Chapter 36 One Month Warning (Declan POV)
A scroll arrives at dawn, tied with silver ribbon and sealed with wax that burns my fingers when I try to open it.
"Careful," Callum warns, pulling on gloves before taking it from me. "Silver-infused. Whoever sent this wanted to make sure only werewolves handled it."
"Open it."
He breaks the seal carefully, unrolling aged parchment that looks like it's been stored for decades waiting for this exact moment. The writing is formal, almost ceremonial:
By ancient law and sacred tradition, The Culling Tournament shall commence on the Silver Moon, December 21st, at the hour of midnight. Seven packs have been called. Seven shall compete. One shall prevail.
Rules are thus:
Teams of eight wolves per pack. Competition format: supernatural football tournament. Three matches per pack, bracket elimination style. Matches played in wolf form with supernatural abilities permitted. First team to five goals or team with most goals after sixty minutes advances.
Losing packs forfeit all territorial claims and face pack dissolution unless granted mercy by the victor. Winning pack claims territorial rights across all of Britain for the next seventeen years until the next Silver Moon cycle.
All participants shall gather at the Subterranean Pitch beneath Blackthorn Academy. No outside interference permitted. No weapons. No magic beyond natural werewolf abilities. Violation of these terms results in immediate forfeiture and execution of the offending pack.
The Silver Moon rises in exactly thirty days. Prepare accordingly.
The Council of Ancients
I read it three times, each pass revealing new problems.
"Council of Ancients?" I look at Callum. "Have you ever heard of them?"
"In legends. Historical texts. They're supposed to be the original werewolf elders who established pack law centuries ago. But no one's claimed to represent them in living memory." He studies the scroll. "Which means someone's either legitimately invoking ancient authority or pretending to for political leverage."
"Either way, we're locked in now. Seven packs. One month. Winner takes Britain." I set down the scroll. "This is exactly the trap scenario I was worried about."
"How so?"
"Look at the rules. All participants gathered underground. No outside interference. No weapons. That's not about fair competition, that's about containment. Get everyone in one location where they can't escape, can't call for help, can't defend against external threats."
"You think Edmund's behind this."
"I think someone wants all seven packs trapped underground during a Silver Moon when we're at maximum power but also maximum vulnerability." I pace the length of my room. "And the timing? Exactly seventeen years since the last Silver Moon? That's not coincidence. That's calculation."
Callum's expression darkens. "We need to share this with the other Alphas. Get them to see the danger."
"Will they listen? They're all focused on winning. On claiming territory. On proving their pack's dominance." I stop pacing. "No one wants to believe they're walking into a massacre. Easier to focus on the competition than the conspiracy."
"Then we make them believe. Show them evidence."
"What evidence? We have suspicions. Theories. Edmund being quiet for two months doesn't prove he's planning an attack." I run a hand through my hair. "We need something concrete. Something that can't be dismissed as paranoia."
"I might have something." Callum pulls out his tablet, opening a folder full of financial records. "Remember I've been tracking Edmund's credit cards? Monitoring his purchases?"
"You said he's been quiet."
"He has been. No surveillance equipment. No travel. No communication with known hunter networks. But his spending hasn't stopped." He turns the tablet toward me. "Look at this. Three days ago, a purchase from a military surplus supplier. Ten thousand rounds of silver ammunition."
My stomach drops. "Ten thousand rounds? That's enough to…"
"Arm a small army. Yes." Callum swipes to the next screen. "And this. Two weeks ago. UV equipment purchase from a specialty weapons manufacturer. Industrial-grade lights. Portable generators. Deployment systems designed for enclosed spaces."
"Enclosed spaces like the Subterranean Pitch."
"Exactly. And this morning…literally two hours ago…a transaction for what the receipt calls 'ventilation modification hardware.' Which I'm betting is actually silver gas dispersal equipment."
I stare at the records, each purchase another piece of a horrifying picture. "He's building a kill box. Lure all the packs underground, seal the exits, deploy silver gas and UV lights. Shoot anything that tries to escape."
"That's my assessment too. And based on the equipment quantities, he's planning for at least fifty targets. Which matches perfectly with seven packs of eight wolves each."
"How many hunters would he need for an operation that size?"
"Minimum twenty. Probably thirty for redundancy. And they'd need to be professionals…ex-military, experienced with coordinated strikes, comfortable killing." Callum closes the tablet. "This isn't some lone hunter's vendetta anymore. This is a funded, organized, professional extermination."
"Who's funding it?"
