The week after Aurora's return. The elders summoned her, not to welcome her home but to judge. The chamber was ancient, stone walls carved with the sigils of long-dead alphas, a long oak table scarred from centuries of judgments, and a single high window letting in pale afternoon light. The council of elders sat in a semicircle: gray-furred wolves, sharp-eyed alphas from neighboring packs, a few surviving survivors of Silas’s raids. No one from the Blood Moon Pack was allowed in to speak on her behalf. Jason had protested. Whitney had argued. The elders had refused them both.“This is not a pack matter,” they had said. It was worse than that. It was political.Aurora stood alone in the center of the chamber. A sixteen years old, in an ankle-length red frock brushed the stone at her feet, the color too vivid against the gray austerity of the room like a drop of blood on snow. Her black hair, streaked with red, fell loose over her shoulders, catching the thin light that filtered through
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