Benedict's POV
The chains felt heavier than they should have around my wrists.
This wasn't how an Alpha was meant to walk into judgment. This was the treatment reserved for rogue Omegas and outcasts who had forgotten their place in the pack hierarchy.
The great hall stretched before us, transformed for this spectacle. Gone were the familiar long tables where we had shared countless pack meals. The floor lay bare and cold, six ornate chairs arranged in a perfect arc at the far end. Each seat held a figure I had known for decades. The council of elders. Ancient bloodlines and older traditions, sitting with their hands clasped and faces carved from stone.
Their neutrality was performance art. Everyone picked sides eventually.
But they had perfected the mask over centuries of practice.
