Chapter 47. The Council’s Judgment

The main courtyard of the Council Fortress had been transformed into a cold, echoing theater of power. It was two hours past midnight, but the vast square was packed—a nervous, silent sea of wolves, summoned by decree to witness the re-establishment of the Hollow Crown’s authority. The air was thick with the scent of pine and polished silver, the latter meant to suppress any trace of rogue magic.

A makeshift, obsidian-black scaffold stood at the center, illuminated by harsh, flickering oil lamps. Above it, the sky was clear, but the moon—the Lycans’ sacred light—was an unnerving, dull crimson. The spiritual pain of the ancient blood moon was palpable, a chilling omen felt by every wolf in the square.

Neriah was dragged onto the scaffold, the heavy, silver-and-herb chain around her neck cold and agonizing. It wasn’t just metal; it was a suppressive field, rendering the Ashen Flame a leaden, dead weight in her chest. She stumbled, her knees hitting the rough wood, but she