Hope

The air in the council hall feels too tight for my lungs.

I stand along the curved stone wall, arms folded, trying not to pace like my wolf wants. The long cedar table is carved with claw marks from meetings past—agreements struck, wars declared, alliances broken. Tonight, the scratches seem deeper.

At the head of the table stands Keith, broad-shouldered and rigid, his dark hair pulled back from a face carved from granite. Beside him, Xavior leans against the table edge, quiet but coiled. And to Keith’s right, Tessa stands with her hands braced flat against the wood, green eyes blazing.

Across from them are the chieftains.

Jeb sits...