# 6 Of Family and Foe

Aldrich

I don't want to leave her, but the alpha is expecting us. 

I’m dragging my feet as I walk back, too tired to shift. I think Roark suspects I’m up to something.

When Roark walked into the hovel earlier this morning just as I’d finished packing the essentials to take back to the hut, he was too distracted to question me. I left when he fell asleep for a few brief minutes. But when I made my way back to our hovel the second time to get all those things to treat the princess’s wound, he looked at me questioningly. I fibbed; told him a Werewolf was badly injured during training earlier this morning.

I don’t know if Roark believed the lie or not, although it is very common for us Werewolves to sustain severe injuries during our intensive training sessions. What are we training for? I don’t know. All I know is all able-bodied

Werewolves gather in batches in the clearing nearly to hone their fighting skills. Myself, and Kimur, who is the other guard, oversee these training sessions. We practice hand-to-hand combat; fighting with weapons such as spears and cudgels, and we also practice fighting in our wolf forms.

It’s a tradition that has been going on for generations. 

Roark doesn’t know that the training session this morning was canceled owing to how late the meeting went on last night.

Maybe Roark would have questioned me further about the injured Werewolf; he can always tell when I’m not being truthful; but just then, the alpha’s errand boy came around to tell us that the alpha has called a meeting; the entire pack, except for children and their immediate caregivers are expected to attend. 

Seizing the chance, I left when Roark was still talking to the errand boy. All I said before leaving was I’d be back in time for the meeting.

The meeting has obviously been called to discuss the events of last night.

The person who gave the princess that thigh wound could possibly be one of my packmates. A chill runs down my spine. There’s too much at stake here, too much to lose if things go wrong. 

I know the wise thing to do would be to turn her over to the Council, but how can I?

The wound on her thigh is nasty. I can't turn her away, can't take her to the Council before she recovers, lest they blame me for hurting her. 

At least, that's what I tell myself. 

Maybe it was wrong of me to take her in my arms and comfort her when the pain got too much. I don't want to think about how it felt to hold her against my chest. I don't want to think about how the wolf in me did not want to let her go. He wouldn't have harmed her, wouldn't even have thought about it.

I know the higher classes think we can't control our animal impulses, but it's as far from the truth as possible. 

My wolf is as much a part of me as I am of him, but the beast in us Werewolves has evolved with us over several generations. It is true that the first Cursed One was unable to control his impulses, that he forcefully passed on the curse to other humans by infecting them with his bite, but we aren't like that. 

Instead of the beast taking over the human in us, we have tamed the beast within us, made it more human, kinder, more compassionate. Werewolves are the most empathetic creatures in all of Altair–something the magical beings aren’t aware of.

It started as a curse, but us Werewolves wouldn't even dream of harming or trying to get rid of the beast within us. 

Princess Avalea intrigues me. There is something about her that pulls me to her. A part of me can't help wondering if she has me enthralled with her magic. 

I brush away the thought almost as soon as it forms. She was almost too weak to heat up the blade. 

I hope she gets some rest. As a princess, I'm sure she is used to luxuries beyond my imagination, and the thought of her living in my humble hut embarasses me. 

I force myself to brush all thoughts of her away. She isn’t what I should be thinking about right now.

There is trouble brewing within my pack. My pack is a thousand-Werewolves strong, and much of it is made up of youngsters like me. Many of the younger generation think that the alpha is weak. 

If I’m being honest, I might have thought it a time or two myself, especially after how he allowed the Council to treat us following that incident with Connor. It still pains me to think about it. The alpha didn’t put up even a modicum of resistance. Last night during the meeting, it was evidently clear how most of the younger members feel. Perhaps it is because they are the ones that work at all the unpalatable jobs the magical beings consider to be beneath them. 

The younger Werewolves see how the higher classes live at much closer quarters on a daily basis. 

And the fight has gone out of the older generation. Alpha Tam, our alpha, belongs to the older generation. There is an obvious split between the older and the younger generations. 

Despite the current divide within the pack, if any member of my pack so much as gets a whiff that I’m sheltering the princess, I’ll be banished. And what is a werewolf without his pack? Banishment is the worst thing that can happen to a pack animal. It is worse than death for a Werewolf. When a Werewolf is forced to give up his pack and live alone, he gradually devolves until he’s more beast than man. He turns into a deranged, crazed being, like the First Cursed One.

As all these thoughts churn around in my mind, I head for my hovel. 

I’m tired as hell after a sleepless night, and I’m sure Roark needs his rest after all that he dealt with last night, but we cannot miss the meeting. Roark will have to share his suspicions about Connor with Alpha Tam and the entire pack.

It won’t be easy for him, going against his own brother, but Roark honors duty above all. 

Sighing, I say a silent prayer for Connor as I near my hovel. A part of me is somewhat relieved, knowing that he’s already banished. What more can they do to him? I’m not condoning what he did, but as a brother, I care for him. I know what he did was beyond redemption, but who can blame him for being angry? 

All I can hope now and pray for is that he wasn’t the one who did the actual killing. My stomach twists at that thought as I push the door to my hovel open. Roark is already dressed in his breeches and doublet. 

Roark arches one blond brow at the blood on my clothes. I swear under my breath. I should've gotten rid of my clothes.

I look at him and shrug. “It’s from the injured male…”

I don’t know why I bothered coming up with this feeble excuse. Roark knows I’m lying. The scent of the blood on my clothes does not smell like a Werewolf. He refrains from saying anything, probably deciding it’s not worth the trouble, but I see the worry in his eyes nonetheless.

I rub a hand over my face. “I can’t tell you where the blood came from, but I promise I haven’t done anything wrong.” Or have I? Guilt claws at me.

He searches my face, a deep line running between his brows. Finally, he nods in a resigned sort of way.

Roark, Connor, and I are triplets. We are very similar to look at, except for our coloring. I’m dark, whereas Roark is fair, and Connor has light brown hair. And we each have different colored eyes–mine are silver-gray, Roark’s are blue, and Connor’s are tawny, almost golden. 

Roark, being the eldest amongst us by a few minutes, considers himself responsible for taking care of both Connor and I, after the death of our parents. And he takes his responsibility very seriously. 

I wish I could tell him about the princess, but there is no way he will keep it from the alpha. He is as strait-laced as they come. Connor is the rebel, and I am somewhere in between, although I try to walk the straight and narrow path most of the time.

“You might have time for a wash.”

I nod and head towards the stream. I can’t help thinking back to our house in the city where we could bathe indoors, and even heat water when the weather was bad. Our houses in the city had self-renewing spells placed inside them which ensured we had running, hot water indoors. 

I tell myself there’s no use thinking about it, but that doesn’t stop the sudden surge of rage for one brief moment. 

The Council has wronged us. They treat us like animals, like filth, like second-rate citizens, and we put up with it. What’s worse, I am sheltering the person responsible for perpetrating all those atrocities against us. A part of me wants to rush back to my hut, to drag her back to Council and claim the reward.

But then I remember the look of utter helplessness, the fear and dread in her eyes as I tended to her. I can't turn her in.

It feels like I’m being pulled in two different directions. My heart and gut are warring with my brain. 

I bang my fist against a rock on the banks of the stream, splintering it. It leaves my hand raw and bleeding, but I welcome the pain. At least, it provides some distraction from the rage and the confusion.

A quick wash later, I bundle my blood stained clothes, change into my wolf form, shake off the water, and after grabbing the bundle of ruined clothes in my mouth, I rush back to my hovel, where I know Roark is bound to be waiting impatiently.