Chapter 99: Emberspire pack
Embersphire Pack lay in a vast stretch of fertile land where the soil stayed dark and rich all year round. Rows of maize, root crops, and leafy greens surrounded the settlement, extending toward the low hills that marked the edge of the territory. Irrigation channels cut through the farms, carefully maintained by generations of wolves who understood the land better than they understood combat. Farming was their strength. Peace was their reputation.
The pack was small compared to others, but its importance was undeniable. Most neighboring packs relied on Embersphire for food, especially during dry seasons. Merchants passed through regularly, some traveling from as far as Lycanthria to buy grain, preserved roots, and moon-blessed seeds known to grow even in poor soil. During most royal festivals in Lycanthria, Embersphire’s produce filled the storehouses of the capital.
The wolves of Embersphire took pride in this. They did not train daily for war or patrol with heavy weapons. Their strength was in patience, routine, and cooperation. Outsiders were welcomed as long as they respected the land and its people.
Today, the pack was alive with activity. In the main pack house, a long, large timber-and-stone building, the kitchen was hot and noisy. Women carrying baskets of grains and dried herbs moved in and out. Large cooking pots were set up in the open yard, and fires were lit beneath them. Three older she-wolves stirred pots of porridge over the fire. The smell of baking bread and bacon filled the air. Elder men checked lists, confirming names and ritual order. Children ran about until they were shooed away.
Today was the Festival of Initiation, a custom older than anyone living could remember. Once a year, young male wolves who had come of age and successfully claimed their wolves in the pack were initiated into the Brotherhood. It was not a warrior’s order. It was a declaration of adulthood.
After initiation, each wolf would be given a parcel of farmland from the pack’s fertile valley. They could claim their inheritance if they have one without a guardian. They could build a house. They could marry, take responsibility for a household, or leave Emberspire with the pack’s blessing and a share of their family’s goods to build a life elsewhere. They would be men.
In the Emberspire pack, unclaimed male wolves remained under the authority of elders and family heads.
In the yards beyond the pack house, young male wolves washed at the pump, water cold on their skin. They were singing and merrying cause they would be men after tonight. Astrid was one of them. He stood by the pump, drying his face on a rough towel. His hands were calloused from years of already working his family’s plot. He smiled as he watched the other boys still singing. He recalled how his father had clapped him on the shoulder last night at dinner, urging him to eat well cause of the long day ahead.
"Come on, Astrid! We should play some more!" One of the boys said as he began to walk away.
Astrid turned, "I need to make a delivery for my father. Have fun, boys!" And with that, he walked away.
The pack’s Alpha, Faelan, was in his study. He was a broad, solid man of fifty with thick arms from a lifetime of work. His face was weathered, lined from sun and wind, not from war. He reviewed a list on a piece of parchment. It was an inventory of the tribute for the King of Lycanthria. Sacks of milled flour, barrels of apples, wheels of cheese, and bales of the soft, durable wool their sheep produced. It was a significant portion of their late harvest, but it was the price of their peace. Lycanthria’s warriors protected the trade roads. Emberspire fed the kingdom. It was an old arrangement.
A young male barely into his thirties knocked on the doorframe. "The merchant from SilverVale has loaded their carts, Alpha. They are ready to leave."
"The payment was settled?" Faelan asked, not looking up.
"Yes, Alpha. In full. They say the grain is the best they’ve seen this season."
Faelan gave a single nod. "Good. Send them off, Lyric. And tell Sabian the tribute wagons need to be ready by dusk. The king’s guards will want to make an early start tomorrow."
Lyric left. Faelan set the list down and heaved a deep sigh. He could hear the growing sounds of wolves, voices, laughter, and the clatter of tables being set up in the long courtyard. He stood, his knee giving its familiar ache. He walked out of the study and down the wooden hallway towards the private quarters, the Luna’s room. The door was not fully closed. From within, he heard a low murmur, the creak of bed springs, and a soft gasp. Faelan paused. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
In the luna’s room, the atmosphere was quieter. The room was warm, the windows partially open to let in air scented with earth and crops. Isoldea, the Luna, was forty-two, but her appearance looked no more than thirty-five. Her long, wavy, brown hair was stuck to her damp neck. She was on her hands and knees. A young wolf was behind her, his hands gripped her hips, his cock pushing in and out of her core. The male wolf was about twenty-five, one of the pack members. They didn’t stop when Faelan entered. He leaned against the doorframe, watching for a moment. The young wolf perceived his scent and flinched, his rhythm breaking.
Isoldea glanced over her shoulder. "Don’t stop, Malrik! I’m close." She said, her voice even.
Malrik’s face flushed with a mix of arousal and embarrassment.
Faelan closed the door behind him. He walked further into the room, still taking in the scene with an expression that held no shock. His bond with the Luna had long moved beyond jealousy into understanding.
"Is everything ready?" Isoldea asked.
"Yes, everything is in place," he said calmly. "The SilverVale merchants have left. The tribute is being loaded for dusk. The festival preparations are on schedule. The yard will be full within the hour."
"Good," Isoldea said, her fists clutching into the sheet as Malrik’s cock hit her spot. She pushed back against him, his motion steady.
