POV Amethyst
The dining hall had been transformed. Jackson had ordered the long, communal oak tables—relics of a time when the pack ate as a single, boisterous family—to be pushed together in the center of the room. It was meant to be a final feast, a "Last Supper" before the three-week countdown hit zero. The air should have been thick with the scent of roasted meat, the sound of laughter, and the heat of sixty wolves preparing for glory.
Instead, it felt like a wake.
I stood at the entrance, my hand instinctively pressing the small, silver vial Martha had given me against my thigh. It was cold through the fabric of my leggings, a sharp contrast to the suffocating warmth of the room. I looked at my people. They sat in their designated "Ghost Phase" squads, their faces illuminated by th
