Chapter 57. The Moot of Knives

Veilgrove doesn’t often admit to markets of ideas—too much like trading in things you can’t count. The Moot found us anyway.

The amphitheater cut into the lower cliff was older than the Conclave and easier to understand: stone benches, a central circle, the sea making commentary no one could prove it meant. The crowd was not only Court. Pack wolves, rogue sympathizers, merchant houses who loved profit more than peace—it made a human kind of sense.

Varya of Blackpine wore her grievance like a cloak. Tall, fine-boned, hair like a story about winter, she knew what she looked like under sky. Her eyes were the color of iron when it wants to remember it used to be ore.

“Luna Thessia,” she said, voice pitched to carry. “You arrive with omens at your heel and say you belong.”

“I arrive with wolves at my side and say I won’t leave,” I said. “Careful with verbs. They’re where the teeth hide.”

A ripple of laughter went through the benches. Varya’s mouth flickered—