En Garde! My Wolf

"Priceless is a sentimental word," Dr. Corvin continued as we crossed the east gallery. "Everything has a value. Historical, political, academic, emotional, or financial. Usually several at once. Your job is to understand which value you are handling before you decide how it should be preserved."

She spoke without looking at me. She was perhaps fifty, though her charcoal suit and silver-threaded hair made age feel irrelevant. I liked her immediately. I also wanted, with a sickening intensity, not to fail her.

Three years of postgraduate conservation training, two museum placements, and eleven exhausting months cataloguing municipal records had taught me a harsh reality, liking a supervisor and impressing one were entirely different achievements.

"Understood," I acknowledged, keeping my pace even with hers.

"Perfect. Because you will eventually be trusted with things people have killed one another over."

I glanced at her profile, searching for a twitch of a smile or some subtle indication that she was indulging in dramatic hyperbole. None came.

"That is a remarkably intense thing to hear before nine in the morning."

"It is also true."

There was no useful response to that, so I kept my mouth shut and followed her deeper into the complex. The Hohenzollern estate shattered every expectation I'd brought on the early morning train. The original residence sat at the center, generations had grafted on offices, vaults, guest wings, labs, and museums until the place required internal maps.

Dr. Corvin had handed me one fifteen minutes earlier. I'd already checked it twice.

We passed centuries of oil portraits-most of them wolves in various degrees of regal poise. Being a wolf was ordinary biology, being Hohenzollern was an institution. One of the five Great Houses with their name stamped across banks, energy consortia, research foundations, and legislation that reached people who would never come within a hundred kilometers of these grounds. Their Alpha sat on the Concordat Council, their foundation owned three regional hospitals, and their private archive held more than two million catalogued artifacts.

That number alone accounted for half the panic in my stomach. The other half came from walking beside Dr. Maëlys Corvin, whose papers I had cited so heavily that being near her felt like standing next to an auditor of my intellectual debts.

I adjusted the strap of my bag as we turned into a quieter corridor lined with glass cases of fencing squads, tournament programs, and antique blades. A sudden, muffled roar of applause reverberated through the thick masonry walls.

I glanced up toward the ceiling. "What was that?"

"The Invitational started this morning," Dr. Corvin sighed, checking her wristwatch with a slight frown.

"I thought the main Grand Circuit didn't open until this afternoon."

"It doesn't. The morning schedule is smaller, preliminary bouts, sponsor exhibitions, and pledge matches."

I knew what pledge matches were, at least on paper. Two parties attached a legally binding concession to the outcome of a sanctioned bout, money, equity, sometimes voting rights or development contracts. The higher the stakes, the louder the outrage in the human press.

I had always found the practice absurd. Gambling on sports was one thing. Risking a multi-million-dollar distribution contract on someone's ability to thrust a blade faster than an opponent was another.

"Do people genuinely transfer major corporate assets over a fencing match?" I asked.

She cast a side-glance at me. "You've read the legal frameworks on pledge law, haven't you?"

"Yes, but reading that a legal precedent exists and seeing it being actually enforced feels like an entirely different thing."

"That," she murmured, "is an excellent perspective for an archivist to hold."

Another wave of applause cascaded down the hall. 

"We have seven minutes before showing you your workplace, so you should see one."

I stared at her. "A pledge match?"

"If you are going to be working here long-term, atmospheric context will be invaluable. Besides, if I continue lecturing you on climate-control storage protocols while that noise bleeds through the walls, you won't absorb a single word."

"I would," I protested faintly.

She stopped and turned fully to face me, raising an eyebrow. "Where is the primary manuscript quarantine room located?"

I opened my mouth to answer, searched my memory, and realized I had completely forgotten the lower-level layout. I let out a defeated, quiet huff.

The ghost of a smirk touched the corner of her mouth. "Come."

She swiped a keycard and led me up a narrow spiral of stone stairs. The noise grew with every step, filled with applause, spatial audio, announcements, and the overlapping hum of hundreds of voices. At the upper landing, a security officer scanned our badges and waved us through.

The gallery opened onto the main fencing hall. I stepped to the railing, momentarily breathless. The venue was centuries old, yet modern technology had been woven seamlessly into the architecture.

"Look below," she instructed, leaning her elbows on the balustrade.

A preliminary bout was wrapping up on the central strip. Two female fencers circled each other with terrifying grace, moving at speeds no human athlete could match. Blue biometric overlays glowed beside their names, tracking heart rate and muscle activity.

I had watched high-definition clips online. Seeing it live was different.

"Are they allowed to use their full wolf strength?" I whispered, my heart thumping against my ribs.

"Never," Dr. Corvin replied. "Circuit regulations cap muscular output at thirty percent above baseline human peak. Partial shifting fangs, claws, optical shifts is strictly prohibited on the strip. Enhanced perception is unavoidable, but deliberate alpha-dominance projection is grounds for immediate disqualification."

I nodded. My gaze drifted across the arena. Certain boxes drew a constant rotation of aides and visitors, others stayed isolated. Some guests moved through security without pause, others waited. Near the center of the main balcony sat an older man whose profile I recognized from political broadcasts.

