Chapter 283 Cormac's Acceptance
POV: Cormac | East End, True Pack meeting hall
The True Pack's meeting hall is a warehouse in the East End, reconfigured into a circle with the Alpha at the center. It's a setup that feels different from the Rookeries' main hall—more contained, like a world turned inward on itself rather than pointing outward.
One hundred and twenty wolves fill the space. Everyone's here. Just like in Callum's pack when the same question was posed.
I've read Callum's message three times. Not because the words changed, but because I needed to let them sink in completely before standing in front of my pack. Now, holding that message in my mind, I face them.
Old Gray is in the circle, watching me with that expression he's worn since I became Alpha—the look of someone who agreed to this arrangement because it made strategic sense, and has been waiting ever since to see if it will deliver what he expected. So far, he hasn't found what he's looking for.
I lay out Callum's proposal exactly as it is—no sugarcoating. That's been my approach since I arrived, and I'm not changing it now. The good parts and the bad parts, all laid bare.
The bad part is the territory limitation. It formalizes the East End and Docklands as ours—nothing more. No Rookeries, no South Bank, no West End. Not what the traditionalists wanted.
The good part is the succession provision. Finn's challenge at sixteen is now official. The nine-year wait has an endpoint. I can feel the tension ease in the room when I say this, like people who've been holding their breath can finally exhale.
"We should conquer them, not negotiate," Old Gray says, cutting me off. His voice is flat, certain—the voice of a two-hundred-year conviction that hasn't changed in the seven months I've been Alpha. "Callum's pack is smaller. His territory is larger than his force can hold. A coordinated push against the western sections gives us a route before he can reinforce."
"Callum has two hundred and twenty wolves," I counter. "We have one hundred and twenty. War means casualties we can't afford against a pack that outnumbers us by almost double and has been operating in their territory for five years. They know every building, every street in ways we don't." I meet Old Gray's gaze directly. "I'm not interested in a war that will cost us forty wolves to win territory we can't hold because we won't have enough wolves left to defend it."
The debate doesn't drag on like it did in Callum's pack. True Pack doesn't have the same culture of prolonged discussion that five years of reformed governance has created in the Rookeries. Here, the factions are clearer, less willing to argue the other side's position charitably.
The traditionalists want war—Old Gray's position, supported by those who joined True Pack for ideological reasons.
The moderates want peace—those who came because I'm Alpha, who've watched me build something they recognize as reasonable, who've developed a specific trust in what I value.
The one thing both groups agree on is Finn. Both factions believe his challenge at sixteen will resolve the larger question, and both think it will produce the outcome they want.
Finn is at the back of the hall. Moira brought him, and I can see her in the doorway, watching with that quality she has when she's present but not participating—like she's done what she came to do and now she's observing the results.
He raises his hand as the debate reaches its peak, just before we vote. It's that moment I recognize—the same as in the Parliamentary chamber—when a child in the room has something to say that everyone needs to hear.
"I don't want war," Finn says to one hundred and twenty wolves looking at him with that particular quality of people encountering their heir speaking directly in an assembly for the first time. "I want to know Uncle Callum. He's my family." He pauses with that uniquely Finn consideration—the kind that's genuine, not performed. "I want to grow up and make my own choice. The truce lets me do that."
The room goes quiet in that way it has twice before when Finn has said the true thing that needed to be said.
The vote is seventy to fifty.
Narrow. Thirty wolves voted against it. Thirty wolves who will be managing their dissatisfaction for the next nine years—something I'll need to keep monitoring. But seventy wolves chose the peace their Alpha advocated for. That's the specific quality of a vote that validates a position rather than simply winning a count.
Old Gray looks at me when the vote is confirmed.
"This truce lasts nine years," he says. Not a threat—just information delivered with the flat certainty of someone who believes the future is already written in the ink of his convictions. "Then everything changes."
I look at Old Gray and don't answer. He's not wrong about the timeline, but agreeing with his interpretation of what those nine years will produce isn't something I'm willing to do in this hall, in front of seventy wolves who just voted for a different version of what those nine years mean.