"Now we burn the world."
A year had passed since I buried the Bloodmoon Pack in unmarked graves.
The throne room of Frostfang Keep was nothing like the gilded nightmare of my enemies' hall. No antlered chairs. No walls hung with trophies. Just rough-hewn stone and the bitter wind howling through the arrow slits. The kind of place where truth stuck in your throat like a bone.
I ran my fingers over the armrests wood from my father's old longhouse, carved with our clan's sigil. The grooves were uneven where my hands had shaken during the crafting.
"Another petition from the western villages." Mira dropped the scroll onto the growing pile with a thud that echoed. "They're still refusing to send tithes."
I didn't look up. "Hang their headman in the square."
"That's what you said last time." She braced her hands on the table, the scar from her bonding mark peeking above her collar. "We can't keep…."
