The morning of the ceremony arrived with a quiet, somber stillness that wrapped over the Whispering Ridge. Sunlight filtered through the high pine branches in thin, pale streams, casting soft shadows across the stone courtyard as Demetrius and I dressed in our formal royal regalia. Black silk tunics lined with silver thread, tailored with traditional high lycan collars, draped over our shoulders—a sign of deep, solemn mourning for our fallen kin.
Before the rest of the pack began gathering, Demetrius and I made our way down to the courtyard and lower hall to perform one final check. Every detail needed to be perfect; our thirty-two heroes deserved nothing less than complete honor.
The main ceremony had been constructed outdoors along the western ridge—a wide, open plateau overlooking the
