Chapter 11 — Shadows of Redress

Thin sunlight seeped through high clerestory windows and pooled across the keep’s audience hall, where rumors already scuttled like mice. Ophelia stood near the servant’s entrance, tugging at the frayed sleeve of her old linen gown—borrowed from Maeve at dawn. Ash dozed at her feet, tail twitching.

From the dais Dylan conferred in low tones with Beta Hawthorne and Councilor Brennan. Their expressions wrench-tightened, then loosened, then clamped again as fresh disputes sparked. Word of Caroline’s arrest had split the pack overnight: some swore loyalty to the Alpha, others muttered that a maid now steered his judgment.

Maeve slipped beside Ophelia, basket of parchment scraps in her arms. “Healers need more bandage ties,” she whispered. “But all anyone ties this morning are tongues. Half the kitchens claim you cursed Caroline with Ironclaw witchcraft.”

Ophelia exhaled. “They’ll run out of curses eventually.”