The hall had never been so quiet.
Not even during mourning.
Torches burned low along the stone walls, their light catching in polished steel and watchful eyes. Wolves gathered in uneven clusters along the perimeter — not seated, not settled.
Waiting.
Judging.
Elara stepped into the center of it alone.
The moment she crossed the threshold, conversation died.
Not gradually.
Instantly.
Ugh.
Her pulse kicked once, hard, but she kept walking. Chin lifted. Shoulders steady.
Serena stood near the far pillar, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Luca leaned against the back wall, jaw tight.
And in the front—
A voice cleared.
Old.
Measured.
Deliberate.
Elder Marco.
"We did not summon you to accuse," he began.
Which meant they had.
Elara stopped beneath the central chandelier.
"Then this should be quick," she said.
A ripple moved through the pack.
Sarcastic.
Defiant.
Human.
Marco studied her for a moment.
"Your father," he said at last, "was known to us."
