“Bring me the head of the Levant and I will crown you a duke.”

The words echoed in the silence of the great hall. It was a promise and a threat and judgement rolled in one—there would be no quick end to the war, no suing for peace while they were ahead. No punishment for what David had unleashed on the south of Loegrion.

Duke George Louis wanted to take it all the way.

Greg watched the nobles, curious how they would react. Nobody cheered, but at least Count deVale in the first row was smiling. The young Marquess Rover looked a little bit jealous, Greg thought. Lady Ariana was pale, but there was approval on her face.

The werewolves didn't care about any of that.

How do we become rightfully and righteously his? Malinda wondered. Do we have to fight for him?

I bet it won’t hurt, another voice said. Greg couldn’t see who it was.

All the werewolves will be his, Pierre said dismissively. Who else wants to deal with us? The question is whether we will all have to stay at his household.

The old man couldn’t quite hide his relief, though.

He better get some lands then, Monroe commented drily. There's nowhere near enough space for us all in Deva.

The idle chatter ended abruptly when Lane stepped out of the crowd of nobles, hands clutched in front of her chest. Smiling, but with an uncertainty—as if she couldn't quite believe her eyes.

It was a good thing she was a much better actress than David.

He grinned back at her, wide and a little ironic, and sheathed the sabre so he could hold out his hands to her. She promptly threw herself forward, into his arms, to hug him tightly. When they kissed—just a brief, chaste thing, nothing like after Oldstone Castle—a soft sigh went through the room. Greg thought he was the only one who noticed the way the duke’s grip tightened around his armrests, until Monroe commented:

Ah, the sweet smell of jealousy.

Morgulon sniggered soundlessly, and Rémy added: You know, I get it. I never thought I’d say this about the Relentless, but I wouldn’t mind taking a bite out of him, either. Hells, just look at that backside.

You know he hears you, right?, Pierre asked.

Hey, I wasn’t saying anything untrue!

If David did hear them, he was doing a great job at ignoring them. Greg wished he could overhear the peanut gallery, too.

And he thought Bishop Larssen felt the same.

The thought made Greg giggle, the kind of nervous sound that had nothing to do with actual amusement. It came out as a soft pant, luckily, that the humans would never be able to interpret.

When David and Lane separated, Alvin’s shade flew together, turning back into the pale sheen around David’s shoulders. Like a cloak of magic.

“By your leave, Your Highness,” David said, stiffly. “The wolves are tired. And so am I.”

“By all means,” George Louis said. “Your family will be eager to see you, I'm sure. You will join the war council tonight, though?”

“I will be there, Your Highness,” David said, bowing deeply. Then he left again, Lane at his side, flanked by Rust and Ragna, leaving the nobles behind to whisper urgently about what had just happened.

***

David twitched when Lane reached for his hand. It was hard not pulling it away. He felt dirty—too dirty to be touched by her. Or anyone, really. The opulence of the palace all around only heightened the sense.

What was he, other than a trapped beast?

Out in the wilderness, sleeping in trees, living off the land, bathing in rivers, surrounded by giant wolves, out there it was so easy to close his eyes against the horrors he had unleashed on the land. The blood he had spilled. So easy to tell himself that he wasn’t just doing the right thing, but the only thing he could possibly do.

It was a lot harder to convince himself that there wasn’t a better way when he was surrounded by the city and the marvels of civilization. A lot harder to pretend that the soldiers he had killed weren’t people like the masses swarming around him.

And he would do worse, still. If George Louis was serious about defeating the Valoise.

If Lane, or Greg, or deVale—or the duke himself—didn’t have a better idea.

Guards and nobles and servants stared at David as he made his way through the palace, their faces filled with wonder and disgust and awe and terror. It made him want to wrap his arms around himself and curl up to hide somewhere, curl up and never come out again. Or at least to take a day and mourn the simple life of an unimportant baron he had just forsworn.

There was no going back now. He was going to be playing court politics till the day that he died.

For Loegrion. For Greg and his daughters, for Rust, and Ragna. To ensure that Lenny’s and Lea’s and all the other werewolves’ sacrifices wouldn’t be in vain.

Well. There was still a good chance he wouldn’t live to the end of the war in any case.

The sounds of quick boots behind them interrupted David’s dark musings. “Major Feleke,” someone called. When David turned around, it was deVale.

