The assembly circle had not been used since the last winter oath.
Torches burned in iron brackets along the stone perimeter, their flames bending in the restless wind. The sky hung low and silver, clouds dragging across the moon as though the heavens themselves hesitated to witness what was about to unfold.
The full pack gathered in tiers around the central platform—warriors in dark coats, elders wrapped in ceremonial grey, younger wolves silent but sharp-eyed. The air vibrated with expectation, suspicion, and something more fragile beneath it.
Hope.
Elara stood at the base of the stone steps.
She had not worn silk.
She had not chosen elaborate ornament.
She wore dark fabric, simple and deliberate, her father's signet ring resting against her collarbone on a thin chain.
Not display.
Declaration.
