The council hall buzzed with restless energy, its stone walls trapping the stifling heat that pressed down on the Redmoon Pack. Chiefs crowded around a heavy oak table, their faces slick with sweat, their tunics clinging to their backs. The air smelled faintly of dust and sour ale, the only relief from the unbearable sun blazing outside. Alpha Trent stood at the table's head, his broad frame tense, his dark beard streaked with gray, his green eyes flashing with barely contained frustration. His fists rested on the table, knuckles white, as he faced the circle of chiefs, their voices a low rumble of complaints.
"This heat's killing us," Chief Harrow growled, his bald head gleaming, his voice rough. "Crops are dust. The forest's empty—no deer, no rabbits. Rivers are damn near dry."
Trent's jaw tightened, his voice low, strained. "I know, Harrow. We're all feeling it."