"I don't know. Edmund's accounts show deposits, but they're coming through shell companies I can't trace. Someone with serious money and serious motivation to eliminate British werewolves."
I sink into my chair, the weight of it crushing. "We have thirty days to stop this. Thirty days to convince seven suspicious packs that they're walking into a trap. Thirty days to prevent a massacre."
"Or thirty days to prepare for war." Callum's voice is grim. "Because if we can't stop Edmund, we need to be ready to fight him. During the tournament. In front of all the other packs. While also trying to win the competition."
"That's impossible."
"So is everything else we've been dealing with. But we're still here." He stands. "I'm calling an Alpha meeting. Emergency session. We present this evidence and force them to take it seriously."
"They won't believe us. Helena already thinks we're using psychological warfare. Fergus suspects everything is a Greyfang conspiracy. They'll dismiss this as more manipulation."
"Then we make it undismissable. We show them the receipts. The equipment. The pattern of purchases building toward December 21st." Callum heads for the door. "And if they still won't listen? We prepare alone and hope we're strong enough to protect them anyway."
He's right. We don't have the luxury of waiting for consensus.
"Schedule the meeting for this afternoon. All seven Alphas, no exceptions. Tell them it's critical intelligence about The Culling."
"They'll want to know what intelligence."
"Tell them it's about survival. That should get their attention."
The meeting convenes at four PM in Greyfang Hollow, all seven Alphas gathered with their Betas and senior pack members. Twenty-eight werewolves in total, representing every major territory in Britain.
It should feel powerful. Instead, it just feels desperate.
"This better be important, Hartley." Fergus MacLeod is already annoyed. "You pulled us from training for this emergency meeting. What's so critical it couldn't wait?"
"This." I hand him the scroll. "Official notification. The Culling starts in exactly thirty days."
"We already knew that," Helena says impatiently. "The date's been set since the invitations arrived."
"Read the rules. Really read them." I wait while the scroll passes between Alphas. "Notice anything suspicious?"
"It's standard tournament format," Rhys Morgan observes. "Teams of eight. Bracket elimination. Supernatural football. Nothing unusual."
"Nothing unusual except that all participants must gather underground in a single location with no outside interference, no weapons, and no magic beyond natural abilities." I let that sink in. "Does that sound like tournament rules or containment protocols?"
"Containment?" Marcus Kane's scarred face twists skeptically. "You think this is a trap?"
"I think someone wants all seven packs underground where we're vulnerable to external attack. Where we can't escape, can't call for help, can't defend against coordinated assault."
"That's paranoid," Helena says flatly. "The Culling has been held for centuries. It's tradition. Sacred law. No one's going to attack during a sanctioned tournament."
"Really? Because I have evidence suggesting exactly that." I nod to Callum, who projects his tablet screen onto a portable display. "These are financial records from Edmund Ashford, the hunter who's been targeting werewolves in Yorkshire for years."
"What does one hunter have to do with The Culling?" Fergus asks.
"This hunter has spent the past month purchasing industrial quantities of silver ammunition, UV equipment, and gas dispersal systems. Enough to equip thirty professional hunters for an enclosed-space operation targeting fifty wolves."
The clearing goes quiet.
"Show me those records," Fergus demands.
Callum walks him through each transaction, the dates, the quantities, the specialized equipment designed specifically for killing werewolves in confined spaces. The other Alphas crowd closer, their skepticism slowly shifting to concern.
"This could be coincidence," Helena argues, but her voice lacks conviction. "Hunters buy equipment all the time."
"In these quantities? With this specific timing? Thirty days before The Culling?" I shake my head. "That's not coincidence. That's coordination."
"So what are you suggesting?" Rhys asks. "That we boycott? Forfeit our territories because of suspicious hunter activity?"
"I'm suggesting we prepare for both scenarios. Compete in the tournament while also being ready for external attack. Station guards at all entrances. Establish escape routes. Create contingency plans for if silver gas gets deployed."
"That's not possible," Marcus says. "We can't simultaneously focus on winning and defending. It splits our attention, weakens our performance."
"Not as weak as being dead," Callum points out. "Which is what happens if hunters seal the exits and gas us while we're underground."
"He has a point," Duncan, Fergus's Beta…admits. "Better to be overprepared than massacred."
"Or," Helena counters, "we're falling for psychological warfare. Greyfang wants us paranoid and distracted. Wants us using resources on defense instead of training. Meanwhile, they prepare unimpeded and win the tournament."
"You think I'd sabotage seven packs including my own for tournament advantage?" I can't keep the frustration from my voice. "We're talking about survival here. About preventing genocide."
