The Alpha's Gambit
The Moonborn camp no longer resembled a sanctuary—it had transformed into a war citadel.
Tents were replaced with stone-lined encampments. Watchtowers rose at the borders, each manned by keen-eyed scouts, and training fields echoed day and night with the rhythm of blades, bows, and bodies in motion.
Alaric stood atop the central ridge, surrounded by his closest commanders. The firelight danced in his eyes as he addressed them—not just as a warrior, but as a strategist, a king born of claw and rebirth.
"They want to provoke chaos. We will answer with coordination. They cloak themselves in savagery. We strike with purpose."
He stepped toward the map carved into raw oak.
"Three phases." He tapped the board.
1. Sever the Spine – "The Ironfang supply lines run through the northern gorge. If we collapse the stone bridge and poison their cache streams, they choke."
2. Divide the Pack – "Thorne has begun feeding us positions. They operate in three fractured bands. We'll draw one south into false ambushes, trap the second at the River Fen, and bait the third with feigned retreat."
3. Silence the Alpha – "Warrick Bloodfang doesn't just lead. He is the cult of brutality. When he falls, Ironfang's unity shatters."
Mira folded her arms, impressed. "That last part... won't be easy."
Alaric's voice deepened. "I'll face him myself."
Lira raised an eyebrow. "You're setting yourself as both sword and shield."
He nodded. "That's what being reborn cost me. I carry the burden of vengeance—but I wield it as a weapon."
---
Preparations Begin
Kael and Mira drilled squads into elite mobile units—silent, precise, brutal. They trained in moonlight and mud, testing every limb and instinct. These were no longer just warriors. They were fangs of strategy.
Alaric personally led the elite "Shadowclaw" strike unit, embedding wolf instincts with martial discipline. Their mission: breach the gorge, raze the bridge, and vanish before Ironfang could react.
Scouts returned with maps, enemy movements, even whispers of Ironfang's dark rituals—blood circles to empower their warriors, magic fueled by fear.
The Moonborn responded with unity.
Old blood feuds among clans were laid to rest. Younglings stepped forward to volunteer as runners and sentinels. Even the forest spirits, long dormant, stirred at the Alpha's rising howl.
---
Night Before the First Strike
Alaric stood alone at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the dark valley where Ironfang's shadows stirred. The moon was swollen above—full and silent.
Lira approached, quiet.
"You've changed," she said.
"I've accepted what I am," he replied. "Not just a werewolf reborn. A leader forged by loss, but not ruled by it."
She hesitated, then asked, "Are you afraid?"
"Yes," he said, honestly. "But fear sharpens. Fury blinds. I will not be blind again."
Then, slowly, he lifted his hand. His clawed fingers etched a sigil in the air—old, primal, sacred.
The earth seemed to still.
Behind him, the Moonborn army gathered, row upon row—silent, ready, their eyes burning silver in the dark.
Alaric raised his voice—low and thunderous:
"Tonight, we do not howl in grief."
"Tonight, we hunt."