Boris thrust his communication crystal forward, and the gathered wolves swarmed around, their predatory curiosity peaked.

The flickering projection showed a sterile healing chamber in the High Stronghold. An elder lay weak upon the furs—his features were blurred by the low light, but the room hummed with the collective assumption that this was the Great Alpha Jerome.

Moments later, a female clad in scandalous, sheer silks—garments no modest pack-mate would wear—entered the frame. She held a vellum scroll, a high-stakes contract. She moved her hands in a series of gestures that mimicked the silent language of the "Omens," seemingly coiling the old man around her finger until he pressed his...