“General deVale,” David replied, but couldn’t bring himself to free his hand to actually salute.

“Do you have accommodations for your troops in mind?” deVale asked. “Are they all settled?”

“Not even close,” David said.

“Fort Brunich then?” DeVale said. “I can organise to have them taken there now, and we can discuss a better solution tonight.”

Sounds like a plan, Ragna said. We’ll go with them, tell everyone what happened.

“Are you sure?” David asked. “Brunich isn’t exactly a palace.”

It’ll be fine for a night or two. Asides, any roof above my head is an improvement.

It was hard to argue with that. And if he was perfectly honest, David wasn’t all that eager to deal with the logistics and palace bureaucracy to get the werewolves settled into the city straight away.

“Thank you, general,” he added, looking at deVale.

“It’s no trouble,” deVale claimed. “Get some rest. Milady,” he added, sketching a bow, before walking off.

See you later, Ragna said, before slinking after him.

Rest seemed unlikely. But perhaps a bath. Some decent food.

David held the door to Antonio’s carriage open for Lane, then climbed in himself, and dragged the curtains shut before falling back into the cushions. He didn’t even want to think about what he smelled like. He had done his best to clean up before coming into the city, but the knees and elbows of his leather clothes were permanently discoloured from the mud and blood he had crawled through—not to speak of the boots. He didn’t remember when he’d last had a change of socks. Or a clean shirt. Or underwear.

“David?” Lane asked.

David jerked at her voice. She’d been talking to him, hadn’t she?

“I was asking how you’re doing,” she said.

David looked at her blankly. He had no idea what to tell her.

Except. If there was anyone in the world who’d understand, it was Lane, wasn’t it?

“It’s like the biggest hunt I’ve ever been on,” he finally said. “A thousand near-misses and a thousand dead comrades, and I shouldn’t be taking a break but I’ve got to resupply.”

“So you aren’t staying,” Lane said.

“Not unless you know a way to beat the Valoise from here.”

Lane nodded. They didn’t speak until they arrived at the house. There were people lining the street, to watch as David got out of the carriage. Staring silently.

He would have preferred to get yelled at. He even would have taken the rotten fruit the crowd used to throw at Greg over the way the people lined the street now. At least then he would have known how they felt. The stares were just creepy.

A servant opened the front door. Before David had fully made it over the threshold, Imani threw herself at him, hugging him tightly. Nathan piled in, too. Thoko smiled at him from the stairway.

“Where’s everyone else?” David asked.

“Didn’t you meet them at the palace?” Imani asked. “I thought Greg was going to…”

Feed him some lines, right.

“Greg I saw,” David said.

“And did everything work out?” Imani asked. She looked up at him, her smile lined with worry. It made her look even more frail than she already was in his arms.

“Duke Stuard knighted him,” Lane said, before David could come up with an answer. “I think it’s best if we discuss the rest behind closed doors. Maybe I can fill you in while David gets changed?”

He nodded, grateful for the suggestion.

“Changed and cleaned,” Nathan added helpfully, sniffing.

David didn’t have a clever comeback, so he just rolled his eyes, stepping into the hall fully. A manservant followed him upstairs—Lesley, someone he recognised. He recognized the way the man was staring at him, too.

“Will you—ah, will you need those leathers cleaned, Sir?” Lesley asked, as soon as they were in the bath alone.

David laughed, to the servant’s visible relief. “Feel free to burn them,” he said.

“And you will be needing a change for…?”

“The palace,” David said, getting out of said leather clothes, tossing them on the ground. He climbed into the tub of scalding hot water slowly, leaning his head back against the wall. Lesley knew him well enough to not stand in a corner and wait. He left with the dirty clothes held at arm’s length while David closed his eyes.

It was really, really hard to push the memories of the past month back, to not allow his thoughts to drift back to all the fights, all the dead—enemies and werewolves alike.

If he listened hard, he could hear one of Greg’s little girls wail downstairs. He tried to focus on that, on Imani’s voice singing and cooing to calm her, on the yapping and barking of the boy-cubs in the garden. Playing in the sun. In safety.

This was what he had fought for. What he had damned and killed thousands for.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

He could barely stand it now.

He knew this feeling. He had been here before. After every failed hunt—and sometimes even after successful ones—he found himself in this state of mind, often this very bathtub, painfully aware of how fragile this safety was. Desperate to get back into the saddle, to go out again, to do more.

