Abram approached the high throne with eager, measured strides, his scent laced with a careful submission. “Father,” he began, his voice lowered in feigned reverence. “You still recognize your own blood, don’t you?”

Tyrone gave him a sharp, sidelong glance. “The mists have cleared for now, Abram. I am not a confused pup.”

Abram’s posture relaxed as he flashed a relieved smile. “Splendid! I knew Ewing was wise to bring you to the Ridge for the healers' rites. That boy is a true pillar of the pack, unlike Klein, who is always prowling the borderlands instead of tending to the den.” Abram cast a pointed glare over his shoulder at...