The summons went out before dawn.
Not by messenger. Not by decree nailed to stone.
By instinct.
Across territories stitched together by old blood and older magic, wolves lifted their heads as if tugged by an invisible thread. Alphas woke restless. Elders stirred from uneasy dreams. Pack bonds hummed with a low, unfamiliar urgency, like the earth itself shifting beneath ancestral claims.
The Grand Alpha Conclave had been invoked.
Aria stood on the eastern balcony as the sun crested the horizon, painting the mountains in copper and gold. The wind tugged at her hair, cool and sharp, carrying the scent of pine, ash, and distant rain. Somewhere far below, wolves howled. Not in challenge.
In acknowledgment.