And at the same time, horrified at himself and the knowledge that the only thing he could do—could imagine himself doing—was to kill more.

He rubbed his hands against each other. No blood was visible there—he wasn’t a total barbarian. He’d rinsed it all off before coming into the city. Had tried to clean up before showing up at the palace, as much as that was possible if all you had was a stream and no soap.

He could still see it, though. Still smell the iron. Still feel it sticking to his palms.

Some things water couldn’t clean.

Maybe Lane would teach him how to stick his hands into a brazier.

At some point, David must have dozed off after all. He awoke with a start when Yamikani started undoing what remained of his braids, clicking her tongue disapprovingly.

“It’s fine,” David muttered. “I can just hack it all off.”

The long hair was the one luxury he allowed himself, but it felt frivolous considering they were at war. He could always do what Greg and Andrew did and just shear it short.

When he reached up to feel at how bad it was, Yamikani gently slapped his fingers. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “I can fix this.”

“I will have to go out into the field again soon,” David pointed out.

“Then I’ll fix it again,” Yamikani said. “Go back to sleep and let me do what I’m good at.”

As if it were that easy, while she tugged at his hair. Still, he understood the sentiment. So he closed his eyes while she muttered behind him in her native language—probably swearing.

***

The war council was held at George Louis’s private office in the palace. By the time David arrived with Lane, Greg and Morgulon at his side, the room was packed—mainly with werewolves. Annabelle lay in front of the fireplace, two she-wolves by her sides, in between a pack of George Louis’s hunting dogs. Rust and Ragna had settled down along the opposing wall, closer to the big roundtable where DeVale and Commander Bacrot were already sitting bent over papers.

David was even more surprised to see George Louis sitting in one of the plush armchairs next to the fireplace, right amongst the giant wolves—if a little stiffly. Bishop Larsson had taken the other chair, looking perfectly at ease.

The bishop was the only one who didn’t look up to stare at David when he entered.

Most of all stared George Louis.

Someone cleans up nicely, Annabelle commented helpfully. That explains a lot, actually.

“Thanks, Annabelle,” David sighed.

Ragna and Rust sniggered. When David glared at them, Larsson asked: “Would you rather they fear you once more?”

He sounded genuinely curious.

Which made David realise. “You hear them, too?”

“I rather think I only do when they want me to,” Larsson said. “But yes. I do hear them. Sometimes.”

He looked at Morgulon, who flicked her ears and didn’t look back at him. Before David could ask, George Louis heaved himself out of his chair.

“Now that we are all here, why don’t we get started,” he said. Then had to grab the backrest of his chair for balance.

It was scary to see him like this, pale, his cheeks sunken, his hands and legs still slightly swollen. Barely strong enough to stand on his own.

George Louis ducked his head, looking down at his feet as he made his way past David to the table. David couldn’t tell if he was feeling self-conscious about his appearance, or if he really needed that much concentration just to make his way safely to the table.

The roundtable that had replaced the old, rectangular one.

What a nice symbol.

Everyone seemed to agree that David should take the seat to the right of the duke, and Lane the one to David’s right, and everyone else just fell into place. It was probably just coincidence that it put Greg almost directly across from Geoge Louis.

“General deVale,” George Louis started. “If you would bring us all up to speed to the situation.”

DeVale nodded importantly, shuffling some of his papers. “According to the reports I received from our werewolf captains and our human intelligence, the Valoise have suffered a major setback at Mirtbrook. They have lost a Marshall and most of their cavalry during the battle, and while the loss of the true elder whose sacrifice made this possible hurts us likewise, I dare say we came out ahead there.”

Someone has taken to the new vocabulary quickly, Annabelle commented. Just as Commander Bacrot asked: “True elder meaning what here?”

“A werewolf powerful enough to transform on new moon and fight a Rot-queen on equal footing,” deVale said promptly.

“Someone I knew?” George Louis asked.

“No, Your Highness,” David said. “She came with the Red from the plains to reinforce our troops.”

We’ll really miss her once the war is over and the clean up starts, Rust added. Greg whispered the words for Lane and deVale.

Before David could relay that to George Louis, too, deVale went on: “The enemy has responded to the loss by moving towards the east. Most likely they’ll retreat all the way to the coast and use the ocean’s protection against the Rot to guard their flank. They may try to reinforce at Port Neaf.”

