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Varg spoke in a low, commanding voice.
“Skoll.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Drinking in broad daylight and brawling with your sister? Do you think you can remain a child forever just because the tribe indulges you?”
“N-no, Father. I–it’s not like that…”
“I didn’t ask for an answer.”
Skoll, who had been about to defend himself, shut his mouth tight. His father, the Beast King Varg, was a man of weight. His actions, his words—everything carried that heaviness.
Varg barely stirred for trivial matters, but once he moved in earnest, he was like a storm. Anyone who dared act flippantly before him would be blown away.
Skoll’s tail, stiff and bristling, drooped. Varg slowly turned toward Hati.
“Hati,” he called, rather gently this time.
“Yes, Father.”
“Did you settle matters well in Nuwas?”
At that, Hati’s face brightened with pride.
“Yes! I fought Bedouin warrior Zahar in a duel and won! For the next ten years, those pastures belong to the Fenrir!”
“I see.”
The land itself was not of great importance to the Fenrir. Still, it could not simply be handed over. Yield once, and subsequent raids would only follow. Hati’s victory had preserved the pride of the beastkin.
Varg extended his scarred, callused hand and gently patted her head.
“Well done, daughter.”
Her ears perked, her tail wagged. She could...
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