The Scent of Silver and Stone
The climb up Moonfell Peak was less a journey and more an imposition. The citadel of the Lycanthropes was not designed for casual transit; its paths were steep, icy, and guarded by stone reliefs of snarling High Werewolves past, all bearing the massive, pure-silver build Argo did not possess. Each breath was cold, pulling the raw scent of granite and high-altitude ozone into his lungs, a smell utterly distinct from the damp, living Sylvanus of the Elven forests where he had spent the last hundred years.
Argo wore clothes that reflected his seclusion: a tunic and trousers woven from thick, dark forest wool, reinforced with supple leather cured by Elven methods—silent, durable, and practical. He carried no baggage beyond a waterskin and a small, worn pouch of ancient, powdered herbs—Sylvan magic stabilizers. His human form was lean, deceptively powerful, and noticeably shorter than the average Lycan warrior, standing at 1.73 meters. His skin was deeply tanned from training exposed to the elements, contrasting sharply with the thick, dark brown hair streaked with lines of natural gray that he kept tightly bound in a severe half-ponytail.
The most striking feature, the one that betrayed his dual heritage more than his height, were his eyes: a steady, uncompromising gray, devoid of the amber or gold flecks that signified pure Lycan heritage. They were the color of mountain mist and ancient, cold stone, reflecting the icy, unreadable calm he now projected.
As he reached the final gateway—a massive portcullis carved with the stylized image of the current King Fang, his father, King Alarich—the guards, immense purebloods in polished silver armor, simply stared. There was no salute, no welcome, only the cold, hard judgment of the Purissimi embedded in their posture.
"State your name and purpose," barked the senior guard, a man whose silver fur matched the color of his breastplate.
Argo paused, the cold air barely stirring the strands of hair escaping his ponytail. He didn't raise his voice, but his tone cut through the thin mountain air with a resonant, unnatural clarity.
"I am Argo, the eldest son of King Alarich. The King summoned me. My purpose is succession."
The guard's lip curled, a purely Lycan expression of distaste. "The forgotten Prince returns. We were told you were… lost."
"I was" Argo said calmly, his gray eyes locking onto the guard's golden ones, a small, invisible pressure building in the air. Lycans were used to displays of dominance; Argo offered none, which made his composure seem arrogant.
"Tell my father the forge is cool, and the metal is ready." The guard hesitated, feeling the subtle, controlled power radiating from the smaller, younger man.
He finally slammed the butt of his spear on the stone. "Open the gates."
The Hall of the Broken Pack
The Great Hall of Moonfell Peak was immense, lit by thousands of enchanted candles whose flames never guttered, radiating a warm, deceptive glow over the cold stone and polished iron. It was packed. The ruling Council, the heads of the twenty primary Lycan families, and dozens of ranking warriors stood gathered. They were not there for a warm reception; they were there to witness a potential political execution.
At the far end, upon the imposing Throne of the Apex, sat King Alarich, the Great Fang. He was magnificent—a man in his prime centuries, his beard streaked with white-silver, his presence a heavy weight of authority and sorrow. His eyes, usually fierce amber, were tired, etched with the cost of a century spent mediating the political fallout of his eldest son's existence.
To the right of the throne stood Diek, the middle son. Diek was everything the Court revered: tall, broad-shouldered, radiating polished political charisma. He wore the formal black-and-silver Lycan robes tailored to perfection, his hair impeccably styled, and his posture radiating effortless confidence. His smile, as Argo entered, was smooth as oil and twice as slick. It didn't reach his cool, calculating gold eyes.
To the left stood Valk, the youngest. Valk was built like a stone monument—sheer, brutal strength defined his frame. He wore practical hunting leathers, eschewing the courtly finery, a sign of his dedication to the military path. Valk's expression was raw, undisguised fury. He didn't look at Argo; he stared through him, disbelief mixing with a hundred years of cultivated resentment.
Argo ignored the thousands of eyes that scrutinized his short stature and foreign dress. He walked the length of the hall with the silent, fluid stride taught by Elven wardens—a grace that looked foreign and disconcerting to the Lycan warriors who valued heavy, purposeful steps. He stopped before the dais and, dropping onto one knee in the deep, formal Lycan bow, placed his right fist over his heart.
"Father. I have returned upon your summons."
King Alarich shifted, the leather of the throne groaning beneath him. His voice was a deep, rumbling bass, loud enough to fill the hall. "Argo. My son. Welcome home." The relief in the King's voice was genuine, but brief. He rose and gestured, a silent command for Argo to stand.
Diek was the first to speak, his voice warm and amplified by confidence. "A momentous occasion, brother. A hundred years is a long time to be… learning. The pack has missed your presence, though not perhaps your… eccentricities." Diek stepped forward, offering his hand in a gesture of false fraternity. "I trust your time among the trees did not dull your senses too much. The duties here are rather less quiet than Elven life."
Argo met his grip—a brief, firm clasp—and released it without challenge. "On the contrary, Diek. Among the Elves, one learns that silence is the foundation of true strength. There is much to hear in the forest, if one is not too loud to listen."
The subtle jab—suggesting Diek was loud and thus missing things—earned a ripple of suppressed commentary from the gathered councilors.
Valk, however, could not manage the political niceties. He erupted, taking a hostile step toward Argo. "Silence! You speak of strength? You ran! You abandoned this house, this lineage, and the duty of the Pack for a full century!"