“I doubt that,” Bishop Larssen said. “It would be very unlike a Levant to backtrack that far. If at all possible, they’ll try to take more cities. They may yet threaten Deggan.”

“Could they take the city?” George Louis asked.

David shrugged. “They have at least fifty thousand men. Probably more. If they want the city, I don’t see how we would stop them. Soto was kind enough to give us a fight in our favour, and even then we barely beat them.”

If Lea hadn’t been hit—if she hadn’t burned all her magic at once—would they have won that battle?

“How many soldiers can we field?” George Louis asked.

DeVale shrugged. “Some forty thousand, probably. But most of them barely ever held a musket. It would be a slaughter if we try to engage the Valoise in battle before they reach Deggan. If it were a different city—but Deggan is hardly well-fortified. Even with the walls and the werewolves, I wouldn’t like our odds. Not unless we sacrifice a dozen more elders.”

“Which would completely cripple our ability to beat back the Rot later,” David said, before anyone could really think about that idea.

“What other options do we have?” George Louis asked. “If we let them take Deggan, they’ll reinforce and come sailing right here to Deva with even more troops.”

The duke looked at David, and so did everyone else. Expecting a plan. A solution.

And the worst part was, he did have one.

“Morgulon,” he said aloud. “How do we create a Rot-queen?”

You should really ask Pierre that, she said. He’s the priest.

“Yes, and you’re the Morgulon,” David said, while Greg once again translated for Lane and deVale. “Let’s say we use the White Torrent. Does it have to happen at the source of the river? Does any bit of water work? Could we use the Lessing?”

Maybe, Morgulon said. If you spill enough magic.

“What the hells are you talking about?” George Louis asked.

“And how do I do that,” David asked. “How do I spill enough magic to create a Rot-queen.”

Morgulon rested her head on her paws, turning away from him. You know how. Destroy an army. Let the blood soak the ground until the magic finds a new vessel.

“What if I have a vessel. A living source of magic.”

And which one of us would you use? Morgulon asked back, not looking at him. Which loyal soldier will you sacrifice? Rust? Ragna? Or perhaps your own brother?

David took a deep breath. He didn’t look to see Greg’s reaction. He didn’t want to know. “I was actually thinking of Picot,” he said instead.

Morgulon’s ears snapped forward and she raised her head, staring at him from golden eyes for a second or two, then turning away again. A shudder ran down her whole body. All the other werewolves in the room had their hackles raised, mirroring Morgulon’s disgust at the idea. Only Annabelle muttered, Lord Relentless.

Morgulon’s tail swished over the ground restlessly, then she stilled entirely. Not just physically. The spot in the back of his head where David sensed the elders was suddenly—quiet. As if she had left the room. Drawing all her magic inwards. Hiding herself, like she had used to hide herself from hunters like him.

And then she was back—laughing. A bitter, unhappy sensation. She tilted her head at him. You know, I really forgot who you are for a bit, she said finally. Lord Relentless indeed.

“Isn’t that why you wanted me?” David asked.

She shrugged, her tail brushing the carpet once more. The traitor has only seen one full moon, Morgulon said, answering his original question. Perhaps a second one by the time you reach a river’s source. Even if you can corrupt him somehow, he wouldn’t make much of a queen.

“That seems like a perk to me,” Larssen spoke up. “If you have a living source of magic, why even use a river?”

Morgulon stood, stretching her front legs like a dog as she did. You need to find the magic to corrupt, and another source to be corrupted, she said, pacing the room. If you have the vessel… But where do you find enough magic to corrupt Picot ?

“So you can’t do it?” David asked. “If we tie Picot down, and you unleash everything you have…”

Morgulon stopped to glare at him. Have you ever smelled the Rot when I use magic?

She walked onwards, circling the table. Her thoughts were dripping with disgust as she went on: Pierre might be able to do it. He uses magic as humans do. Or if the bishop wants to help, we might be able to work together.

“I cannot be involved in this,” Larssen said at once. “I could not call myself a man of Mithras ever again if I helped raise—one of those creatures.”

How convenient for him. “I suppose someone has to save us poor sinners,” David said drily.

“What are you even talking about?” George Louis asked again. “How would a Rot-queen possibly help us?”

“We evacuate Deggan,” David said. “We let the Valoise move in. We let them collect all their troops on their boats and let them move those boats up the White Torrent. We drive a Rot-queen at them, and then we sort out the survivors. If there are any.”

