Chapter 82

The heavy doors of the meeting hall closed with a deep, final thud, sealing off the cool breath of the night. It was as if the sound itself carried a warning—once you stepped into this room, there was no turning back. Inside, the air was warm but heavy, the faint smell of polished wood mixing with the slow burn of candle wax.

The long table in the center stretched out like a polished black mirror, the golden glow of the chandelier dancing faintly across its surface. But no one was looking at the light. The tension in the air was thick enough to press against skin, colder than the flickering flames should have allowed.

Madam Maltida sat perfectly upright in her seat, her posture sharp, as if carved into place. Her dark eyes didn’t wander; they were fixed on the man seated across from her. The lines at the corners of her mouth were set deep, not in age, but in habit—a woman who had learned long ago to keep her face unreadable.

The walls of the hall were lined with tall werewolf body