Councilman Vane is an upright man. Neutral. He only cares about one thing: keeping the pack safe.
"A bribe? Leave," he says coldly, rising from his desk to peer out the window. His arms fold behind his back like he’s guarding something invisible.
Outside, wolves laugh around makeshift grills. Flames crackle as slabs of meat sizzle, smoke spiraling into the air. Some pups are dancing. Others are just eating—wide-eyed, greedy, happy.
He watches them like he’s seeing a weakness spread.
"Surely you’re smarter than this?" I ask, tone even.
He glances over his shoulder.
"You think money will win me over?"
He scoffs and fully turns, disdain tightening the corners of his mouth.
"Wolves do not need money. We’re a community. We fight for each other. We bleed for each other. Not... this."
"Councilman Stellan would disagree," I say.
He clenches his jaw so hard I can hear it creak.
"How many wolves do you have working for you right now?" I ask, cutting him off. "A whole pack of three thousand, and you’ve got what? Seventy in the security force?"
He doesn’t answer. His silence is answer enough.
"And those seventy? Fresh out of adolescence. Passionate, sure. But passion doesn’t pay for diapers. Passion doesn’t put food in a mate’s mouth. Doesn’t buy medicine or keep the lights on during a blackout." I take a step closer. His expression doesn’t change, but I can feel the tension roll off him.
"They’ll leave," I say. "Just like the ones before them. Wolves don’t need money? Councilman, we’re not living in caves anymore. They want baby formula. They want to send their pups to academies outside the territory. They want better."
I gesture to the window.
"Phones. Cars. Proper training facilities. Surveillance drones. Field communication tools. You want to keep the pack safe? Then give your wolves the tools to do it right."
"I know what they want," he mutters.
"But can you give it to them?" I ask softly.
"I’m not here to insult your values. I respect you—more than most on that council. But ideals can’t keep your people from burning out."
He narrows his eyes. "And what are you offering, exactly?"
I pull a slim, leather-bound folder from Simone and place it on his desk, flipping it open.
"Funding. A complete upgrade of the training grounds. Full equipment replacement. Additional stipends for pack enforcers. Ten-year contracts with rotating teams. It’s not charity. It’s sustainability."
He eyes the documents but doesn’t reach for them.
"And what do you want in return?"
"Nothing... yet," I say. "But if I ever do ask—it won’t be your loyalty. It’ll be your judgment. The same one that kept this pack alive when others fell."
His eyes linger on me for a long moment.
Then, quietly, he says, "Leave the folder."
Simone gently sets the folder down, and we step out of his office, the air outside thick with barbecue smoke and the faint sound of someone laughing too hard.
Lenora leans in close.
"That sounded... productive."
"We’ll see," I murmur.
We step out of Councilman Vane’s office, and the door shuts behind us with a quiet finality. Not a slam. Not a click of refusal.
Lenora falls in step beside me, her expression unreadable as we walk past the packs grilling meat, flames crackling as wolves rotate ribs on skewers with their bare hands. The smell is thick in the air—smoke, blood, seasoning. There’s a kind of contentment here I haven’t seen since I arrived. No tense shoulders. No posturing alphas watching every move. Just... peace. Temporary, but real.
"I didn’t think he’d listen," Lenora murmurs.
"He didn’t," I say. "Not with his ears. But he heard me with his pride."
She raises an eyebrow. "That’s a very Cameron thing to say."
"Thank you," I say smugly.
Alric calls everyone back to the square, his voice booming beneath the shadow of the goddess statue like he’s summoning judgment.
I hold Cameron’s hand tighter. The square feels colder now. The warmth from earlier—the fires, the laughter, the community—is fading into a heavy silence.
"Clearly," Alric says, arms raised like some twisted priest, "he has proven he can provide. But to be a Maen—to truly be one of us—is not just to feed. It is to protect. It is to endure. It is to be a shield."
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
Cameron tilts his head toward me, and I can see the confusion in his eyes. I squeeze his hand harder.
Then I hear the grinding.
Two pack enforcers emerge, dragging a boulder toward the center of the square. It’s massive. Uneven. Marked crudely with the Maen crest as though someone chiseled it with their claws. It takes two full-grown wolves, shifted halfway into their hulking forms, just to move it.
I step forward. "What is that?"
Alric smiles without mirth. "The Shield is not just symbol. It is burden. It is weight. And if he would call himself one of us—let him carry us."
The boulder is dropped with a thunderous slam in the center of the square.
Chains clatter beside it.
They force Cameron to his knees.
Two more enforcers rip the shirt clean off his back, exposing his bare skin to the cool air. His muscles tense as they pull his arms forward, shackling thick iron chains to his wrists.
"Stop—wait, what the hell are you doing?!" I shout.
My voice cuts through the murmurs, but no one answers.
Then I see them. The rods. Iron rods, long and cruel, held by another pair of enforcers—just like the kind used for disciplinary lashings. My stomach turns.
"NO!" I scream, trying to run forward.
He’s behind me, holding me back.
"Let me go!" I thrash, fury and fear flooding me. "You do this to criminals! This is punishment, not tradition!"
"He must endure," my father says grimly, "if he wants their acceptance. If he wants your name."
"He just fed the entire pack! What else do you want from him?!"
"He is not one of us," Alric says coldly. "Not yet."
The boulder is lifted—barely—and lowered onto Cameron’s back. He strains beneath it immediately, muscles bulging, knees digging into the stone below. The chains stretch tight.
Then the first strike lands.
Cameron grunts but doesn’t fall.
"STOP IT!" I scream, tears already spilling down my cheeks. "LET HIM GO!"
My mate’s body jerks, blood now starting to streak down his back. But he holds. He doesn’t cry out.
He’s kneeling beneath the weight of a stone meant to break him. And he’s still upright.
"This is barbaric! This is wrong!" I shout, thrashing against my father’s grip.