Morning did not bring peace.
It brought clarity.
Aria stood alone in the war chamber as dawn crept through the narrow windows, pale light cutting across stone, maps, and sigils etched deep into the Citadel's heart. The air hummed faintly with residual magic, the aftermath of wards reinforced overnight, of traitors exposed and removed. Her wolf was awake now, fully alert, no longer restless but watchful, coiled tight beneath her skin like a blade held in readiness.
This was what came after victory.
Not relief.
Responsibility.
The Council would not retreat quietly. They never had. They didn't rage or strike blindly. They adapted. They withdrew only long enough to sharpen knives meant for throats left unguarded.
Aria would not leave hers exposed.