“If not, we deal with the Rot,” George Louis said.

“Yes,” David said. “But we know how to deal with that.”

“Do we have enough elders to do that?” Bacrot asked. “‘True elders’, I mean.”

If it’s only one queen, any three of us can do it, Rust said. Morgulon might be able to do it alone.

Morgulon shook her head. The Red can do it alone. I wouldn’t want to try.

“Do you think it would work?” David asked her. “Could we use a queen—possibly drive it against the pisscoats—and then destroy it?”

Morgulon sighed deeply. But she did say: Yes. Yes, we could do it. If we have enough elders to herd it, that is. Not Rust. Noone younger than Ragna.

“So you, Ragna, Laurent, Fox, the triplets, Monroe and Malinda…How many do you need?”

Ragna, Laurent, Fox and I, Morgulon said.

Which hadn’t been the question, but it was good to know that four would be enough. And it was interesting to see that Morgulon preferred to take younger werewolves she knew over taking Monroe and Malinda who were older.

“So the question remains how we can create a Rot-queen in the first place,” David said. He drummed his fingers on the table. “What if we have the other traitors bitten, too? They’ll be even younger than Picot, but as long as they’ve gone through the first full moon, they’d still be sources of magic, right? Kill two of them, corrupt the third one?”

Morgulon shuddered again. They would be sources of magic, yes. Weak ones.

“Is there really no other way?” Larssen asked.

David looked around the table, meeting blank faces. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke up. Nobody protested, either. Lane had her hands clenched around the table, not looking at him, but she didn’t say anything to stop him. No encouragement, either.

Just a table full of people trying to pretend they weren’t hearing this.

David took a deep breath, but he pushed ahead. He couldn’t give himself time to chicken out, or he surely would. “We’d have two werewolves to sacrifice, each one full moon old,” he said. “Do you think we’d even need the river, Morgulon?”

Morgulon swallowed hard. She clearly didn’t want to answer his questions, either. But for once, she wasn’t giving him cryptic hints or avoiding to speak altogether.

I don’t think two werewolves that young would be enough to make a Rot-queen. And if we do this, we should be certain it works, she said. So I would use the river as an additional source of magic.

David nodded. “So unless anyone else has a better plan, Ragna, Laurent, Fox, Morgulon and I head out to the source of the White Torrent after full moon, with the traitors.”

He looked around the table again, and the werewolves not on the table, too. Rust and Ragna met his gaze calmly. Most of the others still pretended they weren’t there at all.

“Rust, you’ll be in charge of the werewolves staying here,” David said. “Just keep them out of trouble.”

You got it, Sir.

“How do we sell this to the public?” Lane finally broke her silence.

“Do we have to tell the people at all?” deVale asked. “We’ll evacuate Deggan, that’s going to be a disaster already. If a Rot-queen happens to attack the Valoisian fleet on the river…”

“We’ll need some kind of explanation why Lord Relentless isn’t leading the defence, though,” Commander Bacrot pointed out. “Though I’m not sure why you would need to go with the werewolves.”

“I believe the words you’re looking for are Chain of Command,” deVale said, before David could speak. “If we’re to gamble the future of Loegrion on this feat, I would rather prefer him to lead the endeavour. Moreover, it’s entirely possible one or more of the intended sacrifices will turn mad before it’s over, in which case a human might be needed to handle the silver chains.”

David had to admit he hadn’t even considered that last part. It was his plan. His mad idea. Of course he had to be there.

You’ll have to do it in any case, Morgulon said. Or any human. No werewolf could do this without the risk of corrupting ourselves.

“But is it even possible for a human to survive this?” George Louis asked. “Driving a Rot-queen down the river?”

“Alvin’s ghost has protected me from the Rot so far,” David said. “And he’s most certainly no living source of magic, so he shouldn’t be corruptible by a Rot-queen.”

He half expected the duke to argue about this, but George Louis fell back in his chair, nodding. “We’ll tell the people that Lord Relentless is on a secret mission to hamper the enemy’s efforts,” he said softly. “They don’t need to know more than that, and we have to assume the Valoise still have spies here in the city.”

He took a deep breath. “Lady deLande, will you take over the evacuation of Deggan? And parts of the press, too.”

“I will do my best,” Lane promised.

And just like that, everyone fell in line with the plan.