decide the fate of more than just himself. It would determine if his rebellion had the spine to rise.
Across the chamber, Alpha Kaius lounged on his stone-carved throne, fingers drumming on the armrest. His eyes—ice-pale and cutting—narrowed on Lyander like a wolf assessing an enemy. His wounds were worse and still healing.
The tension in the air crackled like a drawn blade.
