Page 9

At the entrance, the great sigil of the pack was carved deep into the wood, the spiralling symbol of their ancestors worn smooth by the touch of countless generations.

Garrik bowed his head and touched his forehead to the sigil, a silent mark of respect to those who came before. Their strength, their blood, still ran through every shifter who called this place home. Their blood had splatted these very walls during the Feral Wars with the Hairless ones.

Without hesitation, he pushed the heavy door open.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of timber, old parchment, and the lingering traces of smoke from the great hearths. The flickering glow of wall torches cast shadows along the massive beams, highlighting the intricate carvings of wolves in full shift, warriors locked in battle, and symbols of unity and strength.

The main judgment and gathering hall stretched through the centre of the longhouse, its vast space lined with wooden benches where warriors, traders, and elders gathered when called. At the far end stood the Highclaw's seat, raised just enough to command presence, but not so high as to make him untouchable.

Flanking the hall, solid wooden doors led to the private offices of high-ranking members—the Fang, the Shadow, the council members, and the lead enforcers. Each was built with thick walls, soundproofed for the kind of conversations that required secrecy and strategy.

Beyond the judgment hall, toward the back of the longhouse, were the community kitchens and dining halls—vast, always filled with movement, as food was prepared for warriors, workers, and travellers alike. Even now, the scent of stew and freshly baked bread curled faintly through the corridors.

But Garrik had no time for food.

He moved with purpose, his boots striking against the polished wooden floor, heading straight for the Lead Enforcer's chamber.

He pushed open the door, smelling the air for intruders before stepping inside, an instinct from his many years as an enforcer.

Inside, the room was practical, built for efficiency, not comfort. A heavy wooden table dominated the space, maps and patrol logs strewn across its surface, marked with border movements and recent Forsaken sightings. Weapon racks lined the walls, polished but always within arm's reach.

A laptop sat open on the heavy wooden desk, its screen filled with tactical maps and patrol logs, flickering between infrared scans and shifting movements along the borders. Paper maps still lined the walls, but digital counterparts had begun to take over, screens mounted beside them, updating in real-time.

Against the far wall, a weapons case stood locked, its contents a blend of old and new—a silver-edged blade resting beside a modern automatic rifle, both necessary for war in a world where enemies did not always fight with fangs and claws.

Near the corner, a coffee machine hummed softly, the sharp scent of fresh brew curling through the air—a small luxury, but a necessary one for long nights of strategy and preparation.

Garrik exhaled sharply, running a hand over his jaw.

This was not how he had expected the day to go.

There was no telling what the woman and her daughter's arrival would mean for the pack.

He gestured for the woman and her child to enter. The boys crept in after them.

"The Highclaw is away," he said finally. "He'll return soon."

He pulled out his phone from his belt and pressed a number. A second later, his voice dropped into a low growl.

"Brother, we have a situation."

The boys exchanged a look.

Hagan had never seen Garrik take out his phone for something minor. He always thought the hairless ones were recording him.

Then Garrik turned back to them, eyes narrowing. "Off with ya."

Dain didn't hesitate, taking off first. Veyr followed with a smirk, already whispering something snide under his breath.

Hagan started to move—but then stopped.

Something in him refused to leave just yet.

His gaze flicked back one last time.

And then, just for a breath, the girl lifted her head. Her slate-grey eyes locked onto his.

It was barely a second.