POV: Ronan Montague
The guitar strings bit into Ronan's fingertips as he picked out another melancholy chord progression in the dusty music room of the Montague family estate. The sound echoed hollow in the space that used to be his mother's art studio, before his father converted it into storage for old pack records and forgotten dreams.
Em to C to G to D. Simple. Clean. Nothing like the chaos in his head.
"Ronan."
His father's voice cut through the melody like a blade. Ronan didn't stop playing, didn't look up from the worn acoustic that had belonged to his mother before she died. Six years of silence, and Alpha Marcus still couldn't say his son's name without disappointment weighing down every syllable.
"We need to talk."
Now Ronan stopped. The last note hung in the air between them like an accusation.
Alpha Marcus Montague filled the doorway, his presence sucking the warmth from the room. Everything about him was sharp edges and calculated control—from his steel-gray hair to the way he stood with military precision. He used to smile, Ronan thought. Before the Capulet ambush. Before Mom's funeral. Before grief calcified into something harder and colder than stone.
"Pack council meeting in ten minutes," Marcus said. "You're expected to attend."
Ronan set the guitar aside carefully, muscle memory from years of his mother's gentle corrections. Music is fragile, baby. Treat it with respect, and it'll give you everything.
"What's the meeting about?"
"Territory disputes. The Capulets are pushing boundaries again." Marcus's jaw tightened, and for a second, Ronan saw past the Alpha mask to the broken man underneath. "They think we've gone soft."
We have gone soft. You've gone soft. You used to lead with wisdom, not just rage.
But Ronan didn't say that. Hadn't said much of anything to his father since he turned sixteen and Marcus started training him like a weapon instead of raising him like a son.
The walk to the council chamber felt like a march to his own execution. Each step echoed through the stone corridors of the estate, past portraits of Montague Alphas who had led with honor and wisdom. His great-grandfather smiled down from his gilded frame, a man who had negotiated peace treaties instead of planning assassinations.
What would you think of us now? Ronan wondered, studying the painted face that looked so much like his own. What would you think of what we've become?
The heavy oak doors of the council chamber loomed ahead, carved with the family crest—a wolf beneath a crescent moon. The motto beneath it read: Strength in Unity, Honor in Truth. Once upon a time, those words had meant something.
Marcus paused with his hand on the brass handle. "Remember, you're here to observe and learn. Not to question centuries of pack wisdom."
"And if the pack wisdom is wrong?"
His father's golden eyes—so much like his own—went cold. "Then you're not ready to inherit it."
The pack council meeting would determine everything.