Greg woke with a start. Bright, glazing sunlight burned in his eyes. Except that it wasn’t sunlight, and he didn’t see it with his eyes, either.

It wasn’t even burning on the Grande Gallerie, and he wasn’t the only one who noticed it. The young apprentice healer who had been focused on Imani was just sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

Shaking himself fully awake, Greg turned human and hunted for his clothes in the very first gloom of pre-dawn. He tried to be as quiet as he could, to let his family sleep a few more hours, but he needed to know what was going on. Was that Morgulon? But why? What was she doing, in the middle of the night?

As suddenly as the inferno had started, it dimmed again, leaving Greg swaying on his feet as he tried to put on his socks with afterimages burning in his mind. Or was echo the better word?

It led him all the way to the infirmary, opening to the last sight he had expected: Morgulon was sitting pressed up against the duke’s bed, her head resting on the man’s stomach. Bent over her stood Bishop Larssen, his hands framing Morgulon’s muzzle. He had pulled his hair back, so Greg got a good view of his stark features, made even more pronounced by the way his lips were curled up in effort. The flames of the gas lamps sent shadows flickering over his curdled brow.

His eyes were alight with the same, eerie blue light as Morgulon’s and there was sweat running down his forehead.

The room reeked of spilled magic, but it seemed like the bishop had managed to tame the power Morgulon was feeding him. There was only the softest glow around her muzzle, but Greg thought he could see the bishop’s hands shake.

How much magic was Morgulon giving him? If she had been the inferno from just a moment ago—as bright as she had ever been during a fight with the Rot-queens—could Bishop Larssen heal the duke? Truly heal him? Could they do the same for Imani?

After a few minutes, Larssen straightened up with a groan, rubbing his back with both hands. He stood bent backwards, hands in his back for a few seconds, a hint of a smile on his face, an expression of relief. There were tears running down his face, and the way his lips moved soundlessly made Greg wonder if he was praying.

Finally, he wiped the sweat off his brow, turning to Morgulon.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so very much. I did not think—I did not dream that this was possible. If we can repeat that right after full moon… Can you do that, Morgulon? He might actually have a chance.”

Morgulon shrugged, then nodded, tail swishing across the ground lazily.

“Thank you for trusting me enough to show me,” Larssen said. “Excuse me—” He hid a yawn behind his hand and turned away, jumping when he finally noticed Greg.

“Lord Feleke! My pardon, I didn’t notice you walk in.” The bishop glanced back at Morgulon, then didn’t say anything more than that.

“What—did you just heal him?” Greg asked.

“To the best of my ability, yes,” Larssen said. “Until the poison causes more damage, at least. Lady Morgulon offered,” he added.

Morgulon made no sound at all, even as he called her a lady.

“What about my mother?” Greg asked.

“I will be down at the Gallerie as soon as I’ve rested a little,” Larssen promised. “I’m hoping that with Lady Morgulon’s help, we will be able to help a lot of people. Just a half an hour,” he promised. He smiled then, a tired and worn smile, but radiant nonetheless. “Cheer up. There’s hope yet. Lord Mithras has answered our prayers.”

With that, the bishop left. Greg remained behind to stare at Morgulon, who didn’t succeed at looking innocent.

“Did you just…”

Greg glanced at the clock at the wall. It was just before five in the morning. Hardly anyone else was awake. Had Morgulon just dragged the bishop out of bed to—how had she convinced him to come with her?

He was praying, Morgulon answered the unfinished question. I didn’t wake him.

“And you just—what, grabbed his sleeve and dragged him up here?”

I talked to him.

“You talked to him.” Greg had actually an even harder time picturing that. “Did you wear clothes?”

Morgulon curled up on herself. He truly is a godly man, she said. He never even looked.

She sighed, and added: Hello, Pierre, just as the door flew open.

Greg hadn’t even felt him walk up. Which was surprising, because Pierre was furious, stomping into the room, glaring at Morgulon, pointing an angry finger at her.

