The sun had not yet reached above the horizons of the jagged peaks of the Blackwood territories when the heavy iron-bound doors of the Great Hall were thrown open. The air inside still smelled of stale wine and the metallic tang of the violence that had ended the Mating Ball prematurely.
Silas stood at the foot of the platform, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked like a man waiting for an execution.
"He is still not here," Elder Hrothgar growled. He was the oldest of the council, a man whose skin looked like weathered parchment and whose wolf was as gray and bitter as a winter frost. He slammed his gnarled staff against the stone floor. "The sun is up. The wagons are produced. The pack is gathered to witness the blood oath, and our Alpha is missing from his own throne."
"The Alph
