The words landed with the particular weight of something that had been held back too long and was now past containing. A low murmur rippled across the room, but it quickly died, swallowed by the gravity of the truth no one wished to admit aloud, that the pack's position, built over generations, was bleeding out in a matter of weeks, and that the men in this room had not yet found the language to name the rate at which it was disappearing.
Before Richard could respond, Alistair leaned forward in his seat, his patience long exhausted. He had been the one to carry the terms to Nightshade territory, had stood in the room where the negotiation had failed, and the memory of it had not faded from his bearing. His gaze was sharp, cutting, the kind that did not tolerate excuses, not from himself and not from the men who had sent him into that room with terms that had proven worthless.
