"You switched our ritual sigils, didn't you? Using such dirty tricks to claim victory—doesn't that eat at your wolf-heart?"
Selene Crownhollow, one of the Council Adjudicators, appeared beside him. Her brow furrowed so deeply you could've crushed a fly between her eyebrows.
"Go to the Elder Council and withdraw yourself. You have no right to advance to the final rite!"
Contemptuous stares bore into me from all directions, the scent of their disdain thick in the air. I turned and pointed at the worst piece of moon-ink work hanging on the ceremonial wall.
"Win what, exactly? I came in dead last. I couldn't advance if I wanted to."
The omen-feed went wild: [Wait wait wait—what in the moon's name is happening?!]
——
Darian's jaw dropped. "Aren't you supposed to be some kind of rune-scribing prodigy? There's no way that chicken scratch is yours!"
Selene—who had pretended not to recognize my scent during registration—suddenly seized my wrist with surprising strength.
"Kael Nightforge! You've been studying territorial arts since you were a pup. You spent seven or eight cycles training in the distant mountain holds. How could you possibly be last?!"
I was momentarily speechless.