Keith

I enter the dining hall with Hope’s hand tucked into mine, her fingers warm, a little damp. The doors swing open and the sound hits us like a living thing—laughter, clinking plates, the low rumble of dozens of conversations layered over one another. The scent nearly knocks me sideways. Roasted meat, fresh bread, spiced roots, ale, wine, the mingled musk of lycans and werewolves packed shoulder to shoulder. My Lycan lifts his head inside me, alert and pleased.

Strong pack. Full bellies. Safe.

The hall is massive, long tables stretching from the doors to the raised platform at the far end. Everywhere I look, people are eating, leaning close,...