The Pack House had always been a center of activity, but over the next five months it transformed into something closer to a living organism, breathing with tension and anticipation as preparations unfolded.
Conversations overlapped in every hallway, deliveries arrived at all hours, and wedding planning threaded itself into the rhythm of the kingdom’s recovery. Staff, pack members, and a handful of volunteers moved through the halls carrying fabric swatches, marked-up guest lists, trays of pastries, and handwritten menus.
I hadn’t even processed the last round of council briefings when someone handed me a folder outlining the political implications of using bloodroot in the floral arrangements.
The resonance inside me still flared when I was overwhelmed, but there was a steadiness to it
