The Citadel did not celebrate victory.
There were no songs, no banners raised in triumph, no howls echoing from the ramparts. The wolves who had fought through the night cleaned their blades in silence, tended their wounded, reinforced shattered wards with hands that trembled not from fear, but from understanding.
The Council had stopped whispering.
They were speaking openly now.
Aria stood before the high table as dawn bled across the stone floor, pale light illuminating the sigils etched into the Citadel's heart. Her armor lay discarded behind her. She wore no crown. She didn't need one. Power still hummed beneath her skin, steady and awake, no longer surging uncontrollably, no longer hidden.
Her wolf stood with her, not beneath.
Across from her, representatives from allied packs filled the chamber. Some stood rigid with loyalty. Others shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting, calculating. Fear had many faces. So did ambition.
