Serena did not approach the elders in anger.
She approached them in silk.
The council chamber lay beneath the oldest wing of the estate, carved from stone long before the current structure rose above it. Torches burned along the curved walls, their flames steady and deliberate. The air held the scent of ash and memory.
She entered alone.
Not hurried.
Not dramatic.
Measured.
The elders were already seated in a half-circle, age lining their faces like carved bark. They watched her without expression.
Serena bowed her head just enough to honor custom.
"You requested audience," the eldest among them said quietly.
"I did."
Her voice was smooth, respectful.
Never trembling.
The humiliation of her failed mate ceremony years ago flickered briefly in her memory—standing before assembly, pride bright, only to feel the bond not answer. The silence that followed. The way whispers moved through the crowd like wind through dry leaves.
Brat.
Shameless.
Ridiculous.
