(Damien POV)
The bailey had never been this full without the scent of blood.
Torches burned in every iron stand, their light joined by the soft glow of colored lanterns the pack had hung for the occasion. Snow dusted the ground in a thin, glittering layer — the first real fall of the season — but no one seemed to feel the cold. Hundreds of wolves and humans stood shoulder to shoulder, their breath rising in silver clouds under the moonlight. Children perched on shoulders or clung to parents' legs. Elders leaned on carved staffs. Even the three kings had returned for this night — Kieran with his storm-blue cloak, Malakai with desert gold at his throat, Lucian with frost riming the edges of his armor — standing at the front of the crowd as silent witnesses.
I stood at the top of the wide stone steps with Nova beside me.
