13

He looked like he could wake up any second, and his dark emerald eyes would survey the crowd. The coffin was made to suit his body, but his large shoulders pressed awkwardly against the walls.

Women sniffled and dabbed at their eyes while men stood statue-still, ready to show their respect. Though the atmosphere was heavy, no one was as sorrowful as Gregor’s mate, Nora. Her dark eyes stared dolefully at the coffin, tears pouring silently down her face and dripping from her chin. I couldn’t help but stare at the sad, beautiful woman. It’s hard to believe that even someone like Gregor could be loved so much. So much for a fair world.

A few minutes later, the pack Elder parted from the crowd. Forsythe, an old, bald man who used a cane to walk, stood near the body and waited for a raised platform to be wheeled over. Once it had arrived, he mounted the platform, and a woman brought him a burning torch, which he held aloft over Gregor’s body. The orange flame danced and crackled in the cool