Lord Pemberton stood at the front of the meeting hall, which was half-empty. His white ribbon pinned to his coat, his notes spread before him on the worn wooden podium. Behind him, the Pure Blood League banner hung limp against the stone wall, its once-proud emblem now faded and forlorn. Before him, empty chairs stretched in uneven rows, their occupants long since departed. Where once a hundred wolves had gathered, their voices raised in protest, their white ribbons bright against dark coats, now barely thirty remained. Some stared at the floor. Others whispered among themselves. A few looked at Pemberton with something like betrayal.
"The birth of Lysa's child," Pemberton began, his voice carrying through the hollow space, "is not a threat to wolf heritage."
A wolf in the back row snorted. "The child is a wolf. Fully wolf. That proves nothing. It could have been human. It could have been a monster. Instead, it's one of us. That doesn't mean the next one will be."
