The crown was heavier than Aria expected.
Not in weight alone, but in meaning. In memory. In the way the air itself seemed to lean closer as the ceremonial metal hovered inches above her head, suspended in the hands of elders who had once dismissed her as nothing.
The throne room of the High Council was carved from black stone and old victories. Pillars rose like petrified giants, etched with the names of Alpha Kings long dead. The gathered packs filled the chamber in layered ranks, wolves and humans alike, all watching her with a hunger that tasted of fear.
They were not here to celebrate her.
They were here to judge her.
Aria stood at the center of the circle, spine straight, chin lifted. She wore no jewels. No silks. Only a fitted black dress Damien had chosen for her, simple and severe, the cut designed to move with her body like a second skin.
She could feel her wolf pacing beneath her ribs.
Not frantic. Not wild.
Waiting.
