The council chamber lay heavy in its silence, a place where the weight of generations pressed down on every stone and timber. The long oak table stretched like a battlefield between the king and his advisors, polished smooth by centuries of hands, voices, and schemes. Flames flickered in the sconces along the wall, but their light only deepened the shadows.
Roan entered with Ewan at his side, Corvus a step behind. Already the elders and noble wolves had assembled, their cloaks drawn close against the late evening chill, their faces carved into masks of expectation.
Elder Halvar, who had overheard too little in the courtyard, sat near the head of the table, his gnarled cane leaning against his chair. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's despite his age, followed Roan as if he could pierce straight through his ribs and read the secrets buried beneath his heart.
