The Primal Hunting Grounds were alive with the steady rhythm of a new pack finding its footing. Myron observed from the Alpha’s Hut, watching his nine charges settle into their roles. The Herbalist sorted through roots and plants, the Pelt Crafter worked a fresh hide, and the new warriors tested their claws under Ragnar’s stern supervision. The distant thrum of the Bloodstone Forge added a metallic undertone to the primal sounds of the forest.

Yet amid this newfound structure, one member of the pack remained apart. Fenris, the enigmatic and feral werewolf, had taken up position at the outskirts of the territory. Though his immense strength made him a powerful ally, his lack of respect for Myron’s leadership was glaring.

Kaela Moonhowl approached the Alpha’s Hut quietly, her calm presence offset by the tension in her tone. “Fenris hasn’t joined the others,” she said, her words careful. “He’s out near the borders, watching but… not contributing.”

Myron’s eyes narrowed. “Watching for what?”

Kaela hesitated. “Perhaps he’s testing you.”

Myron rose from his seat, his expression sharp. “Testing me?”

Kaela’s gaze didn’t waver. “Fenris isn’t like the others. He’s been alone for so long that he only trusts himself. Commands from an Alpha won’t mean much to him until you prove your worth.”

Myron smirked, though his irritation simmered just beneath the surface. “Then it’s time he learned what happens when someone ignores my orders.”

Fenris was a problem Myron didn’t mind having—for now. The feral werewolf’s defiance was both a threat and an opportunity, a wild card Myron could either tame or neutralize. In the long run, he knew Fenris’s strength could be an undeniable asset, but only if harnessed correctly. Letting him roam unchecked was a risk Myron wasn’t willing to take.

As far as Myron was concerned, he always got what he wanted, and Fenris would be no exception. Whether through submission or force, the feral would fall in line—or fall out.

----------------------------------------

Myron’s footsteps were swift and deliberate as he made his way through the dense forest toward the territory’s edge. The air grew heavier, the scent of damp earth and wild animals intensifying. He found Fenris perched atop a jagged rock, his massive frame silhouetted against the faint glow of the Howling Totem in the distance.

Fenris didn’t turn as Myron approached, his gaze fixed on the shadowed treeline. Myron's heavy steps barely drew a flicker of acknowledgment from him, but inside, Fenris appraised his Alpha's approach. This one doesn’t shy from confrontation, he mused. A good sign, maybe, but arrogance can be a blindfold in the wild.

“You’ve come to talk, haven’t you?” Fenris growled, his voice low and guttural. His tone carried an edge—not outright dismissive, but far from deferential. He’d learned long ago to respect strength, but respect didn’t mean surrender. Myron might have summoned him, but Fenris would only follow a leader worth following.

“Not to talk,” Myron replied, his voice sharp. “To remind you what it means to be part of this pack.”

Fenris snorted, his lips curling into a faint grin. Myron’s words amused him, but Fenris’s mind worked beyond the surface. Does he really understand what leadership demands? Or is he just playing Alpha for the thrill? Fenris’s grin widened slightly, testing the waters. “Part of the pack? I didn’t join the pack—I tolerated it. There’s a difference.”

Myron stepped closer, his presence commanding despite the larger werewolf’s looming form. Fenris shifted his attention fully to Myron, his glowing eyes narrowing as he gauged the younger lycan’s resolve. Myron didn’t falter, but Fenris knew confidence alone wasn’t enough. Life wasn’t a neatly scripted battle where everything bent to one’s will. If Myron was to lead, he needed to learn that.

“You’ve been out here long enough. It’s time you pull your weight,” Myron said, his tone laced with authority.

Fenris turned his glowing eyes on Myron, the faint mockery in his grin deepening. He respected Myron’s courage to confront him head-on, but he wasn’t about to roll over. “And what if I don’t feel like it?” His growl carried a challenge—not one of rebellion, but of measured testing. Fenris had no intention of overthrowing Myron now, but he wouldn’t let himself be led by an Alpha who believed everything would fall into place just because he commanded it.

----------------------------------------

The forest grew silent as the two locked gazes, the tension thick and tangible. Myron’s smirk was cold, his arrogance sharpened by the challenge. He relished this moment—not because it was easy, but because it was necessary. Fenris was strong, unpredictable, and dangerous. The kind of ally who could tear through enemies… or undermine him if left unchecked. Myron wasn’t about to let that happen.

“You’ll feel like it, or you’ll find out what happens when someone disrespects me,” Myron said, his voice low but cutting. Let him test me, Myron thought. It’ll only prove I’m the Alpha here. His tone carried the sharp edge of authority, but inwardly he was calculating. Fenris wasn’t a pawn; he was a piece Myron needed to position carefully. A challenge now was better than rebellion later.