“Are you mad?” he hissed. “Why would you show a bishop of Mithras what we—why would you help him?” Pierre whirled to point at George Louis, sleeping unmoving. “Him, of all people! Just let the miserable bastard croak! We could’ve crowned Lord Relentless king, soon as the war is over!”

Greg stared at his old pack leader, mouth open in shock. He tried to get a word in edgewise, but his tongue refused to move.

You. Would crown the Relentless king.

“Better the Relentless than him!”

“You don’t even know if he’s still alive,” Greg managed to force out. What was going on here?

“Ragna and Rust both live. I have been calling for them ever since news of the battle’s outcome reached us, but they’re refusing to follow.”

They’re old enough to know their own minds.

Pierre ignored Morgulon’s comment. “They wouldn’t be staying in the south unless they think they can still win something there. It strikes me as unlikely that they would believe so unless your brother were still alive.”

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“That’s—you’re sure?”

It sounded logical, didn’t it?

Ragna and Rust are alive, Morgulon said. And they’re not answering us.

“It’s the only explanation,” Pierre insisted. “The Relentless is alive.”

“David is alive,” Greg repeated. “Wait, did you tell my family—”

For a moment, he felt like he could breathe again. He thought he saw the duke stir, too. Just barely. Probably reacting to David’s name subconsciously.

Morgulon stared in the same direction, tail still sweeping the floor.

“I felt it could wait until morning,” Pierre said. He glared at Morgulon. “I didn’t expect her to act so—to tell Bishop Larssen before we could even discuss the matter! Surely, you agree that your brother would make a better king than Duke Stuard?”

Greg groaned. “Not you too. Bernadette said the same.”

“Well, she’s a smart woman,” Pierre said generously.

“He’s a baron’s son.” Greg threw up his hands. “Look, I get it, he was scary and now he’s on our side. The devil you know and all. But it’s not going to happen.”

“I believe you forget that most of Loegrion’s aristocracy is going to be dead after full moon.”

Pierre’s tone made Greg deeply uncomfortable. It was almost gleeful. The elder was acting as if this were a good thing, something exciting, rather than the calamity it was.

“If David survived, then we have to assume that some of the other officers at the battle did, too,” Greg pointed out. “And most of them were higher ranking than him, like the Marquess of Southshire, just to name one. And anyway, we brought you here to help avoid exactly that.”

“And you want us to do what?” Pierre asked. He was looking at Morgulon, not Greg, though. “Save them all? Do you have any clue how much that would take out of us? Do you seriously expect me—everyone—to expend ourselves like that for a bunch of ungrateful pigs? Let them take the bite! Let Mithras sort them out! Why would you—why would you help any of them? What’s in it for us?”

There’s as many as a thousand unsettled werewolves loose in Loegrion as of last night, Morgulon replied. Maybe we’re lucky and the Valoise shoot their bitten ones quickly, and our army’s unsettled ones, too. Maybe there’ll only be fifty left in a week. Maybe we won’t be so lucky. But when was the last time fifty unsettled werewolves were running wild in the country all at the same time?

She stretched, claws clicking gently on the floor tiles. And do you really think nobody will realise within the next few weeks that we held back?

“How would anyone human know…”

You felt Lenny die, same as I did, Morgulon said coldly. Don’t tell me you didn’t. Don’t tell me you truly believe that nobody who witnessed his death survived. Is that really something you want to gamble on?

She settled down again, not even looking at Pierre, curling up as if to sleep. Do you really think the Relentless will forgive us if we step back and let his mother die? His brother’s love? His father’s apprentices? Because I don’t think he will. I don’t even think he should.

“So you went ahead and decided the matter for all of us.”

Before I let you turn us all into monsters? Yes. Yes, I did.

Pierre reached for his forehead dramatically. Greg was again frozen in place. Apparently, the only thing both elders agreed on was that it wasn’t his time to speak.

