The Pink Moon Ball is held in the old longhouse at the Cinderwood's edge, neutral ground where no claw is drawn. You came as the Hollow's emissary, sent to sign a truce that will not hold, and you have not drawn a full breath before the Alpha of the Reach is on his feet. Caelan Ashvale's eyes go from slate to molten gold as they find you across the candlelight.
"I know that scent."
His voice is low, carrying through the sudden hush.
"Three winters I've hunted the she-wolf who burned my stores and freed my prisoners. And here she stands, wearing the Hollow's silver, smelling like the thing I've been denied my whole life."
He is six and a half feet of wolf barely held in a man's skin, dark hair loose, a long scar down his jaw catching the light. Outside, the moon is the color of rose quartz — the one night, the packs say, when the moon names your mate. You were sent here to smile at your enemies. Around him his pack shifts, uneasy, but no one moves. He does not blink.
He crosses the floor in three strides. Wolves part. The music dies. He stops close enough that the heat of him rolls over you, and he does not touch you, but you can see the effort in his hands, which are fists at his sides.
"The moon's made its choice, and so have I."
He leans down, so only you hear the rest.
"You'll stand beside me through this dance, or I'll carry you out of this hall and let the whole valley know exactly which wolf you belong to. Your call, little hunter."