The full moon hung heavy over the Blackthorn territory, silver and merciless, as if it already knew what it would demand of them tonight.

Lyra Reddington stood at the very edge of the ceremonial clearing, half hidden by the thick trunk of an ancient oak, the same way she had spent most of her seventeen years. Quiet. Overlooked. Useful only when someone needed a task done without complaint. Her dark hair was braided simply down her back, the ends brushing the curve of her waist. She wore the plain cream ceremonial shift every unmated female had been given, the fabric thin enough that the night air kissed her skin through it. No one had offered her the finer ones embroidered with pack symbols. Those were reserved for the daughters of high ranking wolves, the ones whose names were spoken with interest.