Chapter 33: Wolves amongst us
Kingdom of Aldrack
The council hall was quiet—so quiet, in fact, that anyone standing beyond the heavy oak doors might have assumed it was empty.
But it was not.
The long council table was filled to the brim. Every seat was occupied, each lord and official seated in their assigned place, their aides standing just behind them like silent shadows. No one moved more than necessary; even the faint rustle of cloth seemed too loud for the tension that hung in the air.
At the head of the table sat the King of Aldrack—Valeck of the Aldrack line—with Queen Carissa at his side.
He was not a young king. His beard, once dark, was now threaded heavily with grey, lending him an air of age and experience that few in the room could rival. There was strength in his posture still, but it was tempered with the weariness of rule.
Beside him, in stark contrast, sat his queen.
Carissa was young—strikingly so. Her long black hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her brown eyes held a gentle brightness that seemed almost untouched by the harshness of court life. There was a softness to her, a kind of quiet innocence that made her stand out in a room filled with hardened men.
Her gown stretched over the swell of her stomach, unmistakable in its fullness. She was with child—far enough along that no one could pretend otherwise.
Her fingers rested lightly over her belly, almost protectively, and every now and then her gaze drifted toward the king with a warmth she did not bother to hide.
It was clear she adored him.
And equally clear that she did not care in the least for the woman who had once occupied her seat.
Women were scarce at the council table. Only two others were present, seated near the far end. They were older—far older than the queen—and there was nothing soft about them. Their faces bore the lines of experience and endurance, their eyes sharp with the kind of awareness that came only from surviving power, not inheriting it.
They had clawed their way to where they sat. That much was obvious.
And they had no intention of relinquishing it.
The younger women of their households stood behind them, silent and observant, while the rest of the council—lords, generals, priests, and officials—sat in their carved oak chairs around the vast table.
The table itself was bare.
No platters. No goblets. No wine.
This was not a dinner.
It was a meeting.
A serious one.
The silence deepened as King Valeck leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping across the room. It was slow, deliberate—taking count, measuring, ensuring that no one was absent.
No one spoke.
No one dared.
Not before the king.
"News has reached me," he began at last, his voice calm but edged with something harder, "that we have..." He paused, as though selecting his words with care, "...wolves kidnapping women. Women with children."
The anger beneath his tone was unmistakable.
His gaze slid briefly to Queen Carissa.
Her cheeks flushed instantly under the weight of it, her hand pressing more firmly against her stomach. She lowered her eyes, though a small, shy smile touched her lips.
"The more foolish rumors," the king continued, his voice sharpening, "speak of beasts turning into men."
A ripple of discomfort passed through the room.
Some shifted in their seats. Others leaned forward slightly, as though bracing themselves. Even the aides standing behind the chairs straightened.
King Valeck’s reputation was well known.
He was fair.
But fairness did not make him gentle.
There was a cruelty in him—cold, deliberate—and an arrogance that had long since taken root.
His gaze moved again, settling at last on the royal secretary.
The man’s place at the table was unmistakable. It was the only space cluttered with parchment, books, and neatly stacked documents that rose nearly to his face.
"Do you have something to say, Royal Secretary?" the king asked.
The man rose immediately, bowing low before adjusting the glasses perched precariously on his nose. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for a document.
The king’s expression darkened further.
"For heaven’s sake," Valeck snapped, impatience cutting through his voice, "spit it out."
The secretary bowed again, more hurriedly this time.
"...The rumors cannot be completely dismissed, Your Highness," he said, his voice careful, measured.
He adjusted his glasses once more, revealing tired eyes shadowed by deep circles. His shoulders slumped faintly under the weight of exhaustion, though he held himself upright with effort.
"I have gone over all the reports collected from across the cities of the Kingdom of Aldrack," he continued, glancing briefly at the document in his hand, "and I can say with certainty that there is... an element of truth to them."
Murmurs stirred at once.
"Multiple sightings of the same occurrence point to only one conclusion," he added. "It cannot be dismissed as coincidence."
The murmuring grew louder—low voices, exchanged glances.
A man raised his hand.
The king gave a short nod.
The man rose.
"Your Highness," he began, his voice firm, "I would advise that we do not entertain the drunken ramblings of citizens who do not know better."
