Chapter 87: Personal References

Hours of discussion later, the candles burned down to stubs and the wine long since switched from goblets to whatever’s closest, the chief lounges half-drunk in his chair, boots propped up on the table, pointing a gnawed bone at Lucien with the loose, deliberate focus of a man determined to prove he’s still following along.

“So that’s the whole of it,” he slurs, squinting at the parchment tacked to the wall. A sprawl of scribbled maps, routes, and figures Lucien’s been sketching and re-sketching for the better part of an hour.

“That’s really it,” Lucien confirms, tapping the map at the marked stretch of road, then dragging his finger along the line toward the village. “Shadowfang provides protection and upkeep along this stretch of the trade route. In exchange, you take a fat commission and get access to goods that would otherwise never reach this far into the tribelands.”

Braska squints harder. “What’s the catch.”

“No catch. You do the job as contracted, you get paid, you get the trade access.”

“And we give up all the land we’ve taken,” Braska adds, tone flattening.

Lucien winces. “Yes. Small price, admittedly, but it goes a long way toward restoring trust with the neighboring tribes.”

Braska goes quiet, considering it for a long moment, jaw working slowly around the thought, one boot tapping an idle rhythm against the table leg. Somewhere behind him, a soldier holds his breath without quite meaning to. Then the chief pushes up out of his chair, stumbles once, catches himself on the table’s edge, and crosses the room to loom over Lucien, staring him down in silence for a beat that stretches just long enough to feel dangerous, before breaking into a wide, fanged grin and sticking out one paw.

Lucien smirks, proud, and shakes it firmly.

“Sounds like an elven fairy tale to me,” Braska says. “But you’ve proven your worth today, and that’s all that matters as far as I’m concerned.” He gestures loosely at the map. “The Beast Mother clearly trusts you with all this. So I’ll trust you too.”

Then he leans in closer, voice dropping. “But if you try to cross the Shadowfang, I’ll personally burn down every other tribe within a hundred miles.” He smiles, sweet as anything.

Lucien hitches. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Braska claps him hard on the back, nearly staggering him. “Looking forward to this, honestly. Wolf-kin life hasn’t changed in centuries. Same hunts, same feuds, same everything, generation after generation.” He shakes his head slowly, almost wistful about it. “Wouldn’t mind being the one who finally pushes us into something new.” He grins wider. “Might get a statue out of it one day.”

Lucien bellows a laugh. “I’ll personally commission one, if all this actually pans out for the tribelands.”

“It will,” Braska says. “And if there’s anything else I can do, just say the word.”

Kamiko cuts in smoothly. “As it happens, a word from you to the War Chief of the tribelands would go a long way.”

Braska nods, chuckling. “Consider it done. I’ll send her a personal letter of recommendation myself. Venara and I go back.”

Kamiko’s brow lifts. “I didn’t realize you knew the War Chief personally.”

Braska sighs, wistful, gaze drifting somewhere off into the middle distance, goblet forgotten halfway to his mouth. “Tried to court her, back when I was younger. Wrote her poetry. Terrible poetry, in hindsight.” He shakes his head slowly. “Failed spectacularly. She handed me my own backside on a platter, cost me three teeth in the process.” A slow, dreamy smile spreads across his face. “Still get hard just thinking about that beating, honestly.”

Kamiko bites back a laugh. Lucien pats his shoulder fondly. “Women like that tend to leave the fondest memories, in my experience. The ones who fight back are always the ones worth remembering.”

Braska nods along, sage and solemn, entirely serious, as though Lucien has just delivered some ancient and hard-won piece of wisdom rather than idle bar talk.

A commotion breaks out just then somewhere beyond the walls, shouting, a few scattered whoops, the distinct sound of something heavy being dragged across packed dirt. A head pokes through the doorway a moment later, panting, eyes wide, already talking before he’s fully in the room. “Chief, you need to come see this. Right now.”

They all scramble outside toward the village entrance and find Valgereth standing there, drenched head to toe in blood, suit an absolute ruin, grinning from ear to ear and surrounded by a small crowd of equally blood-soaked wolf-kin warriors, all of them gathered around a genuinely enormous pile of dead game, antlers and tusks jutting out at odd angles, the whole heap steaming faintly in the cool night air, the metallic tang of it thick enough to taste.

Lucien takes in the sight, then the pile, then Val again, doing his best to count the individual carcasses before giving up somewhere past twenty.

Val wipes one bloody hand off on a nearby banner, looks Lucien over, and says, almost contemptuous, “You’re still alive.”

Lucien gasps, hand to chest. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“I was fairly certain you’d die,” Val says. “Went out to hunt for the funeral feast.”

Serenith barks out a laugh. Kamiko slaps Lucien’s shoulder. “I’m sure he’s joking.”

“I was not,” Val says flatly. “But since he won, I suppose it’s a victory feast instead.”

The surrounding wolves erupt into cheers.

Val rounds on them immediately, roaring from deep in his throat, “This is not for you! I don’t share! Hunt your own!”

The wolves yelp and scatter back a step, ears flattening, and Lucien quickly steps in, hands raised, positioning himself half between Val and the crowd. “Everyone’s welcome to the feast. All of you. Every last one. I assure you there will be enough for everyone.”

Val groans, long and deeply put-upon, like the request has personally wounded him. “Fine. Lucien can share his half, if he insists on being generous with things he didn’t even hunt.”

The crowd cheers again, considerably louder this time, and somewhere behind them a fire’s already being kindled beneath the first of Val’s kills.

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