Chapter 52
Caron
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 sothing invisible.
Outside, wolves laugh around makeshift grills. Flas crackle as slabs of at sizzle, smoke spiraling into the air. So 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 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.
"You—"
"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 dicine 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.
He says nothing.
"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 equipnt replacent. Additional stipends for pack enforcers. Ten-year contracts with rotating teams. It’s not charity. It’s sustainability."
He eyes the docunts 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 judgnt. The sa one that kept this pack alive when others fell."
His eyes linger on for a long mont.
Then, quietly, he says, "Leave the folder."
We nod.
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 soone 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.
Just a door.
A maybe.
Lenora falls in step beside , her expression unreadable as we walk past the packs grilling at, flas crackling as wolves rotate ribs on skewers with their bare hands. The sll is thick in the air—smoke, blood, seasoning. There’s a kind of contentnt 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 with his pride."
She raises an eyebrow. "That’s a very Caron thing to say."
"Thank you," I say smugly.
***
Lenora
Alric calls everyone back to the square, his voice booming beneath the shadow of the goddess statue like he’s summoning judgnt.
I hold Caron’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 so 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.
Caron tilts his head toward , and I can see the confusion in his eyes. I squeeze his hand harder.
Then I hear the grinding.
Stone against stone.
Two pack enforcers erge, dragging a boulder toward the center of the square. It’s massive. Uneven. Marked crudely with the Maen crest as though soone chiseled it with their claws. It takes two full-grown wolves, shifted halfway into their hulking forms, just to move it.
Caron stiffens.
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.
No.
No no no.
They force Caron 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.
But arms catch .
My father.
He’s behind , holding back.
"Let go!" I thrash, fury and fear flooding . "You do this to criminals! This is punishnt, not tradition!"
"He must endure," my father says grimly, "if he wants their acceptance. If he wants your na."
"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 Caron’s back. He strains beneath it imdiately, muscles bulging, knees digging into the stone below. The chains stretch tight.
Then the first strike lands.
CRACK.
Caron grunts but doesn’t fall.
"STOP IT!" I scream, tears already spilling down my cheeks. "LET HIM GO!"
Another blow.
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 ant to break him. And he’s still upright.
Still enduring.
"This is barbaric! This is wrong!" I shout, thrashing against my father’s grip.
User Comments
0 comments from readers