The High Council of Elders convened beneath the granite spires of Sanctum Hold—a fortress built into the side of Mount Aelric, protected by ancient wards and the oaths of ten thousand wolves.
Only the most powerful Alphas and elders could summon a full Council session. And yet, today, they had not called it.
Selene had.
As the newly declared Alpha Queen, she had invoked an ancient rite long forgotten by most—a Blood Summons, bearing the three-pact treaty and sealed by Moonfire's crest. It could not be ignored.
She stood now at the great gates, with Daemon Blackwood by her side. Both wore dark cloaks, and both bore the look of wolves who had seen death and refused to bow to it.
Selene's heartbeat was steady.
Behind the doors, the Elders waited.
Some had served since before her birth. Some had voted for her mother's execution. Some—if she was right—were already bought by the Shadow Fang.
She would face them all.
The gates creaked open with a groan like thunder.
A stone chamber lay beyond, circular, vast, and cold. Thirteen massive thrones formed a ring around a moonstone table. Each throne bore a symbol—one for each founding pack.
The center throne, the one meant for the Royal Alpha… sat empty.
Until now.
Selene strode into the circle, head held high, the Moonfire blade strapped across her back, the Crest of Aetheryn pulsing against her chest.
The Elders watched her like statues.
Rowan Thorn, eldest of them all, finally spoke. "You come here bearing ancient laws, child. Do you understand what this circle represents?"
"I do," Selene replied. "It represents justice. Legacy. Unity. All things the packs have lost since my mother's death."
"You claim the right to rule," murmured Elder Mirra, an old woman with eyes like glass. "But rulership is not a claim. It is earned."
Selene pulled a scroll from her cloak and laid it on the moonstone table.
"Three great packs—Bloodfang, Nightmist, and Ironclaw—have pledged allegiance. Their Alphas signed this treaty before the flames of the Autumn Summit. The Crest has awakened. The Council of Shadows recognizes me."
She met every eye in the room.
"By all surviving laws, I am the Alpha Queen."
A murmur swept the chamber.
Rowan didn't flinch. "That much may be true. But even queens must prove they are not puppets. These are dangerous times. Rumors of shadow-forged wolves… assassinations… and alliances made in darkness."
He leaned forward. "Do you deny them?"
"No," Selene said calmly. "I survived them."
She stepped closer, her voice ringing with authority. "I was attacked by Shadow Fang mercenaries. I faced Ironclaw's blade and forced him to kneel. I reclaimed my birthright from Moonfang Pack itself. And I stand before you not as a hopeful heir—but as the only force capable of stopping what's coming."
Mirra tilted her head. "And what is coming, child?"
"War," Selene said. "Not between packs—but between the old blood and the dark."
She turned, eyes scanning the circle.
"The Shadow Fang is moving. They've already infiltrated this Council once. They fear me because they know the Royal Line is the only thing that can expose them."
Several elders exchanged tense glances.
Rowan's voice dropped. "And what would you have us do?"
"Recognize me," she said. "Declare my title. Restore the Royal Seat. And let me prepare the packs for what lies ahead."
"Or?"
"Or the last hope you have walks out of here, and the next time you hear from me, it will be from the battlefield."
Silence.
Then Rowan stood.
He walked slowly toward her, ancient robes dragging over the stone floor. His gaze held centuries of weariness—and something else.
Hope.
He stopped before her.
Then he knelt.
"I served your mother. I doubted her. I was wrong. I will not make the same mistake again."
One by one, the other elders rose—and one by one, they knelt.
Mirra was the last. She hesitated.
Then, with a sigh, she bowed her head.
The Royal Circle was complete.
The moment it happened, the moonstone table flared with silver light. The center throne pulsed. The Crest on Selene's chest responded in kind.
Magic—old, pure, and binding—filled the room.
Selene walked forward and sat in the Royal Seat.
And the mountain itself seemed to exhale.
—
Far below the Council chamber, in the prison caverns of Sanctum Hold, a figure paced restlessly inside a locked cell.
Elira.
Her wrists were bound in silver cuffs, her hair disheveled, her pride wounded.
She had been captured during a failed attempt to poison one of Nightmist's envoys after the Summit.
Now, she fumed in silence.
A door creaked open.
A guard stepped aside to reveal… Damien.
"Elira," he said coolly.
She looked up, eyes furious. "Came to gloat?"
"No," he replied. "I came to offer you freedom."
She scoffed. "And in return?"
"Your help. The Council may have recognized her—but that throne is still warm. And I plan to rip her off it."
Elira's lips twisted into a grin. "Now that sounds like the Damien I loved."
He stepped forward and unlocked her cuffs.
"You'll have your revenge," he whispered. "And I'll have the crown."