ISOLDE AND LUTHERAN’S STRATEGY

The war room was vast, a high-ceilinged chamber built from dark stone and illuminated by the shining glow of torches mounted along the walls. Heavy wooden beams ran across the ceiling, their polished surfaces darkened by age and time. A massive oak table dominated the centre of the room; its surface was littered with maps, reports, and battle plans, and Isolde stood there to study them.

Along the walls, ancient banners hung, they were symbols of past victories, of battles won by generations of alphas before Lutheran. The scent of aged parchment and burning wood filled the air, mixing with the faint iron tang of steel from the weapons mounted on the walls.

The room’s occupants stood tense and battle-ready, their faces were grim with purpose.

Lutheran sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His golden hair, usually tied back in a loose knot, was slightly dishevelled, a rare thing for a man always in control. His piercing blue eyes flickered over the reports spread before him, absorbing every detail. Unlike the others, who wore their battle leathers, Lutheran was dressed in a simple dark tunic and fitted black trousers, his broad shoulders were relaxed, but his aura was still as commanding as ever.

To his left stood Isolde, her hands braced against the table as she leaned forward, her eyes aflame with barely contained rage and impatience. She had abandoned her usual elaborate braids, her dark auburn hair was now flowing in loose waves down her back, wild and unrestrained, a reflection of her mood. The fitted leather armour she wore accentuated her strong, athletic frame, the intricate metal clasps catching the dim torchlight.

Across from her, Soren, Lutheran’s trusted second-in-command, remained still; his expression was unreadable. He was a man of few words, but his presence alone commanded respect. His dark brown hair was cropped short, and his strong jaw set as he studied the battle plans. The thick, fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders made him look even more formidable, though his sharp hazel eyes betrayed a keen intelligence beneath his quiet demeanour.

The tension in the room was thick, each warrior waiting for the inevitable. Isolde slammed her palm onto the table, causing the delicate pieces on the map to rattle.

"We cannot wait any longer!" she snapped, her voice sharp as a blade. "Their suffering is our opportunity. Mirabel has pushed them too far, and her reign is collapsing right before our eyes. Why aren’t we striking now? Or do you have other plans I don't know of?"

Lutheran exhaled slowly and measured. He had expected this outburst; Isolde was many things: fierce, relentless and loyal. But patience was not much of her virtues.

"Because," he said evenly, "timing is everything Isolde. A premature attack could unite them under her rule. Right now, they are broken and divided, we need them to reach their lowest point."

Isolde’s nostrils flared, and she crossed her arms, her fingers clenching against her leather bracers. "If we wait too long, she might recover. You’re assuming her reign will collapse, but what if she finds a way to hold on? What if she crushes the rebellion before it starts?"

Soren who had been silent until now, finally spoke. His voice was calm but firm. "Lutheran is right." Isolde’s head snapped toward him, her green eyes blazing.

Soren met her gaze without flinching. "Mirabel is digging her own grave," he continued. "She has turned against her people; their warriors are starving, and they’re afraid of her, but fear alone isn’t enough to keep a pack together. Loyalty is."

Lutheran leaned forward, his fingers tracing over the map of the Northern Pack’s territory. "They are moments away from breaking. If we attack now, we force them to choose either to fight with us or to fight against us. If we wait…" He tapped a section of the map where reports of rebellion had surfaced. "They will make the decision for us."

Isolde gritted her teeth. She knew deep down that they were right, but waiting felt like a betrayal to those suffering under Mirabel’s rule.

She inhaled sharply, reigning in her emotions. "Fine," she muttered, her voice laced with frustration. "We shall wait, but if an opportunity presents itself, we take it. No more delays."

Lutheran’s lips curled into the ghost of a smirk. "Agreed."

Before another word could be spoken, the heavy wooden doors of the war room burst open. A gust of cold air swept through as a figure stumbled in, cloaked in shadows and exhaustion. All eyes snapped toward the newcomer.

The spy that stormed in is a warrior from the Northern Pack planted by Lutheran; he was clad in a tattered black cloak, swaying on his feet, his breathing laboured. Dirt and dried blood stained his face, his once-strong frame reduced to a ghost of itself.

Isolde reacted first, striding forward and gripping the man’s arm before he could collapse. "What happened?" she demanded. The warrior’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Alpha, things are getting worse in the pack."

Lutheran’s jaw tightened. "Speak."

The spy swallowed, his hands shaking as he reached into his cloak and pulled out a crumpled scroll, a report smuggled from the heart of the Northern Pack. He placed it on the table with trembling fingers.

"Mirabel is losing control," he rasped. "The warriors are near breaking, they are starving and weak. Many are questioning her rule, but they are too afraid to move against her directly."

Soren exhaled through his nose, exchanging a look with Lutheran. "That was expected." The spy hesitated. "There’s more."

He turned to Lutheran, his voice dropping into a whisper. "Kaelen is moving in secret." Silence fell over the room. Lutheran’s expression darkened. "What do you mean?"

The spy licked his cracked lips, his voice barely audible now. "He’s gathering those still loyal to him. They’re waiting for something, probably waiting for him to make his move."

Isolde’s grip on the spy’s arm tightened. "And you’re sure of this?"

He nodded weakly. "I heard it myself. He’s rallying them slowly but surely. The Northern Pack isn’t fully under Mirabel’s control anymore."

Lutheran’s gaze flickered with interest, this changed everything. If Kaelen was moving, then the collapse would happen even faster than he predicted.

Isolde, sensing the shift in Lutheran’s demeanour, pressed forward. "This is our opportunity. If Kaelen succeeds, he’ll reclaim his position. If he fails, Mirabel will destroy him." She leaned in. "Either way, it weakens them further."

Lutheran studied the map again, his mind already working through possibilities. "We shall continue to wait for the right opportunity."

Isolde huffed in frustration. "Lutheran—" He cut her off with a glance. "But we will prepare. The moment the scales tip, we strike."

Soren nodded. "I’ll have our warriors ready to move at a moment’s notice." Lutheran turned back to the spy. "You’ve done well," he said. "Rest, you’re safe here now."

The warrior exhaled, relief washing over him as Isolde helped him toward a chair. Lutheran turned to the others, his voice carrying the weight of finality.

"Mirabel’s time is running out. We just have to let her destroy herself."

As the torches shone in the war room, the pieces of the game were falling into place. The Northern Pack’s collapse was no longer a question of if but when.