He straightened, his broad shoulders marking him clearly as a man of war. The insignia on his coat confirmed it—a general, or something close to it.
"This is nothing more than a distraction," he continued, "from the Kingdom of Mountel."
That drew attention.
"They have begun forging new weapons of war," he said, his voice gaining intensity. "Our spies have managed to acquire a few, but we have yet to decipher their construction."
He leaned forward slightly, his hands braced against the table.
"No kingdom creates weapons without intent to use them."
A pause.
Then, with conviction:
"This is war."
The word settled heavily.
"That," he pressed, "is where our focus should lie. Not in tales of wolves turning into men." His lip curled faintly. "That is impossible. Wolves are not men."
Though his voice remained controlled, the force behind it was undeniable.
The king said nothing.
His gaze moved again, thoughtful, unreadable.
Another hand rose. Permission was given. This time, it was the royal treasurer.
He stood, somewhat disheveled, his hair sticking up in uneven directions as though he had run his hands through it one too many times. Unlike the secretary, he held no documents.
Everything he needed was in his head.
"The treasury," he began, his tone more hesitant, "cannot sustain a war at present."
He began listing figures—precise, rapid, effortless.
Supplies. Losses. Recovery rates.
All from memory.
"The losses," he concluded, "would far outweigh any potential gain should war begin now."
The general scoffed, rising halfway to his feet.
"You concern yourself with numbers," he said sharply, cutting the treasurer off. "I will concern myself with outcomes."
The treasurer blinked, clearly taken aback.
Before the exchange could escalate, another figure moved.
The internal spymaster rose, one hand lifting slightly to draw attention.
"I must agree with the treasurer," he said calmly.
His voice carried a quiet authority.
"We have only just begun to recover from the skirmishes along the borders," he continued. "Villages have burned. Resources are strained."
A brief pause.
"We cannot withstand another war."
The king gave a small nod.
Both men sat.
Then, slowly, the Royal Pope rose.
He was older than most present—far older. His back bent slightly with age, his head bald, his movements deliberate.
He raised a trembling hand and traced a circle upon his forehead.
"May His light cover us," he intoned.
"...and everything else," the council responded in a low, unified murmur.
The pope lowered his hand and turned his gaze to the king.
"I believe the rumors should be taken seriously, my king."
His voice, though aged, held a quiet intensity.
"I know of stories older than time," he continued, "that speak of such things. Creatures that walk between forms. Things that exist beyond what we deem normal."
He leaned slightly forward.
"Witches," he said, enunciating the word with care, "still walk among us. Women who wield power not granted by the Light."
His hands trembled more now.
"They are hunted," he went on, "because they must be. Burned—so that their souls may be cleansed."
Silence followed.
Heavy. Uneasy.
"If such creatures exist," he continued, "creatures that can pass as men... then they must be found."
His gaze hardened.
"And they must be killed before they destroy us."
The room fell still.
Many faces showed agreement—subtle nods, tightened expressions.
The generals, however, looked unconvinced.
Yet none spoke against him.
Not openly.
The High Pope of the Church of Light had spoken.
And that carried weight.
At last, the king moved.
His chair creaked softly as he straightened.
His gaze drifted once more to Queen Carissa.
She met it this time, her expression warm despite the tension.
"We will hunt these creatures," King Valeck said, his voice steady, final.
A pause.
"If they exist."
He rose to his feet.
"But more importantly," he continued, "we will focus on these weapons—these guns."
The word sounded foreign, heavy with implication.
"We will not allow the Kingdom of Mountel to gain an advantage," he said, his tone sharpening. "Nor will we allow ourselves to be slaughtered into oblivion."
The command was clear.
Absolute.
The council rose as one.
Heads bowed.
No one spoke.
The king offered no further words.
He simply turned, offering his arm to Queen Carissa, who accepted it with quiet grace.
Together, they walked from the hall.
The doors closed behind them with a dull, echoing thud.
For a moment, silence remained.
Then—
Voices erupted.
Low at first.
Then sharper.
Insults, disagreements, muttered curses—none of which had dared exist while the king remained.
The council, restrained no longer, began to fracture into argument.
And the matter—
Was far from settled.
