Alaric
The Throne Room was a cavern of cold granite and ancient echoes, designed to make a man feel either like a god or an ant. Today, sitting in the center of the vast floor in a chair made of leather and chrome rather than the great slab of weirwood that was the Alpha's seat, Alaric felt like a specimen under a microscope.
The High Council of Mooncrest didn't move with the frantic energy of the pack. They moved like the mountains; slow, heavy, and indifferent to the suffering of those below. Elder Rowan led the procession, his white robes dragging against the stone, followed by four others whose eyes were as hard as the flint they were named after.
"The Mooncrest line is a line of strength, Alaric," Rowan began, his voice bypassing the air and vibrating directly in Alaric's chest. "It is not a line of... endurance in the face of tragedy."
