Alana's POV
The Hall of Oaths shimmered in silver and scarlet that night, a palace of light and tension. Hanging lanterns, carved with the sigils of the eleven remaining allied packs, cast dancing shadows across the ancient stone. Their flickering glow kissed the high vaulted ceilings and highlighted the solemn tapestries of wolf gods and battlefields that lined the walls, silent witnesses to the legacy we carried.
Long tables of polished darkwood, lacquered to a mirror sheen, stretched down the room's center like a spine. They were adorned with feasts of roasted venison, glazed roots, and moonflower wine, an intoxicating blend meant to symbolize prosperity. The scent of charred herbs and meat filled the air. Yet underneath it lingered something sharper. Something sour.
