The moonlight didn't waver. It burned white above the valley, watching two women sit at a table set among corpses.
Liora had conjured the table herself, long, carved from what looked like black marble, laid neatly in the center of Vanya's ruined pack village. Around it, every hut lay broken. The air was heavy with the metallic stench of dried blood.
A feast had been prepared.
Perfectly cooked meat. Golden bread. Wine dark as the night.
None of it had been hunted. None of it smelled alive.
Liora sat at the head of the table, crimson cloak trailing like spilled ink. The moon caught the gleam of her eyes as she gestured toward the empty chair opposite her.
"Sit," she said softly.
Vanya didn't move. She was shaking too hard to breathe. The table, the food, the silence, it was wrong. Everything about it was wrong.
"Liora…" she whispered. "Please, don't make me…"
"Sit."
The single word struck harder than a blow.