"Or you're talking about winning through manipulation." Helena crosses her arms. "Convince us to waste time on phantom threats while you train properly. Very clever."
"This isn't clever. This is desperate." I gesture at the financial records. "Look at the evidence. Look at the pattern. If you don't believe Edmund's planning something, at least acknowledge the possibility and prepare accordingly."
"I acknowledge Edmund Ashford is a threat," Fergus says carefully. "But I'm not convinced this is related to The Culling. He could be planning any number of operations. You're assuming connection based on timing and circumstantial evidence."
"Circumstantial evidence is still evidence."
"Not enough to justify changing our entire training strategy thirty days before competition." He shakes his head. "I appreciate the warning, Hartley. Genuinely. But I'm not restructuring my pack's preparation based on suspicion."
The other Alphas murmur agreement. One by one, they side with Fergus's position, acknowledge the threat, but don't let it dictate strategy.
"You're making a mistake," I say quietly.
"Maybe. But it's our mistake to make." Helena stands. "If this meeting is over, I have training to return to. My pack needs focus, not paranoia."
They file out, leaving just Greyfang Pack and the uncomfortable reality that we're alone in this.
"Well," Owen says after they've gone. "That went about as expected."
"They're going to get themselves killed," Callum mutters. "All of them. Too focused on winning to see the trap closing."
"Then we prepare without them." I look at my pack…eight wolves who've trusted me through everything. "We train for the tournament. But we also prepare for battle. We memorize every exit, every ventilation shaft, every possible escape route. We practice fighting in enclosed spaces with limited visibility. We get ready for silver gas exposure."
"That's a lot to manage in thirty days," Liam points out.
"It's what we have. So we make it work." I turn to Callum. "Keep monitoring Edmund's purchases. If he buys anything else suspicious, document it. Maybe if we get more evidence, the other Alphas will take this seriously."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we save who we can and hope it's enough."
Late that night, I find Vivienne on the roof of the safe house, staring at the sky.
"Can't sleep?" I ask, climbing up to sit beside her.
"Too much thinking. Too many questions." She's wearing the Silvermane pendant, her fingers absently tracing the wolf design. "Did the Alpha meeting go well?"
"Depends on your definition of well. I presented evidence of Edmund's planned attack. They acknowledged it's concerning. Then they went back to training like I'd suggested nothing important."
"They don't believe you."
"They believe me enough to be cautious. Not enough to actually prepare." I lean against her. "How's your research going? Any luck finding answers about Gabriel?"
"Freya's still working on translating the pendant symbols. But I've been reading everything I can find about Silvermane history. About what my family was capable of." She turns to face me. "Did you know Silvermane females can force other wolves to transform? Compel them to shift against their will?"
"I've heard legends. Never seen it done."
"I haven't tried it. Don't even know how it works. But apparently, it's genetic. Part of what made Silvermanes so powerful." She looks back at the sky. "There's so much I don't know about myself. About what I'm capable of. And we're running out of time to figure it out."
"Thirty days until The Culling."
"Thirty days until Edmund attacks. Because he will attack, won't he? That's what all this equipment is for."
"Yes. I'm certain of it."
"Then we need to be ready. Not just for the tournament, but for war." She meets my eyes. "I can help. I'm Silvermane. I have abilities the other packs don't. If I can figure out how to use them…"
"No. Absolutely not. You're not putting yourself in the line of fire."
"I'm already in the line of fire. I'm your mate. I'm Edmund's daughter. I'm the last known Silvermane. Every side of this conflict has a reason to target me." She touches my face. "Let me help. Let me use whatever power I have to protect the pack. To protect you."
"Vivienne…"
"Don't. Don't try to protect me by keeping me out of this. We're past that." Her voice is firm. "In thirty days, everything explodes. Hunters attack, packs fight, people die. And I'm not sitting on the sidelines watching. I'm fighting. Whether you want me to or not."
I want to argue. Want to lock her away somewhere safe where Edmund's bullets can't reach her. Where hostile packs can't challenge her. Where The Culling's chaos can't touch her.
But I can't. Because she's right. She's already in this. Has been since the moment she transformed.
"Fine. But you train with me. Learn proper combat techniques. Practice fighting in enclosed spaces and handling multiple opponents." I take her hand. "And if things go bad, if Edmund's attack succeeds, you run. You get out and you survive. Promise me."
"I promise to try. That's all I can offer."
It's not enough. But it's what I have.
We sit together on the roof, watching the waxing moon climb higher.