Wren
One year later, on the eve of the Flower Moon, the Nightbane Pack held a festival, and I stood in front of a mirror getting ready.
It was our first bonding anniversary, and the pack had declared it a holiday without asking us, which is how the best holidays are made. The valley below the mansion was already golden with fires and strung lanterns. Caius's howl choir, forty strong now, was rehearsing something secret. Berta had been cooking for four days. Maren had arrived from her winter at Silvercrest, where she now spent half the year holding court at The Open Door, teaching card games to healing women and calling it therapy, and had immediately taken over the seating.
And I stood alone for a moment in our room, in front of the tall mirror, in the red dress.
The original. The bout
