The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the neighboring pack's land was the silence. It wasn't the good kind, like a calm night filled with crickets and a sleepy moon. No. This silence was heavy, pressed down on me like wet wool. It was the kind of silence that said, things have gone wrong here, and no one dares talk about it.
I didn't need anyone to tell me who was behind it. His name already sat like sour fruit on my tongue—Elandor.
The last time I saw him, he was smirking in the council chamber, pretending to be just another voice among many. Now, he wasn't pretending. He had taken the chair, the crown, and the chains, all at once.
And the chains—those were everywhere.
I hadn't walked far into the village before I saw them. Wolves chained at the wrists, tied to wooden posts, their eyes dull and hollow. Some were old. Some were barely older than pups. But all of them had one thing in common—they had believed in me.
Or in Darius. Or in the prophecy.
