The council hall had no fire lit that day.
By design.
The room remained cold—formal, as Morwen called it. Selene knew better. The chill was meant to bleed warmth from her voice, to make her look pale and brittle. Contained.
But the cold had never broken her.
She stood at the centre, framed by polished stone and old laws carved into the walls behind her. Her posture was calm. Still. Her hands stayed loosely folded, her breath steady, eyes sharp.
She was not there to beg.
Morwen stepped forward first, the ancient scroll of charges held in his gnarled hands like scripture.
"Selene Nightshade, reborn of blood and bone," he began, "you are summoned to answer the following charges: unlawful resurrection, magical instability, incitement of civil unrest, and violation of oath as former Luna."
Each word rolled out like a noose being tied.
Selene didn't move.
Not when the crowd stirred, not when whispers began, not even when Adrienne rose gracefully from her seat behind Morwen and offered the opening statement with a tear-wet voice and mournful eyes.
"She is not the Selene we knew," Adrienne said, placing her hand dramatically over her chest. "Her soul is touched by forces beyond our laws. She has returned… but what returned with her?"
Gasps and murmurs bloomed like weeds.
Selene almost laughed.
Adrienne looked at her with well-practiced heartbreak. "We cannot ignore the darkness surrounding her reappearance. Nor can we ignore the unrest that follows her footsteps. Ask yourselves: are you safer now than before she rose?"
It was a theatre.
But effective.
Morwen stepped in again. "Selene Nightshade, how do you respond?"
Selene lifted her head slowly.
"I was executed for a crime I did not commit," she said clearly. "And instead of justice, I was given fire. You want to know what returned with me?"
She turned—slowly—to face the room. Her voice dropped, silken and dangerous.
"Memory."
The chamber fell still after Selene spoke.
Not because they believed her.
But because she didn't yell.
Didn't weep.
Didn't defend.
She simply stood there, wrapped in quiet certainty.
"I remember the knife," she said. "I remember the sentence read before the moon. I remember who watched. And who stayed silent."
Her gaze moved across the room—not wildly, but intentionally.
Adrienne shifted in her seat.
Morwen narrowed his eyes.
Selene didn't name names.
She didn't have to.
"I remember," she continued, "that there was no trial for me. Only accusation. I remember that my Alpha never asked why.
And I remember that when I screamed… the Council called it mercy."
Her voice didn't break.
It sharpened.
"I was murdered. And the only reason I stand here is because the Moon Goddess herself intervened. So if you think I'm afraid of this hall… you forget what it cost to walk back into it."
Adrienne stood sharply. "This is dramatics, not a defence."
"Defense assumes guilt," Selene replied. "But if this is truly a trial, then let's try something rare—transparency."
She pulled a folded parchment from her sleeve—not the sealed execution order, but something else.
A transcript.
An unredacted record of a Council vote from six years ago—one that listed charges filed by Adrienne under a different name… against another she-wolf who had mysteriously disappeared.
The record hit the marble with a crisp slap.
Selene said nothing else.
But across the room, a few Elders leaned in.
Some frowned.
Some whispered.
And for the first time since the trial began, Morwen looked uncertain.
Adrienne didn't move at first.
The entire hall watched her—their poised, polished Luna—waiting for the response they knew would come. The perfect rebuttal. The gracious command. The sharp, clean strike of a woman used to win in silence.
But she hesitated.
Just for a breath.
And in that space, something changed.
"This is beneath you," Adrienne said at last, voice soft and scornful. "Digging through irrelevant history? The accused of that hearing fled. She was never confirmed guilty. Nor found."
Selene tilted her head. "Then where is she?"
Adrienne's nostrils flared. "She's not your concern."
"She was your first concern," Selene replied. "If I remember right, your petition claimed she posed a threat to your bond."
A hush swept the room like wind over snow.
Morwen stepped forward, voice tight. "These diversions serve no legal purpose—"
"They serve truth," Selene cut in, louder than before. "You want to question my rebirth, my mind, my motives? Then let's talk about precedent.
Let's talk about how many women you've erased for the crime of threatening your comfort."
Adrienne snapped.
"You think this is about comfort?" she hissed, stepping from her platform. "You think I don't know what it means to suffer?
I clawed my way through the blood of a collapsing pack. I earned my place. I held this house together while you lay rotting in the ground!"
The words echoed.
Too loud.
Too real.
A silence followed—not of fear… but of realization.
Several heads turned. Whispers began. Even the stone-faced Elders looked toward Adrienne with something tighter than doubt.
Morwen muttered something under his breath, but it was too late.
Selene stood taller.
"I'm not asking to be Luna again," she said softly. "I'm asking why the Council continues to choose women who wear power like a mask… instead of a weapon."
A murmur ran through the chamber like the wind shifting before a storm.
Morwen's mouth opened to regain control of the floor, but the voice that cut across the hall didn't belong to him.
"I would speak."
Heads turned.
From the third tier of the Council seats, Elder Halvar stood—tall, thin, quiet-eyed. One of the oldest wolves on the Council, known more for silence than action.
He hadn't spoken in an open forum in nearly a decade.
Morwen visibly tensed. Adrienne went rigid.
"Elder Halvar," Morwen said, the words careful. "Now may not be—"
"I said I would speak." Halvar's tone was calm but absolute.
The old wolf descended slowly, every step deliberate. His ceremonial cloak trailed behind him like frost.
When he reached the floor, he turned—not to Selene, but to the crowd.
"I have served three Alphas. I have seen three betrayals. But what I have never seen," he said, "is a she-wolf return from death more lucid than the living."
He glanced toward Selene now, and though his expression remained impassive, there was something different in his eyes. Recognition. Respect, perhaps. Or the faint glimmer of belief.
"I read the trial transcripts from five years ago," he said. "They were… thin. Heavily redacted. No testimony. No verified witnesses."
Morwen stepped forward. "With respect, Elder, that case was deemed closed—"
"By you," Halvar said. "And now I question whether that was a mistake."
A sound cracked through the room—it might've been a gasp. Or a bone snapping.
Selene held still. This wasn't her win yet.
But it was the beginning of one.
Elder Halvar looked at her fully now. "I believe justice was not served. And this Council must decide whether we are here to preserve law—or hide behind it."
He stepped back. Not with flair. Not with drama.
Just truth.
And as he resumed his seat, the balance shifted.
Not in Selene's favour yet—
But for the first time since her death…
The Council was no longer united against her.