Selene's fingers trembled, the veil crumpling in her white-knuckled grip. From beyond the heavy tapestry that separated her from the gathered crowd, she could hear footsteps and several voices.
The sound of her potential pack.
The air in the small, enclosed antechamber was thick with the scent of burning sage and damp stone, yet all Selene could taste was anxiety.
Beside her, Otsanna was preparing a ceremonial tray, her hands steady as she arranged a pouch of special powder, vials of iridescent oil, a chalice of obsidian, and a bundle of smoldering white sage. Selene, however, stood rigid, facing the cold stone wall as if she could get some answers.
She traced the crack with her eyes, trying to steady her breaths, which came in shallow, ragged hitches that echoed too loudly in the small space and her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs.