“There’s a pack of feral wolves scavenging near our border, stealing from our kills. Take them down. Bring their pelts back as a warning.” Myron’s words weren’t just about asserting control; they were a test. Could Fenris follow orders without losing that fire in his gut? If Myron could harness that defiance without extinguishing it, Fenris would become the cornerstone of his strength.

Fenris chuckled, the sound deep and guttural. “You’re sending me to deal with scraps? Is that supposed to impress me?”

Myron’s smirk didn’t waver. He knew Fenris wasn’t impressed—yet. That didn’t matter. The point wasn’t to impress; it was to establish the hierarchy. “No,” Myron replied, his tone steady. “It’s supposed to remind you who gives the orders around here.” He stared down Fenris, his confidence unshaken. Fenris might be strong, but strength without direction was wasted potential. And Myron would never let potential go untapped.

Fenris’s grin faded, replaced by a low growl. “You think you can command me, pup?”

Myron shot back instantly, stepping closer until they were nearly nose to nose. “I know I can,” he said, his voice like steel. Myron’s mind raced as he spoke, though his demeanor stayed cool. Fenris is testing me, seeing if I’m soft under the bravado. He doesn’t realize I’ve always gotten what I wanted—because I take it. This pack isn’t about him. It’s about my vision, and he’s either a part of it or in the way. “And you’ll prove it right now. Or you can walk away, leave the pack for good. Your choice.”

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Fenris’s growl deepened, his claws flexing, but Myron held his ground. He wasn’t just playing a role—he was shaping reality. Fenris was a beast, yes, but beasts respected strength. Myron had to prove not only that he was strong, but that his vision was something Fenris needed to survive. After a long, tense moment, Fenris let out a huff. “Fine. I’ll deal with your little scavengers. But don’t think this means I follow you.”

Myron’s smirk widened, his confidence unwavering. “You will. You just don’t realize it yet.” As Fenris turned to leave, Myron’s thoughts flickered toward the future. Fenris didn’t need to like him; he just needed to fall in line. And once he did, Myron would wield him like a weapon.

For now, though, Myron savored the small victory. This wasn’t just about control—it was about shaping Fenris into an ally who’d fight for the pack with the same fire he fought against it. Eventually, Fenris would learn the truth: Myron always got what he wanted.

----------------------------------------

The pack waited anxiously as Fenris disappeared into the forest, his massive form melting into the shadows. Myron stood still for a moment, watching the darkness where the feral werewolf had vanished. The air in the Moonlit Den felt heavier than usual, the pack’s unease palpable even in their silence. Myron turned sharply on his heel and made his way back to the clearing, where the others had gathered around the fire.

Ragnar Bloodfang stood closest to the flames, his golden eyes flickering with the firelight. His expression was dark, his brows furrowed in thought. Myron could feel the weight of Ragnar’s scrutiny before the warrior even spoke.

“You sent him out alone?” Ragnar asked, his voice low but carrying a steady tension.

“I gave him a task,” Myron replied, brushing past Ragnar and taking his place at the edge of the fire. “If he wants to stick around, he’ll follow through.”

The pack exchanged uneasy glances. Kaela Moonhowl, seated near the hearth, tilted her head slightly, her silver hair catching the flickering light. “And if he doesn’t?” she asked, her tone measured but curious.

“Then he’s not worth keeping,” Myron said simply, his smirk unwavering. His words were cold, final. He met Kaela’s gaze briefly, daring her—or anyone else—to challenge him.

The pack fell silent, but their unease lingered like a heavy fog. Myron could see the doubts simmering behind their eyes. They all knew Fenris was a force to be reckoned with, a wild card that didn’t fit neatly into the pack’s growing structure. His strength was undeniable, but his defiance posed a threat to the fragile balance Myron had spent days building.

Ragnar broke the silence, his tone low but pointed. “He’s strong. Stronger than most of us. If he decides to turn on you—on us—he won’t go quietly.”

Myron’s smirk widened, sharp and predatory. “Strength without discipline is just chaos. He’ll either learn to control it—or I’ll control him.”

The firelight flickered, casting shadows over the pack’s faces. Myron didn’t miss the uncertainty in their expressions. Some, like Ragnar, seemed to view his actions as bold but risky—a calculated gamble that could pay off or backfire spectacularly. Others, like the younger recruits, glanced nervously at each other, their confidence in their Alpha shaken by the possibility that Fenris might refuse to fall in line.

Kaela leaned forward, her tone quieter but no less probing. “And what if you’re wrong? What if Fenris doesn’t come back, or worse—what if he does, but with no intention of obeying?”

