The war council chamber inside Hollow Fang's stone fortress had grown stifling with the weight of too many voices and too many conflicting wills. The braziers lining the carved walls hissed and cracked, throwing light over maps, runes, and scrawled plans scattered across the great oak table. Every leader of the alliance was present—wolves, Flameborn nobles, seers, and warriors—and each of them argued as though victory would be won by words alone.
Aria sat at the head, her palms pressed flat against the table as if anchoring herself. The Flameborn crown shimmered faintly against her hair, its embers pulsing with each heartbeat. She hated the way they all stared at it more than they stared at her. As though the crown, not her, carried the future. As though she was merely a vessel.
