Chapter 17 — Quills and Crossed Arms

The council chamber buzzed like a hive—wood-pestle scribes grinding ink, messengers darting, and the low thrum of thirty wolves who’d rather brandish spears than clauses. On the dais, Dylan rapped a gavel carved from old cedar.

“Order. We ratify the Charter of Two Packs today, not next winter.”

Ophelia stood beside him with a neat stack of parchment. She inhaled. *Dialogue moves hearts faster than steel.* Time to prove it.

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#### Clause of Equal Breath

Elder Mara read the first clause aloud.

> “No wolf—Alpha, Beta, healer, or maid—shall be punished without moon-oath testimony and peer review.”

A murmur rippled. One gray-furred veteran rose. “And if a cook poisons stew? Wait for council while we choke?”

Ophelia stepped forward. “Swift holding cells, yes. Lashes before proof, no. Even stew-poisoners get a voice.”

The veteran grunted, but Griff slapped the table. “I nearly died in that stew scenario once. Let the law stand.”

Quills scratched; clause passed.