The Citadel began preparing before the sun had fully risen.
Not with proclamations.
With silence.
Servants moved quicker, speaking less. Guards were reassigned without explanation. The central courtyard was cleared under the pretense of restoration, but everyone knew what it really was.
A stage.
Not of stone.
Of perception.
Aria stood at the high window in her chambers, watching the slow transformation below. The courtyard had always been beautiful in a restrained, ancient way. Black marble. Silver inlays. A circular design built around the old wolf sigil carved into the ground.
Now it looked like an arena.
Three days.
The Rite of Temperance was older than the Citadel itself. A ritual meant to prove mastery over one's inner wolf. In theory, it honored discipline.
In practice, it had always been used as a leash.
Her fingers rested against the cool glass.
Her wolf was not restless.
It was alert.
Listening.
Waiting.
"You haven't slept."