His face was contorted, the Lycan blood visibly rising under his skin. "You are not ready. You are a disgrace to the silver name. Look at him!" Valk swung his arm, gesturing at Argo's shorter stature. "He is barely a warrior, a woodland pixie masquerading as a prince! You shouldn't be vying for the throne; you should be executed for desertion!"
The sheer volatility of the young prince was a familiar sight to the Court, but it was still shocking.
Argo's response, however, was icy. He turned his gray eyes onto Valk, holding the gaze of pure, childish rage.
"And you, brother, are the product of poorly-told stories," Argo stated coolly. "You confuse abandonment with preparation, and propaganda with truth. You mistake size for purpose. I did not choose my exile, but I chose its consequence. I am here because I am the eldest heir, and I will submit to the trials." Argo's voice had a tint disappointment.
"Your anger is welcome, Valk. Channel it. You will need it to survive the coming year."
Valk lunged, an instinctive, uncontrolled burst of Lycan aggression. But before he could cover the distance, King Alarich's roar split the hall, a sound that shook the very glass in the high windows.
"ENOUGH!"
Valk froze, trembling with effort. Diek, who had been watching the confrontation with a faint, pleased smirk, instantly adopted a look of dutiful concern.
The Gauntlet and the Clock
King Alarich descended from the throne, his presence overwhelming. "This is not a sparring pit! This is the Court of Moonfell Peak!" He gestured to the assembled nobles. "You have all witnessed the reunion. Now, let us move to the business that truly matters."
He addressed the hall. "One year remains. Exactly four hundred and eight days from this sunrise, the Nocturne Embassy will crest the southern pass. They will bring with them the Heiress, the one destined to be the next Eternal Empress. The Quingentennial Pact will be renewed. The Lycan Prince who claims the throne must be the one who stands beside her at the altar."
The crowd stirred. The one-year countdown was much shorter than many had anticipated, signaling King Alarich's health was failing faster than publicly admitted.
"The succession will be determined by the Lycan Gauntlet of the Tripartite Test," the King announced. "3 years of continuous, escalating challenges designed to test mind, body, and spirit, one challenge for each year. Failure is not merely relinquishing the throne; failure to complete a task can mean death."
He locked eyes with his three sons. "The first test, the Test of Strategy, begins in a year from now. To start, before any heir may compete, he must be formally vested with his Lycan weapon. The weapon is the physical representation of the warrior's soul."
This was the opening Argo had waited for. The ceremony, usually performed in early adulthood (around age 300), had been skipped for him. He took another step forward.
"Father," Argo said, his tone respectful, yet firm. "I request the ceremony now."
King Alarich nodded, signaling to the Royal Armsmaster, a massive, older Lycan named Grannoch.
Grannoch approached, holding a velvet cloth upon which rested two magnificent, traditional Lycan weapons: a monumental two-handed greatsword carved with pack runes, and a brutish, polished granite war axe.
"Prince Diek, Prince Valk, and all before them chose a weapon from the Royal Armory," Grannoch intoned. "You, Prince Argo, were not present. These are the tools of our strength. Choose."
Diek smirked, leaning slightly toward Valk. "See? He'll take the sword. It is the only choice that grants him the necessary reach to compensate for his stature."
Argo did not look at the sword or the axe. He looked past Grannoch, toward the far wall, where less-used, specialized weapons were mounted.
"I will choose neither the sword of the line nor the axe of the warbands," Argo declared.
The Court fell into a silence that was more damning than noise. The greatsword symbolized the High Alpha's unbreakable law; the axe symbolized the Lycan's indomitable fury. To refuse both was to refuse the very identity of the Lycan sovereign.
Diek's smirk vanished, replaced by genuine political alarm. "Argo! Don't be a fool! Choose one! This is not a matter for symbolic protest!"
Argo ignored him. He walked slowly to the wall, his hand passing over ancient scimitars and heavy, chain-linked flails. His fingers finally wrapped around the smooth, cold wood of an exceptionally long, balanced spear. It was a simple weapon, with a razor-sharp, double-edged iron head—nothing ornate, nothing magically charged. It was elegant, deadly, and demanded perfect form.
He lifted it—the staff was almost a full head taller than him—and brought the butt of the spear down hard on the stone floor, the sound ringing through the massive hall.
"I choose the spear," Argo announced, turning to face his father, the weapon held in a grip that suggested both savage power and meticulous control.
King Alarich stared at the weapon of reach and precision. "The spear is the weapon of the hunter, my son, not the King."
"It is the weapon of speed, Father," Argo countered, his voice steady. "The sword demands a stand, the axe demands a collision. The spear grants the power to dictate the range, to move faster than the opponent, and to strike the core without engaging the bulk. I did not train for a stand-off. I trained to be swifter, more precise, and more elegant than any who would face me."
He saw the flicker of pride—and fear—in his father's eyes. He saw the naked contempt in Valk's face. And he saw the calculated, sudden worry in Diek's. Diek understood: the spear was the perfect complement to the Elven speed Argo possessed, turning his lack of Lycan bulk into his greatest advantage.
"Let it be so," King Alarich decreed, his voice heavy with resignation. "Let the spear be your soul's reflection. Now all three of you are free to prepare"
and just like that... time flew by.