The southern council chamber was thick with the scent of burning sage, the coils of smoke rising lazily toward the high rafters where beams of dark wood crisscrossed in heavy silence. It was a chamber of tradition long stone benches in a circle, a great oak table at the center scarred from decades of meetings, and banners hung along the walls depicting the southern pack's history: crimson wolves embroidered into black cloth, the sigils of power and endurance.
Seren sat stiffly on one of the benches, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She had been summoned without explanation, and the gathering had stretched long with meaningless reports about border skirmishes, merchant tariffs, and the weathering of the southern gates. But there was a tension in the air, something unsaid that made her gut coil tightly. She could feel the way the councilors glanced toward Yakim, waiting for him to speak.
