The Great Cathedral of the Blackfang Stronghold had never felt like a place of God; today, it felt like a slaughterhouse dressed in silk. Massive banners of deep violet and charcoal draped from the vaulted stone ceilings, obscuring the ancient carvings of the wolves that had built this kingdom. The air was thick with the suffocating scent of incense, heavy and sweet, designed to mask the sharp, metallic tang of the "Lethe" drugs that still pulsed in the Alpha's veins.
Outside, the dawn was a sickly, pale grey, filtered through a sky that seemed to refuse to turn blue. Inside, the nobility of the North stood in silence, their faces pale, their eyes darting toward the front of the hall. They were not there for a celebration; they were there for a funeral of the soul.
Gwen stood at the foot of the altar.
