The grand hall of the Nightwalker pack has been transformed into something ethereal. Vessara stood at the center of it all, her trembling hands clasped before her as the high priestess circled her with measured steps.
The ceremonial robes she wore over her dress felt impossibly heavy, layers of white silk and silver thread. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out the priestesses' whispered chants that flanked them, their voices rising and falling in an ancient cadence.
Vael stood across from her. His ceremonial garb was deep midnight blue, almost black, with silver runes embroidered along the shoulders. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
But beneath that intensity was a flicker of uncertainty that seemed at odds with the commanding presence he usually projected.
The high priestess raised her arms, her voice cutting through the murmurs of assembled Nightwalkers.
