The Wolf at the Gate
The carriage rolled through the ancient stone arches of Highbarrow Keep, the ancestral seat of the Barony of Westvale. Its towers were banners of civilization—majestic, proud, and suspiciously still.
Alaric sat inside, cloaked in charcoal-gray wolf-hide, his golden eyes hidden beneath a hood. Across from him, Lira reread the diplomatic scrolls she had penned in a bold, precise hand. Her ink, like her mind, was sharp.
"They'll try to belittle you," she murmured. "Make you seem feral. Uncontrolled."
Alaric smirked. "Let them. I've been underestimated before."
The carriage stopped. Outside, guards stiffened at the sight of the envoy. Even disguised, the aura around Alaric—the ancient power in his blood, the presence of the Moonborn Alpha—stretched ahead of him like a storm front.
He stepped out. The scent of iron and pride clung to the walls of Westvale. Dozens of nobles, diplomats, and warriors filled the courtyard. Among them stood Lady Evelyne of Westvale, regal in posture, her silver hair braided in a warrior's crown.
"You requested audience," she said, her voice cool, cultured—and wary. "We expected messengers. Not... wolves."
Alaric let his hood fall.
"We are not messengers. We are truth."
A hush fell. Lady Evelyne's eyes narrowed, reading the fire in his gaze. "I know what you are. Alaric of the Ashmoon Line. The one reborn."
"I bring you warning," he said. "Darnholm arms a werewolf warband. The Ironfang. They break ancient compacts with blood and steel. This is your proof."
He stepped forward, Lira handing him the scrolls and Kael's detailed maps. She added, calmly, "Their caches are marked with Darnholm's crest. Your spies will confirm this within a fortnight."
The nobles murmured. A few turned pale.
Lady Evelyne studied the documents, her expression unreadable. "And what is it you want of Westvale?"
"Support," Alaric said. "Not in battle. Not yet. But if Darnholm acts, we must act together. Bring this before the High Council of Baronies. Let them judge the truth for themselves."
"And if we refuse?"
Alaric stepped closer, voice a low growl wrapped in velvet.
"Then when Darnholm's blades come for your villages—when Ironfang claws tear your borders—you'll remember that the Moonborn offered alliance, not war."
Silence reigned.
Then Lady Evelyne smiled—a slow, dangerous smile.
"You speak like a king, Alaric of the Ashmoon."
"I speak like a wolf who's learned how men lie with silk."
She turned to her steward. "Prepare a courier. This matter will reach the High Council by dawn."
As Alaric turned to leave, Evelyne called after him, softer now:
"You carry more than blood and fury. You carry history. Use it wisely."
He nodded once.
---
That Night...
Back at the Moonborn camp, Alaric stood by the fire as Mira reported Ironfang movements closer to their northern border. Kael added that some humans were defecting—troubled by Darnholm's treachery.
The battle ahead would be both steel and strategy.
But the world had heard the wolf's voice.
And for the first time in centuries… it listened.