CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR

CALLIS

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Tradition was a stubborn, heavy beast. It demanded its due, regardless of war, death, or the palpable tension that clung to the estate like a shroud. And the tradition of a naming ceremony was one of the heaviest of all.

At dawn, Valen was to be carried into the courtyard. He would be witnessed by the pack, his family, and our allies. Darius would name him in the Old Tongue, the words a formal declaration of his existence, his place in our world. Then, he would be passed into the arms of his chosen guardians—myself and Sylas—a symbolic transfer of protection, a vow sealed before the eyes of the goddess and the pack.

Every detail was my responsibility. And every detail had to be perfect. Not just for tradition’s sake, but for security. Every element was a potential vulnerability. I’d spent the day overseeing it all, from the intricate, protective markings I’d painted onto the ceremonial cloth Valen would wear, to the specific blend of silver-leaf and wolfsbane I’d prepare