Myron’s gaze hardened, his smirk fading into a cold, determined expression. “Then he’ll be dealt with like any threat. This pack doesn’t have room for insubordination, no matter how strong the wolf.”

The tension thickened, the crackle of the fire the only sound for a long moment. Myron knew the doubts hanging in the air. His gamble with Fenris wasn’t just about proving his authority—it was a test for the entire pack. If he couldn’t control Fenris, what would that say about his ability to lead them? And yet, he relished the challenge.

“Fenris is testing me,” Myron said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence. “But he’s also testing you. He’s watching to see if this pack is worth fighting for. If we’re strong enough to follow an Alpha who doesn’t back down.”

The pack exchanged glances again, some nodding in reluctant agreement, others still hesitant. Myron took a step closer to the fire, his gaze sweeping over them.

“This isn’t about Fenris,” he continued, his tone sharper. “It’s about what kind of pack we’re going to be. Are we a group of wolves too afraid to take risks, or are we the kind that turns wild cards into weapons?”

Ragnar’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of respect crossing his face. Kaela leaned back, her probing gaze giving way to quiet contemplation. The younger recruits straightened, some of the uncertainty fading from their eyes as Myron’s words took hold.

The weight of Myron’s decision settled over the den, but this time, the tension felt different. The pack was no longer just questioning his ability to control Fenris—they were questioning their own readiness to follow an Alpha who dared to take such risks.

As the fire crackled and the night deepened, Myron stood tall, his smirk returning as he watched the pack absorb his words. Fenris’s defiance wasn’t just a challenge to him—it was an opportunity to cement his authority and shape the pack into something unshakable. And Myron had no intention of letting that opportunity slip away.

----------------------------------------

Hours passed before Fenris emerged from the forest, dragging a bundle of bloodied pelts behind him. His fur was matted with blood, his breathing heavy but steady. He stopped just inside the clearing and dropped the pelts at Myron’s feet.

“They’re dead,” Fenris said, his voice low and rough. “You’ve got your warning.”

The pack watched in silence, their gazes flicking nervously between Myron and Fenris. Relief rippled through some of the younger recruits—they had half-expected Fenris to vanish into the night or return with defiance in his eyes. But the older wolves, Ragnar included, exchanged uneasy glances. Fenris’s compliance didn’t feel like submission. It felt like a calculated move, a predator choosing to bide its time rather than strike.

The tension between the two was palpable, and even the crackling of the fire seemed muted. Myron’s smirk didn’t falter as he bent down, picking up one of the pelts and examining it briefly before tossing it onto the pile. His fingers brushed the blood-soaked fur, and his sharp gaze lingered on the pelts for a moment longer than necessary.

“You’ve done well,” Myron said, his tone measured. He straightened, his golden eyes meeting Fenris’s glowing ones. “But you still have a lot to prove.”

Fenris’s lips curled back in a faint snarl, his body taut as though weighing whether to respond. But he said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them. Myron stepped closer, his gaze sharp and unyielding.

“You’re either with me, or you’re not,” Myron said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Make up your mind.”

Fenris stared at him for a long moment, his glowing eyes unreadable. The pack seemed to hold its collective breath, their muscles tense as if bracing for a fight. Ragnar’s hand drifted instinctively toward the hilt of his weapon, while Kaela’s grip tightened on her staff. The younger wolves exchanged wide-eyed glances, their fear evident. To them, Fenris’s return was proof that he could follow orders, but his presence still carried an undeniable menace—an undercurrent of danger that no one could ignore.

Then, with a low growl, Fenris turned and walked away, his massive form disappearing back into the shadows. The pack exhaled as one, the tension breaking like a dam. Yet, even in his retreat, Fenris’s absence didn’t erase the unease lingering in the air.

Ragnar stepped forward, his golden eyes narrowing as he studied Myron. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Alpha,” he said, his voice low but heavy with meaning.

“I’m not playing anything,” Myron replied, his voice cold. He glanced at the pile of pelts, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “This is my pack. Fenris will fall in line—or fall out.”

The pack didn’t respond immediately, though Ragnar’s expression hardened, his gaze flicking toward the shadows where Fenris had disappeared. Kaela, seated near the fire, tilted her head, her silver hair catching the moonlight. She didn’t speak, but the question in her eyes was clear: Are you sure you know what you’re doing?

As the moon rose higher, casting its pale light over the Primal Hunting Grounds, Myron stood tall, the bloodied pelts at his feet a testament to his growing authority. The pack’s unease lingered, but Myron ignored it. Fenris had proven his worth tonight, but Myron knew the feral werewolf was far from tame. That suited him fine—for now.

Day one was drawing to a close, but the battle for dominance was just beginning.