Page 8

Seren

The interminable wait stretched for two days.

Draken and his warriors, ever patient, ever watchful, spent the time observing, learning, and gathering information without seeming to.

The wolves were allowed to roam freely, their shifting forms drawing curious eyes but no fear from the locals.

Their presence became something of a spectacle, especially for the children—a swarm of black-haired, brown-eyed, golden-skinned little ones trailing them like ducklings, giggling as they ran after the warriors, whispering in hushed tones whenever one of them shifted.

"We seem to have gained a following," Vir muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the cluster of children creeping behind them.

One of the wolves, Raik, in his half-shifted form, twitched his ears and let his tail swish lazily behind him. The effect was instant—the children gasped, giggled, and darted behind one another in a game of bravery.

"You're a menace," Boren grumbled, keeping his eyes forward.

"I live to entertain," Raik smirked, flashing just enough fang to make one of the bolder children gasp in delight.

A girl, no older than six, mimicked his gesture, baring her tiny teeth and growling at him.

Raik feigned a startled step back, eyes widening dramatically. "Highclaw save me," he gasped. "They've got wolves of their own!"

The other warriors chuckled, and the children shrieked with laughter, emboldened now, one of them daring to poke Raik's shifting tail before darting away again .

"You're encouraging them," Boren said, unimpressed.

"Better than scaring them," Vir said mildly. "They trust us. That's a good thing."

One of the younger wolves, Jarek, who had been keeping to the back, leaned in slightly. "I'm just saying, I'd rather be feared a little."

Raik snorted. "You'd rather they throw stones at us like the humans did before the wars?"

Jarek scowled but said nothing.

A little boy, barely five, broke away from the group, running right up to Boren, eyes wide with wonder. "Are you a real wolf?" he asked breathlessly.

Boren blinked. "No. I'm a particularly hairy human."

Raik barked a laugh while the boy's face contorted in confusion.

Before he could protest, one of the older girls whispered to the little ones in a hushed, awed voice.

"They're from the great forests, the ones the High Priest talks about. They run faster than the wind and hunt with their teeth!"

Another child nodded sagely. "And they never sleep, only wait for prey!"

Vir exchanged a glance with Draken, his lips twitching. "I don't know, Highclaw. Maybe we should let them keep talking. We sound unstoppable."

Draken, ever composed, merely shook his head and kept walking.

"Come on, cubs," he said dryly to his warriors. "We're not here to play."

Raik grinned, twitching his ears again for good measure, sending the children into another fit of delighted giggles .

"Let them have their fun," he mused. "They might even miss us when we're gone."

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."