Alaric von Hohenzollern.

The patriarch and Alpha. He leaned toward the dark-haired woman beside him, Eleonore, his wife. They carried the casual composure of people who had never doubted their place at the top. Their eldest son I knew only by reputation. Dashiell von Hohenzollern, grand Circuit Champion, olympic medalist, and continental record holder.

Fencing had never held much space in my life. My mother, Celestine Borghese, had always dismissed professional wolf competitions as "crass displays of animal instinct." She insisted she bore wolves no personal ill-will while holding a dozen unyielding opinions to the contrary, a contradiction I had stopped questioning by sixteen.

A loud chime echoed through the venue, drawing my eyes back to the main floor. The primary digital display above the center piste cleared, replaced by red lettering.

REGISTERED PLEDGE MATCH

BELLACOURT COMMUNICATIONS - SOUTHERN DISTRIBUTION OPTION

12% CONDITIONAL TRANSFER

I blinked, re-reading the numbers. "That... that cannot possibly mean twelve percent of the entire parent corporation."

"No," she responded mildly.

I let out a breath. "I thought as much"

"It represents twelve percent of the regional subsidiary that controls all distribution rights across three provinces."

My relief vanished. I stared at her. "That is barely an improvement!"

"It isn't."

"Whose match is important enough to decide that?"

The overhead lights dimmed across the outer spectator bays, focusing into a beam over the central piste. The ambient chatter in the stadium didn't stop, but the energy changed instantly.

She gestured toward the far archway. "That one."

As if on cue, a fencer stepped onto the strip in black. That was the first thing that struck me. Every other athlete today had worn white, pale grey, or heraldic colors. His jacket was matte black, tailored so sharply it looked like armor, broken only by a thin gold stripe down his left arm. He carried his mask under one arm. Even from the gallery, the lineage was obvious.

Dashiell von Hohenzollern.

He stood quietly while an official inspected his weapon, unfazed by the thousands of eyes on him. His coach stepped forward and spoke into his ear. One minimalist nod, then the dark mesh mask snapped into place.

His opponent entered from the opposite side in shimmering silver and dark blue.

"Asterholt," a voice murmured behind us in the gallery.

I knew that name, too. House Asterholt controlled massive private security networks across the continent. Their long-standing, tense corporate rivalry with Hohenzollern had fueled financial tabloids for a decade.

"Which one is favored to win?" I asked softly.

"You tell me."

"I've seen exactly three minutes of live fencing in my entire life."

"You have eyes. Use them."

Fair enough. I leaned further over the railing. The Asterholt fencer bounced on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight, and twitching his blade in short nervous arcs while he waited for the command.

Dashiell stood entirely still. Arrogance, I supposed.

"En garde! Prêts? Allez!"

The first exchange lasted under four seconds. Asterholt charged, blade whistling in a flurry of speed. Dashiell yielded ground smoothly, stepping back inch by inch. Steel clashed once, twice, then a green light flashed on Dashiell's side of the piste.

Point.

The second exchange was faster. Asterholt launched high at the shoulder. Dashiell's micro-parry turned the blade a fraction of an inch and drove his own point into the center of Asterholt's chest.

Clack. Green light.

Another point.

"He's controlling the distance," I whispered.

Dr. Corvin glanced at me. "Mostly. Keep watching."

Asterholt adapted fast. Two quick touches in a row sent a roar through the far side of the arena.

At the break, Dashiell requested a weapon check. He raised his hand, unclamped the mask, and pulled it off. From the gallery I finally saw his face clearly. Dark hair clung damp to his forehead as he wiped sweat from his jaw with the back of his glove. A sudden pressure locked behind my sternum. Tight, then tighter, flooding heat up my throat and into my face. My heart slammed against my ribs hard enough that I blamed low blood sugar and the skipped breakfast.

I forced my eyes back to the piste, he lifted his mask... and snapped his head up, locking onto the exact place I stood. The pressure in my chest closed like a vice. 

He was thirty feet below me on a lit stage, finishing a match with millions on the line. Two hundred people packed this side of the gallery alone. There was no reason for him to notice an anonymous assistant archivist in the shadows.

Yet his eyes never drifted as he slid the mask back on. 

"Allez!"

Asterholt exploded forward in a ruthless lunge. Dashiell reacted a fraction late, and his blade missed the parry entirely.

Red light.

The Asterholt side erupted. He finally looked away, and the pressure in my chest vanished at once.

The next exchange was brutal. Dashiell advanced with cold hostility that left Asterholt no room to breathe. Heavy parries rang through the hall like gunshots. Three seconds later, the winning touch landed so fast the tip of Dashiell's blade struck the gold emblem before Asterholt had finished starting his advance.

Green light. Silence for one brief beat. Then the Hohenzollern boxes exploded. The digital board refreshed.

CONDITION SATISFIED

BELLACOURT OPTION RETAINED

Twelve percent of a massive distribution network had just stayed under one family's control because one man drove a piece of steel into another man's chest. I still found the concept absurd.

On the floor he unmasked, shook his opponent's hand without a word, spoke briefly to the official, and turned. Before he stepped off the strip, his head tilted upward one last time.