The council chamber was too small.
Not physically — the long oak table could seat twenty, and it had managed Alphas and vampire princes and ancient witches with room to spare. But the room had been built for wolf politics. For pack disputes and territorial negotiations and the kind of contained, species-specific diplomacy that Silver Fang had practiced for generations. It had not been built for this.
Four species. In one room. For the first time in a thousand years.
Draven had solved the space problem with characteristic efficiency and zero sentimentality. He had ordered the western wall of the council chamber removed — literally removed, the timber beams pulled out by Iron Fang warriors who approached demolition with the same enthusiasm they approached everything else, which was to say
