41: A PACT THAT BURNS

AYLA – POV

Smoke pressed low across the field.

My boots dragged through damp soil, past fire-pitted stones and the smell of steel. Every step scraped something open—old wounds, unfinished thoughts.

We had called the Ashborne to gather, but not all who answered had come to listen.

The old packs had sent their scouts. Not to kneel. Not to join.

To judge.

Kael stood at my right, cloak heavy with ash. Solen was already ahead—barefoot, the dirt recognizing her like it did sky or bone.

The fire behind us hadn't gone out in days. It wouldn't. Not until this was done.

They called it a summit. It felt like a siege.

"You're not wearing your rank," Kael muttered.

"Never will again."

His jaw ticked. He understood. He didn't like it.

But he didn't argue.

Across the glade, I saw the Ridgeclaw envoy step forward. Elderly. Male. Still wore iron across his shoulders like it meant something.