The grand hall of Lycanthria's palace echoed with chatter and false laughter of noble packs who had come from every border to attend the quarterly banquet, the tradition meant to remind them that peace still existed, even if only by name.
Aveloria stood beside her father on the raised dais, her expression calm, regal, and practiced. Her gown, dark silver trimmed with embroidery of the moon's crest, caught the flicker of firelight. Around her, nobles danced, toasted, and flattered, but all she could hear was the dull rhythm of her heartbeat and the restless pacing of her wolf inside her chest.
It had been a month since Theron's visit and a month since the garden confrontation that still replayed in her mind whenever she thought of him. He had left a week after the feast, returning to his pack, but his strong and burning scent seemed to cling to her memory like smoke.
