Beta Roanoke Curzon limped away from the altar as his crutch clicked against the stone like a clock counting down to ruin.
The feast sprawled before him in gold plates piled high with roasted meats, goblets overflowing with wine. The pack celebrated, oblivious.
Fools, all of them.
"Let them gorge. Let them laugh." He took a crystal goblet from a passing servant and filled it to the brim with wine as dark as spilled blood
He settled into the high backed chair with a contented sigh and raised his goblet in a mocking toast. "To family," he whispered
He had sunk into a chair at the very back, where the shadows clung thickest, and took slow sips of the wine.
His eyes never left Kieran.
The Blackmoon Alpha stood frozen at the altar, still clutching that damned mirror. His knuckles were white, his face ashen, all colours and joy robbed.
