Moonburn Pack
Alpha Valon sat on what could only be described as a throne. It was massive—carved from dark wood and reinforced with iron, its back rising high like the seat of a king from old war tales—and it suited his enormous frame perfectly.
He was a large man, and every part of him reflected that. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with muscle, and even in stillness he radiated strength. His eyes were hard, unyielding. Though werewolves aged slower than men, time had clearly touched him. There was a weathered quality to his features, a hardness forged through countless battles. Yet his body remained powerful, his muscles still bulging with a raw strength that made it clear he had not weakened with age.
He did nothing but sit. Yet no one in the great hall dared to raise their gaze to meet his. Not even the small harem of women standing to the left side of the hall.
They stood in silence, beautifully dressed in flowing garments dyed in soft, rich colors, their heads bowed low. Their presence was ornamental—acknowledged, but not needed.
The most striking thing about them was their eyes. Unlike most werewolves, whose irises were brown, theirs varied—blue, green, amber, even silver. Rare traits, carefully gathered. Yet despite their beauty, they looked fragile.
Their frames were slender, almost unnaturally so, as though a strong wind might knock them over.
Alpha Valon sat at the head of a long table carved from a single slab of wood, its surface marked faintly with the scars of use over many winters. Around it sat the elders of the Moonburn pack—men tasked with overseeing the affairs of not just their own people, but the many packs now under their dominion.
They appeared calm. But the tension in the hall was thick, pressing against the skin like an approaching storm.
Valon's face was smooth in a way that defied easy judgment. He did not look young, yet neither did he seem old. His long black hair fell across his shoulders, strands brushing the side of his face—not enough to obscure the sheer size of his head or the sharpness of his gaze.
"Report."
His voice cracked through the hall like thunder. The very walls seemed to feel it as the sound echoed, heavy and commanding. Instantly, an elderly man rose to his feet. He bowed his head deeply before speaking.
"The Mistvalley pack has been conquered. Yemac, your son, oversees their affairs. They are no longer a problem. Everything proceeds smoothly."
His voice was steady, his posture submissive. His thinning hair left most of his scalp exposed, and his expression remained carefully neutral.
He bowed again before taking his seat. The man beside him rose next. He carried himself differently—taller, firmer, with the stance of one who had once been a warrior.
"…Most of the Bloodmoon pack were killed," he reported. "However, a number escaped. We have continued tracking them, but after five years, the trail has gone cold."
He bowed and sat. Another man stood. He looked far less composed. A pair of worn spectacles rested on his nose, an unusual sight among werewolves. His hands fumbled slightly with the papers in front of him, adjusting them again and again as though buying time.
Valon's patience snapped.
"Spit it out, Doxan," he growled. "I do not have all day to watch you squirm. I do not bite."
His voice boomed again, making several men at the table stiffen and lower their heads further.
Doxan swallowed, mentally reminding himself that his position as the elder in charge of human affairs meant that he was safe.
"…The humans have developed a weapon," he said carefully. "It is forged of steel… and it is powerful. They call it a 'gun'"
A scoff cut through the air almost immediately.
Valon's gaze snapped toward the source, his expression darkening just enough to make the offender stiffen.
"You have something to say, Aidan?" he asked.
Aidan rose as though he had been waiting for the moment.
Pride shone in his eyes.
"The humans have long gathered into cities," he said. "But under your rule, Alpha Valon, we will crush them into dust regardless of whatever useless weapons they create." His voice dripped with confidence and loyalty, which above all else, was something Valon valued.
Valon did not respond immediately. Instead, his gaze shifted back to Doxan.
"You disagree?" he asked.
Doxan nodded quickly.
"The humans are innovative," he said. "They must not be underestimated. It would be wise to destroy this development before it spreads. We could seize their weapon and adapt it to our—"
Murmurs broke out across the table. Louder this time. The very idea was offensive.
Werewolves did not rely on tools of war, they relied on their claws, their fangs and nothing more.
Valon's displeasure was immediate.
"Our weapons are our claws and our teeth," he said, his voice echoing once more through the hall. "Anything beyond that is weakness. It goes against what we are."
Doxan lowered himself quickly back into his seat, nodding in submission. Valon leaned back slightly in his throne before speaking again.
"Track down more packs," he commanded. "If they will not join me—kill them."
His voice carried absolute certainty.
"Strengthen our warriors. Initiate more warriors that would be willing to participate in the strengthening ritual of the godess,"
His eyes hardened further.
"When we are ready… we will turn our attention to the humans."
A pause.
"Then we will subjugate them."
The declaration settled over the room like a weight. His aura thickened, pressing down on everyone present until none dared to even lift their heads. One by one, they rose. They bowed at his silent dismissal right before they began to file out of the hall.
The women followed just as quietly. Not one of them showed displeasure at having stood there, unmoving, for the entire duration. Valon watched them leave. His gaze lingered, filled with a cruel sort of amusement as one of the newer additions flinched slightly under his stare.
It made something stir in him. A passing thought—to drag her back, to pull her onto his lap and take what he wanted then and there. But he dismissed it. Instead, he gestured to one of the guards stationed nearby.
"Summon Horria."
The warrior bowed and departed at once.
Moments later, a man entered with the guard behind him.
Horria.
He wore garments unlike any other in the hall—a long, flowing white robe, thin and nearly transparent, draped over fitted trousers. The fabric clung lightly to his form, more akin to what noblewomen might wear in private chambers than what a man of rank would don.
"Alpha," Horria said immediately.
He dropped to his knees, bowing his head so low that his dark hair spilled forward, exposing his shoulders and much of his chest where the robe parted.
He was beautiful. Delicately so.
His features were refined, his skin smooth, his long dark hair framing a face that might have belonged to a noble maiden rather than a man. His striking green eyes lifted briefly—and within them burned open adoration and vibrant desire.
He knelt in a way that suggested complete surrender—body, soul, and will.
Alpha Valon sneered.
Disgust flickered across his face, tempered only by faint amusement. He had no interest in men. That would never change. The only reason Horria still drew breath apart from being a witch was that he was wholly and utterly devoted to Valon's cause.