Chapter 28
The air shifted after that night.
Not just in the Sanctum—but everywhere.
Rumors flew faster than hawks. Packs whispered of human armies stirring beyond the mountains, of merchants suddenly closing their routes, of silver-tipped weapons being smuggled into once-neutral towns. It wasn’t just fear that moved them now.
It was preparation.
The world was beginning to react to our unity—and not all reactions were kind.
We knew what came next.
But we would face it our way.
No surprise attacks. No assassinations. No wars started in the dark.
We would step into the light.
So we sent messages—clear, loud, and deliberate—to every human settlement, trade post, and border town: Come. Speak. See what we’ve built. See that we are not your enemy.
Some answered.
Most didn’t.
But one letter arrived weeks later. A single folded parchment sealed with wax. It bore the crest of Ironhold—the largest human territory in the northern lands. A city built like a fortress. Its people feared nothing but change.
The letter was short:
Send your leader. We’ll listen—once. But if you lie, or threaten, or come with blades, there will be no second chance.
He stood with me at the edge of the river when we read it.
“They don’t trust us,” I said.
“They shouldn’t,” he replied. “Not yet. But we’ll give them reason to.”
We didn’t travel with guards. We went alone.
We crossed forests, valleys, and rivers. Passed through watchtowers that narrowed their arrows but did not release them. When we reached Ironhold, its gates opened with a sound like stone groaning under the weight of history.
The city was cold. Not in weather—but in spirit. Eyes followed us like wolves behind iron bars.
They led us to the hall where their council waited—ten humans, all in thick armor, all older, all with sharp questions.
He did most of the talking.
He told them about the Sanctum. About the unity. About the wolves who had once torn each other apart now building farms, sharing tools, raising children.
One man leaned forward. “And if one of your kind turns on us? What then?”
“Then we stop them,” he said. “Not for you, but because that’s who we are now.”
They didn’t answer immediately. They watched us for a long time.
And then, finally, a woman near the head of the table stood.
“We’ll send observers,” she said. “No weapons. No soldiers. Just eyes. If what you say is true… maybe it’s time to reconsider everything.”
It wasn’t a promise.
But it was a beginning.
When we returned, the Sanctum held its breath. And when we told them what had happened, cheers broke out like thunder.
But I stayed quiet.
Because I knew peace didn’t come from words alone.
It came from proof.
And that proof was still ahead of us.
That night, as we lay beneath the stars, he wrapped his arms around me and whispered, “Do you think we’ll ever be safe?”
I closed my eyes and pressed my head to his chest.
“Maybe not safe,” I whispered back. “But free. And that’s worth fighting for.”
And in the silence that followed, I heard it—not fear, not doubt.
But the beating of a future still unfolding.