“They’ll accept what I give them,” I said. “Or they’ll leave.”
The column broke through the northern tree line by noon.
Commander Voss led the formation.
Tall, silver-haired, built with the efficient musculature of a soldier who’d spent centuries following orders and giving them in equal measure. His armor bore the Veyndral crest, polished to a standard that made our camp look tacky by comparison.
Behind him, eighteen soldiers in tactical formation. Council representatives in formal dress, their discomfort with the forest terrain visible in every careful step. And at the rear, two ravens perched on a portable stand, their black eyes already observing.
The column entered the clearing and stopped.
Voss’s gaze swept the camp. The map table. The supply stations. The fire pit. Solomon standing at the tactical post with his arms crossed. Percy flanking the eastern approach. Farmon carrying medicine with ruined hands.
Then his eyes found the converted hunters.
The reaction was immediate.
Voss’s hand went to his sword. Behind him, six soldiers drew weapons in unison, blades clearing sheaths with a synchronization that spoke of decades drilling together.
Wyatt’s hunters responded on instinct.
Kaia had a blade in each hand before the sound of drawn steel finished echoing. Damon stepped into a defensive stance. Reese moved behind Wyatt, who stood his ground with his weapon holstered but his hand resting on the grip.
“Stand down!” I stepped between the two groups. The command carried the full register of the voice I reserved for throne roompronouncements, pitched to override training and instinct. “All of you. Weapons down. Now.”
Voss didn’t lower his sword. His gaze moved from the hunters to me with the cold evaluation of a commander reassessing his superior.
“Your Majesty.” The title carried no warmth. “You have human hunters in your camp.”
“I have allies in my camp.”
“You have Order operatives standing ten meters from your position with weapons drawn on Veyndral soldiers.”
“Former Order. Converted. They’re here because they chose to be, and they’ve earned their place.”
Behind Voss, a soldier shifted his blade toward Wyatt. Wyatt’s fingers tightened on his holster. The clearing balanced on the edge of a violence that would destroy every alliance we’d spent weeks building.
“Commander.” Solomon’s voice breaks through the tension from the tactical post. “Your soldiers will lower their weapons or I will lower them myself. Choose quickly.”
Voss held for three seconds. Then his jaw unclenched and his sword returned to its sheath. Behind him, the soldiers followed in sequence. Across the clearing, Wyatt released his grip. Kaia’s blades disappeared.
The clearing exhaled.
Voss crossed the remaining distance to stand in front of me. Close enough for a private conversation but positioned to ensure every person in camp could see us. The soldier’s instinct for theater. He wanted an audience for what came next.
“Have you lost your mind?”
The question was delivered with a blunt force.
“Hunters.”
He gestured at the converted hunters without looking at them.
“In a lycan operation. After what their kind has done to ours. After the Order spent centuries hunting us, caging us, experimenting on our people.” His voice rose. Playing to the soldiers behind him, to the council reps adjusting their formal robes, to the ravens recording every word.
“Your ancestors unified Veyndral through strength. Your father held the kingdom through wisdom. And their son stands in a forest with human hunters and calls it an alliance.”
“My father’s wisdom kept it whole.” I let the words carry. “And their son is trying to build one that can change.”
