The strategy room was a cage of cold stone and flickering lamplight, smelling of old parchment, beeswax, and the oppressive weight of fear. Maps, marked with the territories of allies and enemies, covered the heavy oaken table—a silent, sprawling testament to their fragile position. Connall stood before it, his energy a coiled spring of brutal impatience. He could feel the stares of the others, could feel their doubt clinging to him like a shroud. Beside him, Althea was a statue of calm, but her wary eyes, missing nothing, were fixed on his rigid posture. Alpha Borin Stonecrest stared at the maps, his face a grim mask of concentration, while Ceridwen, the ancient lore-keeper, waited with the unnerving patience of one who has seen empires rise and fall many times before.
The silence, thick with unspoken anxieties, stretched until it was taut enough to snap. Connall broke it.
He unwrapped a piece of stained oilcloth, his movements precise and deliberate, almost ceremonial. With a soft, definitive thud, he placed a dagger onto the table. The steel, cruelly elegant, seemed to drink the lantern light.
"This was taken from the leader of the assassins who ambushed us," Connall stated, his voice flat. It didn't need emotion; the weapon spoke for itself, a venomous promise made steel.
Ceridwen's old, sharp eyes fixed on the dagger. She reached out with a wrinkled hand and picked it up, her touch surprisingly steady. She turned it over, her gaze tracing the intricate, wolf's-head crest carved into the hilt. After a long, heavy moment, she nodded, her expression hardening into brittle certainty.
"It is as we feared," she said, her voice thin but strong. "This is the sigil of the *Vargar*—Guntram Volkov's personal guard. His most loyal butchers."
The confirmation hung in the air, a poison finally identified. A dark, cold vindication washed through Connall, so potent it was almost painful. He had known. He had felt it in his bones, screamed it in their war councils. Now, here was the proof, cold and hard and undeniable. He shot a glance at Althea.
A flicker of agony, sharp and deep, crossed her face before she ruthlessly suppressed it. *Vargar.* The word was a blade in her gut. These weren't just enemy soldiers; they were wolves she had once known. She could almost see their faces—arrogant, sworn to the pack, sworn to protect the Luna she was supposed to have been. Now they had been sent not just to hunt her as a rogue, but to murder her in cold blood. The betrayal was absolute, severing the last, frayed thread of loyalty she might have harbored for the pack she'd left behind.
***
As the weight of Ceridwen's words settled, Borin wordlessly reached across the table. His large, calloused hand closed around the dagger, taking it from the lore-keeper. He didn't waste a glance on the main crest; he had accepted Ceridwen's judgment instantly. His focus was elsewhere. He turned the weapon over and over, his thumb rubbing at the heavy pommel, feeling for something the others had missed. His heavy brows drew together, his lips thinning into a hard line.
The shift in the Alpha's demeanor was subtle, but Connall, honed by years of watching for threats, caught it instantly. "You see something else." It was a statement, not a question.
Borin gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze still fixed on the dagger's hilt. "Ceridwen is right. This is a *Vargar* blade. But it's not standard issue."
He held it up, angling the pommel toward the lamplight. The room leaned in, a collective holding of breath. He pointed with a thick finger to a small, almost invisible mark etched into the metal, separate from the main sigil. It was a delicate, intricate design of three interlocking claws, a mark of artistry completely at odds with the Vargar's brutal wolf's head.
"This is not a smith's mark," Borin rumbled, his voice low and serious. "It is a gift-sigil. A personal seal from one Alpha to another. A sign of profound respect. Of fealty… or of a debt owed."
He lifted his gaze from the weapon, his eyes hard as flint as they met Connall's. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with the weight of a secret about to be unearthed, a new layer of conspiracy peeling back to reveal something far more rotten beneath.
"I have seen this mark only once before, years ago," Borin said, his voice dropping even lower, a gravelly whisper that commanded absolute silence. "It was on a ceremonial shield gifted to my father after the Border Wars, a prize for an impossible victory. It is the sigil of Alpha Hrothgar of the Iron Fang pack."
***
The name dropped into the silence like a block of ice. Hrothgar. The Iron Fangs were a force of nature, a powerful, notoriously isolationist pack from the frozen northern territories, hundreds of leagues from Guntram's domain. They meddled in nothing. They answered to no one. For Hrothgar to be involved meant this was no simple coup. It was a coordinated, widespread conspiracy.
The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. Connall's voice was a low, dangerous growl. "So, Guntram Volkov is not a king. He is a puppet."
A grim, mirthless smile touched Borin's lips. "Worse. He is a willing pawn for a much larger power. Hrothgar is brutal, but he is also cunning. For years, he has acted as the unofficial enforcer for a shadow council of Alphas, a cabal that has manipulated bloodlines and thrones for generations, always from the shadows."
He placed the dagger back on the map, the sharp tip pointing toward Guntram's territory like an accusation. "This dagger is not just proof against a usurper. It is our first tangible link to the shadows that control him."
The scope of the threat expanded, a darkness spreading across the map, connecting enemies they hadn't even known they had. They weren't just fighting a single tyrant for a throne. They were fighting a hidden empire for their very survival.
Borin let the revelation settle, the horrifying scale of it sinking into each of them. Then he set the dagger down with a final, soft click. "And Hrothgar is not one to sit idle. Now that his assassins have failed, he will move to consolidate his power and eliminate any threats."
He looked directly at Connall, the full weight of their impossible situation reflected in his steady, unblinking gaze.
"He has sent summons to every major Alpha for a 'Unity Conclave' at his fortress in two weeks' time." Borin paused, letting the words land with the force of a physical blow. "He sent me my invitation this morning. It is a summons I cannot refuse without declaring myself his enemy."