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Despite their welcome, there were places they were not permitted to enter.

No outright barriers, no armed guards standing at the entrances, but the message was clear—some spaces belonged to the Coven alone.

As the warriors moved through the settlement, they began to understand why.

The dwelling they were assigned was not a lone structure, but part of many satellite dwellings spread throughout the forest, hidden among dense vegetation and towering trees. Some homes were built into the hills, their roofs covered in thick foliage, while others had vines weaving through their walls, making them nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding woods.

This scattered layout made the village difficult to guard effectively, something the werewolves subtly noted as they moved, their keen eyes catching the security gaps, the weaknesses in their defences.

Despite their apparent lack of structure, the people of the Coven wielded their power seamlessly.

Draken and his men witnessed it first-hand.

On the second day, as the sun beat down mercilessly on a cracked and dry patch of farmland, a wizard stepped forward.

With a slow, fluid motion, he extended his hands, and from beneath the surface, water rose, saturating the earth, turning brittle dust into dark, rich mud.

The air sizzled with magic, and Draken felt the hair on his arms stand on end.

The act, as simple as it seemed, was power.

And all the while, as they watched, dozens of little eyes watched them back—children and elders, warriors and workers alike, silently studying the visitors from Vargrheim.

As they entertained their young audience, a young enforcer, breathless from running, appeared at the edge of the clearing, his face flushed.

"Highclaw Draken," he said, voice respectful but urgent. "The High Priest requests your presence."

Chapter 9

Seren

Anticipation filled the group as they followed the enforcer back through the forest paths, past thick walls of creeping ivy, toward the central dwelling—the building carved around the great oak.

Inside, the room was unlike anything they had seen before.

A massive oak tree formed one corner of the chamber, its roots twisting into the floorboards, its branches stretching toward the ceiling. The dwelling had been built around it, accommodating its ancient presence rather than cutting it down.

Shelves lined the walls, stacked with rune-covered pots, their surfaces etched with sigils pulsing faintly with magic. Fantastical woven tapestries adorned the space, telling stories of the past.

One, in particular, caught Draken's eye—a warlock in armour, wielding his magic, while beside him, a wolf mid-leap and a bear lunging forward, their forms caught in a ferocious battle against a crowd of humans with guns.

A memory of the Feral Wars, woven into cloth.

And yet, on another wall, framed photographs hung.

Unlike the tapestries, these were faded, black and white, capturing faces long gone. A reminder, perhaps, of what once was—a world before war, before the divide.

At the centre of the room, a large round table stood, its surface smooth from years of use.

The High Priest, Arken, sat at its head, flanked by two women and five men, all clad in their traditional robes.

They bowed their heads as the visitors entered.

"Be seated, Highclaw Draken," Arken said, his arms resting on the table as he regarded them carefully.

Draken took his seat, his warriors at his side, their expressions unreadable, yet ever watchful.

Arken exhaled, looking between his gathered elders before speaking.