Year 14,999 BCE – Cycle 6, Month 3
The moon hung swollen over the Bloodfang Highlands, silver light spilling across jagged ridges. Inside the stone-walled council hall of the Alpha, the air was thick with the musk of gathered werelords. Long shadows danced in the torchlight, and every pair of eyes glinted with animal hunger.
At the head of the long table sat Tharos Bloodfang, his fur-shot hair bound in braids, his arms bare despite the winter bite. Scars crossed his shoulders like the map of old battles. His claws tapped the table in slow rhythm as the hall quieted.
"They dare call it a child," Tharos growled, voice carrying the weight of a storm. "A half-blood… a thing that should never have drawn breath."
Around the table, the other pack alphas rumbled their agreement. Old rivalries between clans were forgotten for this night; the hybrid twins had become a cause every wolf could rally behind.
"They hide behind their fox-walled city," muttered Varik Longfang, Alpha of the Eastern Ridge. "Aleric West thinks his steel gates and silver banners will protect them."
"They will not," Tharos said. He leaned forward, eyes catching the torchlight like molten gold. "This is no border feud. This is the culling of a mistake before it festers. From tonight, there is no peace. Warefox, wolf, raven, or bear — if they shelter those abominations, they fall with them."
A deep silence followed. Then Tharos reached to the center of the table and drew his claw through a map of the Westery Plains, cutting a black line across the river road. "Our first strike will fall at Duskford Crossing. Cut the artery, and Westfield bleeds."
The council howled, the sound reverberating through the mountains — a call to war that would travel on the wind for miles.
Westfield Keep – That same night
Aleric West stood at the battlements, the cold wind tugging at his cloak. Below, the torch-lines of his night guard wound along the walls, foxfire lanterns casting pale blue light over the frozen moat.
The runner knelt before him, chest heaving from the ride. "My lord… Bloodfang banners gather on the Highlands. Scouts count no less than five clans."
Aleric's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed even. "And the bridge?"
"They march for Duskford Crossing. They mean to cut the river road."
Behind him, Lady Maeryn West stepped from the shadows, her eyes sharp with calculation. "If they take Duskford, supply lines to the southern villages are gone. We'll lose them before spring."
Aleric turned to her, his mind already spinning through formations and reserves. "Then we will not give them the bridge."
Below, the horn towers began to sound — three deep notes that rolled across the city like the heartbeat of a waking giant.
Far to the north, in the nursery of Westfield Keep, the twins slept soundly, their breaths soft and even. They did not yet know that the first howl of a two-thousand-year war had already been loosed.