Mark sat beside Nicolas Windsor, posture straight, hands resting calmly on the table. He could feel it now—no masks, no restraint. The wolves here weren't pretending to be human. Their presence pressed against his senses like heat.
Nicolas leaned slightly toward him.
"Don't speak unless asked," he murmured. "Tonight, silence is strength."
At the head of the table, the woman finally moved.
Elena rose.
The room obeyed her before she spoke.
Her gaze swept once over the wolves, then settled on the opposite side—on the eight hunters. Not with hostility. With certainty.
"Before we proceed," Elena said evenly, "there is a matter that must be addressed."
Her eyes shifted to Mark.
"This," she continued, "is Mark Swinton."
A ripple moved through the hunters. Subtle. Controlled. Interested.
"He is a werewolf who transformed at the age of sixteen," Elena said.
"The first recorded case in our entire history."
Mark felt it then—the weight of centuries turning toward him.
"He demonstrated full cognitive control over his transformation by seventeen," she went on. "Without guidance. Without a pack. Without bloodline instruction."
Elena's voice did not rise. It didn't need to.
"A feat previously considered impossible before the age of thirty."
One of the hunters leaned back slightly. Another narrowed his eyes.
Elena clasped her hands behind her back.
"Based on these facts," she said, "the council has discussed granting him the Right of Entry into Nobility."
That did it.
This time, the reaction wasn't subtle.
Whispers cut through the room. A wolf two seats down clenched his jaw. One of the hunters tapped his fingers once against the table, then stopped.
Elena waited for silence.
"When order is restored," she said calmly, "I will continue."
It was restored instantly.
"We are considering allowing Mark Swinton," Elena finished,
"to establish his own royal bloodline."
Mark didn't move.
Inside, something cold and sharp settled into place.
Nicolas glanced at him, eyes wide for just a fraction of a second.
"They're not just testing you," he whispered. "They're rewriting law."
Elena returned to her seat.
Elena shifted her gaze across the table.
"Now," she said evenly, "to the matter that concerns us all."
An old man from the hunters' side stood.
He was in his early sixties, tall, thin, dressed in a dark formal coat that carried more authority than decoration. His face was lined, his eyes sharp with the weight of years spent hunting things most people never believed in.
"My name is Edgar Holloway," he said. "Senior Hunter, Western Sector."
No one spoke.
"For the past year," Edgar continued, "we've been tracking unusual incidents in Tacoma."
Mark straightened slightly.
"These are not werewolf-related cases," Edgar clarified. "No pack involvement. No lunar cycles. No scent trails that match any known bloodline."
One of the wolves nodded in agreement.
"What we are seeing instead," Edgar said, placing a folder on the table, "are abductions."
He slid it forward.
"Victims vanish without struggle. When bodies are recovered—if they are recovered at all—they show signs of deliberate marking."
Another hunter spoke quietly, "Symbols carved into skin. Sometimes burned. Sometimes written on nearby surfaces."
"In no known language," Edgar added. "And not connected to any cult we have records of."
A low murmur spread across the table.
Edgar continued, "Witnesses describe figures in long robes. Faces obscured. They appear briefly—then vanish. No pursuit possible. No physical trace left behind."
Mark felt a cold pressure settle in his chest.
Elena remained composed.
"Your assessment?" she asked.
Edgar hesitated—just a fraction of a second.
"This is not something we recognize," he said finally.
"Not rogue hunters. Not wolves. Not anything previously catalogued."
One of the wolf representatives frowned. "Are you suggesting a new species?"
"I'm suggesting," Edgar replied, "that something is operating with intent, intelligence, and preparation… outside our understanding."
Silence followed.
Elena folded her hands.
"So," she said calmly, "an unknown force is operating within our city, abducting civilians, leaving symbols, and evading both hunters and wolves."
"Yes," Edgar confirmed. "And whatever it is—it's escalating."
Mark noticed it then.
Not fear.
Concern.
Real concern.
"We cannot name it," Edgar said. "Which makes it dangerous."
Elena's gaze moved slowly around the room.
