Taming The Wolf

Chapter 9

Aoife trailed behind Bran, her footsteps echoing through the stone corridors of the castle. Her emerald gown swished softly as she moved, a stark contrast to Bran's purposeful strides. The werewolf king led her through winding passages, each turn revealing new wonders.

Tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of wolves running through moonlit forests and fierce battles between clans. Aoife's eyes widened as she took in the intricate details, her fingers itching to trace the threads.

"These tell our history," Bran explained, noticing her fascination. "Each generation adds to the story."

They passed a group of werewolves engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate. The arguing ceased as Bran approached, replaced by respectful nods and curious glances at Aoife.

"Our pack values open discussion," Bran said. "But ultimate decisions rest with me."

Aoife nodded, trying to absorb everything. The castle bustled with activity, so different from the quiet forests she'd known.

Bran led her to a circular room filled with books and scrolls. "Our archives," he explained. "Centuries of werewolf knowledge preserved here."

Aoife's eyes lit up at the sight of so many books. She'd always loved stories, though opportunities to read had been rare in her village.

"May I?" she asked, reaching for a nearby tome.

Bran nodded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Aoife opened the book, marveling at the illustrations of various wolf forms and descriptions of pack hierarchy. She flipped through the pages, questions forming faster than she could voice them.

"How do you choose your leaders?" she asked, looking up at Bran.

"Strength plays a part, but wisdom and the ability to protect the pack are equally important," he replied. "It's not always the largest wolf who leads. The moon ultimately chooses."

Aoife considered this, thinking of her father's rule based solely on birthright. She opened her mouth to ask another question when a commotion outside caught their attention.

Aoife's heart raced as she followed Bran to the source of the commotion. They emerged into a courtyard where a group of werewolves had gathered, their faces etched with concern. In the center stood a disheveled man, his clothes torn and bloodied.

"What happened?" Bran's voice boomed across the yard.

The man stumbled forward, his eyes wild with fear. "Vikings, my king. They've crossed our borders."

Aoife felt her blood run cold. The very people she'd fled from had followed her here. She gripped Bran's arm instinctively, her fingers digging into his flesh.

Bran placed a reassuring hand over hers. "How many?" he demanded.

"At least fifty warriors," the man gasped. "They're burning villages as they go, demanding tribute."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Aoife caught snippets of worried conversations, mentions of past raids and lost loved ones.

Bran's jaw clenched, his silver eyes hardening. "Gather the war council," he ordered. "We'll meet in the great hall immediately."

As the werewolves dispersed to carry out his command, Bran turned to Aoife. His expression softened as he took in her pale face and trembling hands.

"They're here because of me," Aoife whispered, guilt washing over her. "I've brought this danger to your people."

Bran cupped her face gently, his touch grounding her. "No, Little Flame. The Vikings have long sought to expand their territory. You are not to blame."

Aoife nodded, seeing he was being honest with every word. She'd seen firsthand the destruction the Vikings were capable of, the lives they'd ruined in their quest for power and wealth.