Raven's hand jerked. Scalding herbal brew sloshed over the rim.
The liquid splashed across her fingers. She let out a pitiful yelp, and the cup slipped, shattering against the stone floor of the great hall.
Ronan's gaze cut toward me like a blade.
"Lyra, it's Midwinter Turning Night. What the hell are you trying to do?"
I spread my hands, my expression saying it all—I didn't do anything.
Why was I the one being blamed?
But in their eyes, I was already the villain.
Raven cowered behind Ronan, trembling as she stared at me. Her scent turned sharp with fear, designed to pull at any Alpha's protective instincts.
He shielded her with his body, his dominant aura flaring, and said to me, "Go back to your quarters. Leave the main den. Now."
Outside, the sky hung low and heavy. Snow fell in thick, relentless sheets across the territory. The brutal cold had already caused disasters throughout the surrounding packs—wolves caught in the open, supply routes frozen shut.
I pulled up the weather readings from the den's communication crystals. "It's deadly cold out there. The kind that kills even shifted wolves. You want me to leave the central den?"