"Then we proceed carefully," she said.
"No panic. No public action."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward Mark—not long enough for anyone else to notice.
"But we do not ignore patterns," she continued.
"If something new has emerged…"
Her voice hardened.
"Whether we like it or not," she said, "this is no longer a matter of jurisdiction."
One of the wolves scoffed quietly.
"We've handled threats before without hunters breathing down our necks."
A hunter across the table met his stare without blinking.
"And you've failed to notice this one for a year."
The tension spiked.
Harvy Cromvell spoke before it could snap.
"Enough."
His voice carried weight—controlled, sharp.
"These things," Harvy said, "operates without scent, without territory markings, without fear of exposure. That alone places it outside wolf law."
He turned to the hunters.
"And it evades you."
No denial came.
Edgar Holloway nodded once.
"We've lost three operatives. No bodies."
That landed hard.
Elena stood.
"Then let us be clear," she said. "Wolves will not hunt blindly. Hunters will not act alone. If either side does so, you'll weaken both."
She gestured toward the center of the table.
"We form a joint task."
A murmur rippled through both sides.
"Shared intelligence," Elena continued. "Shared territory access. No secrets."
One hunter frowned. "And when one of your kind is responsible?"
Elena's eyes sharpened.
"Then we deal with it," she said coldly. "Publicly. Permanently."
That answer satisfied no one—but it was enough.
She turned toward Edgar.
"You have records. Patterns. Survivor statements."
"Yes," he replied.
"And we have senses," Elena said. "Networks. Influence."
Her gaze flicked briefly toward Mark again—this time Nicolas noticed.
"This threat does not respect bloodlines," Elena finished.
"So neither will we."
She paused.
"Agreed?"
The room was silent.
Then Edgar extended his hand across the table.
"For now," he said.
Harvy met his hand in response.
"With this we announce the alliance of the hunters and the wollf" he announced to the room.
The heavy doors closed.
The hunters were gone.
The air in the room changed.
No restraints.
No pretenses.
Only wolves.
Elena rose from her seat, slow and deliberate. Her presence alone pulled the room into silence.
"As of this moment," she said, her voice calm but absolute, "Mark Swinton is recognized as royalty under wolf law."
Her eyes swept across the table.
"You will address him as such. You will treat him as such."
A low growl escaped one of the alphas.
Stan Markle leaned forward, fingers interlocked.
"This is reckless."
Elena didn't look at him yet.
"You don't simply declare royalty," Stan continued. "The Eight Royal Families exist for a reason. Bloodlines are built over generations. Not handed out because a boy managed to hold back a transformation."
Now she looked at him.
"And yet," Elena replied, "you're sitting here because your great-grandfather bit the right throat at the right time."
The room went still.
Stan clenched his jaw.
"He needs at least two members to establish a bloodline. That is law."
Elena nodded once.
"Correct."
Then she stepped closer to the table.
"And now listen carefully."
She turned her gaze toward Mark—not warmly, but precisely.
"This wolf awakened at sixteen."
A ripple of discomfort passed through the room.
"He mastered control of his transformation in one year."
Silence.
"Most of you required a decade. Some of you never achieved it at all."
Stan opened his mouth.
Elena cut him off.
"And while you trained your children to rule from chairs," she continued, "this one trained himself to hunt like the hunters."
Her voice dropped.
"Only faster. Stronger. Deadlier."
Stan swallowed.
Elena folded her hands.
"So if your concern is legitimacy," she said evenly, "then I have a solution."
Her eyes locked onto Stan.
"You have a daughter close to his age, don't you?"
A murmur swept the room.
"How about you marry her to him," Elena said casually, "and gift him your blood."
She tilted her head.
"Problem solved. A royal bloodline by morning."
Stan's face drained of color.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
The room watched as one of the Eight—cornered—had nothing to say.
Elena straightened.
"Until then," she concluded, "Mark Swinton stands alone."
No one argued.
No one dared.
Mark didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
The wolves had already accepted the truth.
A new bloodline had arrived.
And it didn't ask for permission.