The Water Remembers
The moon hangs low over Blackclaw territory, swollen and strange, its usual silver washed through with a deep, bloody copper that the old ones say comes only once in a generation. Eric does not like omens. He likes less the way the elders keep glancing up at it between words, as though the sky itself might weigh in on tonight's business.
The council fire roars at the center of the clearing, a great heart of flame ringed by stones worn smooth by centuries of use. Its light throws shifting gold across dozens of faces — elders seated on carved logs, warriors standing at the perimeter with arms crossed and eyes sharp, and across the fire, the envoys from Ashwood pack, four of them, wrapped in gray fur cloaks that seem to drink the firelight rather than reflect it.
Eric stands at the fire's northern edge, spine straight, hands loose at his sides though nothing in him is loose tonight. He is aware of every eye upon him, aware of the weight an alpha carries simply by standing still. He has led this clan for six years. He knows how to wear the stillness like armor.
"The hunting grounds along the Silverbrook have belonged to Blackclaw since before your grandfather's grandfather drew…
