It didn't take too long before the carriage rolled past the heavy iron gates and up the wide gravel path leading to the castle. The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed as the wheels ground to a slow, deliberate stop.
Aira stepped out first, her boots meeting the cobblestone with a soft tap, her cloak trailing faintly behind her as Rymora followed closely after. Both women hurried across the courtyard, skirts brushing against the cool night breeze that whispered through the archways.
From the number of carriages gathered near the gate, it was immediately obvious that the Werewolf delegation had arrived. Their banners—marked with the silver moon crest—stood in stark contrast to the dark crimson of Zyren's. The mingling of guards—some with glinting fangs, others with sharp golden eyes—told Aira that dinner would be no simple affair. The realization tightened in her chest like a warning.
