The silence in the throne room stretched until it felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. My breath was shallow, my pulse thundering in my ears. The messenger beside me—the one whose trembling had almost distracted me from my own fear—was now gone from view. My gaze was too fixed on the floor to see him, and I wasn't sure I wanted to.
The air shifted. It was subtle, but unmistakable, like the calm before a storm, and my skin prickled with the sensation of being watched—no, not watched, hunted. My wolf whimpered again, her unease coursing through me like a second pulse. I kept my gaze fixed on the ground, my hands clenched tightly at my sides, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
And then I heard it. Footsteps.
