Page 7

Seren

Reaching the east had required negotiations with the humans. Though the Feral Wars had ended decades ago, the uneasy truce between shifters, humans, and the magical ones remained.

The nearest city had airstrips, and they had chartered a plane from one of the humans. The pilot had been wary, but money was money, and he had agreed to wait for them in the city. Though the humans had been vanquished, they now flourished in pockets all over the world.

From there, they had made their way into the eastern lands, their presence catching curious eyes at the local farmers' market, where they had found a handful of the magical folk selling their wares.

At first, the tribe members were wary, their eyes sharp, magic humming a silent warning in the air around them. But after careful words and an exchange of greetings, they agreed to lead them to their village to meet their leader.

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As they walked, Draken and his warriors observed the settlement, their sharp gazes sweeping over the village with practised instinct.

Children played along the paths, but they were not like the pups back home—here, they levitated small stones with ease, a girl made a flower bloom in her palm, while another child summoned a flickering flame, only to frown when it sputtered out too soon .

The village seemed almost swallowed by nature itself.

Thick vegetation grew unchecked, the paths winding through walls of green, lined with giant ferns and twisted roots.

Creepers climbed over wooden fences, and up stone walls, their vines wrapping around doorways and stretching toward rooftops.

Even the buildings, though sturdy, seemed to belong to the land rather than imposing upon it—as if the village had been built with the trees and earth, not against them.

Women, dressed in colourful sheaths of cloth, their breasts bound with bandeaux, moved through the village, carrying baskets of fruit and bundles of herbs, their bare feet padding lightly on the worn dirt paths.

Some had children on their hips, others worked near the orchard, gathering ripe citrus, their laughing voices mixing with the scent of woodsmoke and incense.

They were met at the gates by the High Priest of the Coven—Arken.

His weathered skin was like worn leather, his presence one of age-old strength. He carried a sheathed knife at his hip and a wineskin slung over one shoulder. Though his stance was open, his eyes were watchful, taking in Draken and his warriors with careful calculation.

Draken and Arken greeted each other with the formal exchange of their people.

"We come in peace, Gifted One," Draken said.

"Welcome, Wolf born," Arken replied, his gaze weighing him carefully.

As they walked through the village, Draken's sharp eyes caught sight of a training area. There, a young man and woman sparred with Bōjutsu, their movements fluid as a dance, the wooden staffs cracking against each other in sharp, disciplined strikes.

Draken watched, impressed .

Arken followed his gaze and chuckled. "Those are our young enforcers. They begin training at eight."

Draken raised a brow. "We start a little earlier."

Arken laughed. "Ah, but we do not heal as easily as you do, my friend."

Draken huffed but said nothing. He had never been one for diplomacy.

Arken led them to the largest building in the village, a four-story structure of stone and brick, sprawling like a sleeping beast among the smaller homes with sloping, tiled roofs. Creepers wound around its pillars and balconies, small blossoms sprouting from the vines.

They filed into a cavernous room. The air was cooler inside, the scent of herbs and parchment thick in the space.

Arken gestured toward a low wooden table, where an attendant had already poured steaming tea into clay cups.

Draken restrained himself from wrinkling his nose. He had little patience for formalities, but with his Shadow—his chief strategist—left behind to protect Vargrheim, the role of diplomat fell to him alone.

Arken, ever perceptive, smirked as he lifted his cup. "You are a long way from Vargrheim. I think we don't need to beat around the bush."

Draken exhaled. "Alright. Our Oracle has sent me on a quest."

Arken tilted his head slightly, intrigued.

Draken continued. "When my son was born, it was foretold that a child with dark skin, moon-like eyes and black hair would be his soul mate. The Oracle has directed me here to find her."

He left out the part that this was his third fruitless journey eastward. His men were growing weary, longing to return home .

For a moment, Arken was unreadable.

Then something changed.

His eyes were hooded, his expression carefully guarded.

His answer, when it came, was evasive.

"The world is full of many children, Highclaw. Most with dark skin, many with dark hair and unusual eyes. The east is a vast land. It is not so easy to find one girl among thousands."

Draken studied him carefully.

Arken knew something.

Draken pressed on. "Gold. Silver. Money. Name your price."

Arken's eyes flickered— but was not yet convinced.

Then Draken made his final offer.

"Five of my warriors will stay temporarily to protect your tribe. To train your enforcers. And to deal with the cannibalistic tribe that has been a problem for your people."

Arken's expression shifted.

The cannibalistic tribe had long been a threat, stealing his people in the night, attacking their outposts, and growing bolder by the year. Wars in these lands were not infrequent, and humans—the Hairless Ones—had a short memory when it came to peace. They forgot the hard lessons of the Feral Wars.

Draken also knew something else—the magic of this tribe was fading with every generation.

Before, they had needed no warriors to protect them. Now? They did .

Arken exhaled slowly, setting his cup down.

"I will confer with the Elders of the Coven," he said finally.

A young woman stepped forward, brown eyes curious and shy. She was an attendant, her role clear.

"She will show you to your quarters," Arken said.

Draken nodded, and they followed the young woman down a narrow, darkened hall, the air thick with the scent of aged wood and magic. Vines crept along the stone walls, twisting into intricate patterns, the green blending seamlessly with the dim torchlight.

One of the unmated warriors at Draken's side—a young, cocksure soldier—grinned and leaned in playfully.

"And what is your name, love?" he murmured.

The woman flushed a deep scarlet, ducking her head as she hurried away.

Draken sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

He turned to Vir, his Fang—his right-hand warrior, his closest friend.

Vir had been silent this whole time, but his wolf was always listening.

Draken met his gaze. "What do you think?"

Vir inhaled deeply, his dark eyes sharp and certain.

"She's here," he murmured. "I feel it."