Chapter 5. The Rejection

The path to the council chamber was lined with wolfbane and bluebells, flowers that meant both mourning and hope. Neriah barely saw them. Each step she took felt heavier than the last, as if the stone itself were pulling her down, down, down, into the belly of the mountain and the memory of fire.

She’d woken before dawn, caught between nightmares and the cruel clarity of waking. She remembered running—always running—through burning woods, lungs raw, fire nipping at her heels, the laughter of her old pack chasing her into darkness. She woke gasping, sweat slick on her skin, her heart a caged thing. No matter how many times she told herself it was just a dream, the flame inside her answered back: No, it’s memory. You lived this.

The summons had come at sunrise, delivered by a novice in gray. “Council. Third bell. You are to answer.” The formality of the words made her want to laugh, or scream.

Now, as the novice led her past the ancient roots that knotted through the