The iron studs of the outer gates scraped against the granite floorboards as the winch room finished its turn. Eva kept her arms clamped around her shins, her body wedged into the narrow recess between the kitchen firewood stacks and the stone foundation.

Steam rose from the flanks of the four vanguard horses breathing heavily in the center of the courtyard, their coats covered in grey river slush. The riders didn't dismount; they held their iron-tipped spears straight, their leather vizors locked toward the southern trail.

A senior Omega pushed the service door open three inches, her hand reaching out to grab Eva by the damp shoulder of her tunic.

"Get inside before the line forms," the older woman whispered, pulling Eva into the heat of the pantry corridor. "The head cook is already counting the washing tubs, and the Beta's scouts are clearing the lower hall."

Eva stepped onto the dry cedar planks, her boots leaving small puddles of melted frost that soaked into the grain. The air inside smelled of stale ale, rendered fat, and the sharp, metallic tang of unwashed iron armor.

The Blackwood Pack elite had already packed the benches along the Grand Hall, their numbers swelling until the rowdy shouting reached the high rafters. Bloodline warriors from the outer territories sat shoulder to shoulder, their iron-rimmed shields leaning against the stone pillars behind them.

Eva retreated to the furthest corner of the back pantry, her spine pressed against the rough cedar logs of the flour bins. From this shadow, she could see the high tier through the narrow gaps in the kitchen serving hatch.

Tanya Bennett sat beside her father at the upper table, her silk dress arranged in neat folds around her knees. Her father, the Chief Beta, kept his hand on the pommel of his broadsword, his gaze scanning the lower benches with slow, rhythmic nods.

A sudden silence drifted from the front doors, spreading through the long rows of tables until the only sound left was the snapping of pine knots in the central hearth.

Killian Vance stepped across the threshold, his heavy leather trench coat dripping slush onto the stone floor. He didn't look at the guards saluting by the entrance, his broad shoulders squared against the draft that followed him inside.

He walked with the measured, unhurried stride of a commander who had spent the last three months tracking rogues along the frozen borders. The dark gold of his eyes seemed deeper under the torchlight, his jaw set in a hard, line that offered no greeting to the council.

"He looks leaner than he did before the autumn frost," a warrior on the nearby bench muttered, leaning closer to his companion.

"The northern border was bloody this season," the second wolf whispered back, his eyes following the dark stains along the hem of Killian’s coat. "Three rogue packs tried to cross the river before the ice froze over."

Killian reached the base of the high tier, his fingers moving to the silver clasps of his coat without breaking his stride. He flung the heavy garment onto the empty seat of the Alpha’s chair, standing in his simple black combat tunic.

The heavy air in the hall grew suffocatingly thick, the sheer weight of his presence pressing down on the low-ranking wolves near the doors. It was the raw, heavy gravity of a purebred ENTJ leader, an Alpha who saw his pack as an army and his territory as a fortress to be guarded.

He turned toward the elders, his face expressionless as he leaned both hands against the edge of the mahogany table.

"The borders are secure," Killian said, his low, rasping voice reaching the furthest corners of the rafter beams. "The iron mines are clear, and the rogue scouts have been driven back to the grey cliffs."

The elders nodded in unison, though two of them shifted their weight on the wooden benches, their eyes darting toward the ceremonial stone altar behind the hearth.

"Then the pack is ready for the transition, Alpha," the oldest councilman said, his trembling hand reaching for the black leather scroll on the table. "The winter solstice has passed, and the Selection Ceremony must begin before the new moon."

Killian didn't touch the scroll; instead, his shoulders tightened beneath his black tunic, his chest rising and falling in sharp, heavy movements. A low, nearly imperceptible vibration started in his throat, a sound only the wolves close to the platform could track.

Thorin, his inner wolf, was growing fiercely restless beneath the skin, scratching against the constraints of the formal pack duty. The ancient, predatory bloodline didn't want the paperwork or the political nods of the Beta council; it wanted the open hunt and the scent of an equal.

"We have twelve candidates from the high houses," the Chief Beta said, gesturing toward the front row where Tanya sat with her chin tilted upward. "All of them have pure bloodlines, ready to secure the lineage."

Killian turned his body slowly, his gold eyes sweeping across the faces of the young women lining the front benches. His gaze didn't linger on Tanya’s silk ribbons or the polished silver jewelry of the other high-born daughters.

Eva watched from the darkness of the corridor, her hand flat against the cold wood of the flour bin to keep her fingers from shaking.

Killian’s head snapped to the right, his nostrils flaring slightly as he caught a scent that didn't belong to the roasted meat or the expensive perfumes of the tier. His eyes cut straight through the crowd of warriors, ignoring the saluting Betas and the waiting councilmen.

His dark gold eyes locked directly into the shadows of the back kitchen corridor, pinning Eva against the cedar wall before she could even take her hand off the bin.