Nyx
The Council chambers smell like old smoke and politics. They’ve called it a “formal declaration”, but everyone knows it’s a countdown. By the next lunar eclipse, seven nights from now, I must either name a mate or step down as Alpha.
The decree flashes across the holo-screens behind the Council’s dais in glowing silver letters, so no one can mistake its finality. “Balance through bond. Order through unity.” It sounds like scripture. It’s really just control, rewritten in ceremonial font.
My grandfather’s gaze meets mine across the table, calm and cold. “It is not punishment, Nyx,” he says, his voice smooth, rehearsed for the cameras. “It is order. The moon gave us cycles for a reason … creation, destruction, renewal. This is merely your turn to align.”
I want to laugh. Align. That’