“But you didn’t tell the bishop, did you?” Pierre said softly. “You couldn’t have explained it to him, the effect age has and how all true elders might do what you did?”

Greg had a bad feeling where Pierre was going with this.

You’re a fool, Pierre, Morgulon said, still without looking at him. A bitter old fool.

“A monster, as you said,” Pierre said. “A soulless monster who fears no hell. All I need to do is kill the bishop, and nobody will ever hear about this.”

He turned around. “I apologise, Greg. You won’t be able to speak on this, but I promise, I’ll figure out a way to help your mother. And I promise I’ll be a good advisor to your brother. Really, it’s for the best of all of us.”

The elder’s powers built around Greg, while Morgulon’s laughter echoed silently in his head. Before he could make sense of what was going on, the old man disappeared in a cloud of shredding fabric, to be replaced by the equally ancient wolf. White light crowned his head, like a halo. Yet Greg felt his own vision turn dark as the elder took a step towards him, pushing—squeezing—

A soft growl permeated his bones, and his vision cleared. Morgulon was slowly rising to her feet, shaking herself. Pierre turned his magic on her, but it didn’t stop her from sauntering over. There was no light on her, yet she was ignoring Pierre’s will as if it was nothing.

She was tired. She had just spent a lot of her power to help heal the duke. Yet when she rounded on Pierre, mostly what Greg got from her was a sense of deep contempt.

I never wanted to rule. That's a human thing. But I will not be ruled by you.

But you will let him—

A human monarch. For humans. And for those of us who care to live like them, yes. I will not stand by as you take the crown in all but name.

Greg swayed like a leaf in the breeze as Pierre gathered his power again. His magic was like a sledgehammer, and it drove him to his knees. But Morgulon? Morgulon was like David’s rapier when he was at his best. Fast. Precise. Impossible to bind.

She pushed up against Pierre, teeth bared. She never bit him, never resorted to actual violence—yet she was overpowering the older wolf.

You never learned how to fight your equal, she snarled. Always leaning on children. Relying on them.

Arrogant bitch!, Pierre growled back. He barked, and flames roared towards Morgulon. Greg crawled backwards on his elbows, away from the heat. He looked around for a place to hide, or put out the fire, some water—anything—

Somewhere behind the smoke, Morgulon laughed.

That’s the best you can do?, she asked. Fire? I've faced worse when I was but a cub. Did you learn nothing new in the past forty years?

She stepped right through the inferno, her own white flame burning brighter in her fur. The Red taught me how to hide. The Old One taught me how to fight. Every werewolf I meet, I learned something new. But you still cling to what you learned as a boy. As a human.

Pierre walked backwards awkwardly, stiff-legged, tail between his legs. He was struggling to raise it again, Greg could tell, but Morgulon was on top of him now, all dominance, power, and magic.

You will do as I say. Her words echoed painfully in Greg’s head, and he wasn’t even the target. You will help the humans, the healers, to the best of your ability. You will give them all the magic you can give without hurting yourself.

Pierre whined softly, trying to pull away now rather than fight her off. At that point, Morgulon grabbed him by the scruffy fur in his neck. It looked a little like a cat picking up a kitten that had escaped, except that she drew blood.

It sparked with magical flames.

She pressed Pierre down onto the ground until his chest touched the ground. His ancient joints cracked as he cowered before her.

Morgulon kept him there a few more seconds, before backing off. As soon as she did, he ran, scratching at the door with his claws until he managed to use the handle, fleeing as quickly as his old legs would take him.

For a few seconds, all that Greg could hear was the rushing of blood in his own ears, then a voice broke the silence.

“What the fuck?”

When he looked up, Duke George Louis sat upright in bed, looking awake. Looking present. Looking very scared, too.

Greg groaned inwardly.

When the duke woke up, Morgulon bolted after Pierre with just a hint more dignity than him. The door fell shut behind her.