The council chamber smelled faintly of smoke and plaster dust, the same stench that had lingered since we returned to the ruined Pack House. The elders were already arguing when I slipped into my chair beside Richard, their voices sharp and overlapping like quarrelsome crows. Numbers flew across the table: how many bricks to replace, how many roofs still bare, how many families displaced. It wasn’t strategy, not even debate, just bickering.
I forced myself to sit straight, though the chair’s wood was chipped under my palms. I hated that I still felt like an imposter here, surrounded by wolves who had been ruling longer than I’d even been alive. They looked at me like I was ornamental, a courtesy seat granted because Richard insisted.
Then Callen Rusk cleared his throat. A junior elder, y
