The atmosphere in the Vale had shifted from the polite, high-society friction of a cocktail party to something far more primal. As the moon reached its peak, painting a bone-white glow over the jagged mountain peaks, the roaring fire pits seemed to burn hotter, casting elongated shadows that flickered like dancing spirits against the rock walls. The scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat was now underscored by a heavy, electric tension, the kind that preceded a thunderstorm.
Amara stood at Darien's side, her hand tucked firmly into the crook of his elbow. The dark wine she had been sipping had left a faint warmth in her chest, but it did little to soothe the frantic thrumming of her heart. Every Beastman in the valley was now oriented toward the central dais, a raised platform of natural stone draped in heavy furs and silk banners bearing the Dravik crest.
