The High Priestess's Approval

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The acrid scent of burning incense coiled through the air as Deimon settled himself upon the ancient stone altar. Wisps of sacred smoke drifted upward, painting ghostly patterns against the vaulted ceiling of the Blood-Moon sanctuary. He crossed one leg over the other with deliberate arrogance, his posture declaring ownership of a space that should have commanded reverence.

"Madam Selene,"

he drawled, examining his manicured nails with feigned disinterest. "Long time no see. How's work been treating you?"

The high priestess hadn't yet emerged from the shadows that clung to the altar's edges like cobwebs. Deimon had come seeking her blessing—one of the final requirements before tomorrow's Crimson Ceremony, where he would be formally recognized as Alpha and undisputed head of the Ashworth clan. The ritual was ancient, carved into werewolf tradition centuries before his grandfather's grandfather had drawn breath. And Madam Selene was the gatekeeper, one of the godheads of the Crescent Clan, the governing body that held dominion over every werewolf pack across the territories.

Her voice, when it finally cut through the incense-heavy air, was like gravel scraping against stone.

"You kept me waiting, Ashworth."

Time had worn Selene's vocal cords rough, each word emerging with the texture of ancient bark. A hundred and twenty years she had walked this earth in wolf form, presiding over the ascension of countless Alphas. She had seen dynasties rise and crumble, witnessed the strong become weak and the proud become dust. She was the final arbiter—after all the blood rites and moon ceremonies, after every elder had spoken and every tradition observed, Selene alone possessed the authority to deem an Alpha unworthy.

She stepped into the candlelight, her silver hair gleaming like moonlight on water, her eyes sharp as flint despite the weight of her years.

"You better give me good reasons to recognize you, young man."

The title carried no warmth, only the bitter edge of challenge.Deimon's lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes.

"Madam Selene, with all due respect"

the words dripped with false politeness "what else could you possibly need from an Alpha to recognize his potential? I've exceeded every requirement, surpassed every expectation."

"Exceeded?"

Selene's weathered face hardened. "You've done nothing but flaunt wealth and boast endlessly about how rich your family is, how powerful, how untouchable. That is not leadership, boy. That is vanity."

The words hung between them, sharp as accusation. But Deimon merely leaned back, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of mock humility.

"But Madam,"

he countered, his voice smooth as silk over steel, " Has my family's fortune not kept this entire organization stable? The Ashworth holdings support half the Crescent Clan's operations. Let's not pretend otherwise."

He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle like stones.

"Sorry to say this, but if the Ashworth family were to pull it's funding, the Crescent Clan would collapse within a fiscal quarter. The stock market would hemorrhage. Our investments prop up three-quarters of the pack businesses across five territories. Isn't that reason enough to commend me?"

The brazen audacity of it stole Selene's breath. Her expression shifted from stern to thunderous, every line of her face deepening with outrage.

"How audacious of you!"

Her voice cracked like a whip. "You insolent child! Because your family serves as one of our financial pillars doesn't give you the right to hold this sacred organization hostage. Where are your manners? Your respect? Your humility?"

Deimon remained unmoved, his smile widening into something almost predatory.

"I've run the Ashworth clan ever since my father's death five years ago. I've led it well—brilliantly, even—and made both a name and a fortune not just for my family, but for the Crescent as a whole."

He leaned forward, eyes glittering with triumph. "Unlike my predecessor, unlike those weak-spined Alphas before him, I've brought prosperity. Everything bloomed the moment I took charge. Our territories expanded. Our investments tripled. Our influence now reaches into the human world in ways previous generations never dreamed possible."

He struck a smile of pure mockery, knowing each word landed like a calculated blow.

"That is enough, Deimon Ashworth."

Selene's voice had dropped to something dangerous, something ancient stirring beneath the surface. "I'm not here to listen to your blatant arrogance and juvenile posturing. Give me your hand. Now."

Deimon extended his hand with theatrical slowness, still wearing that insufferable smile. Selene unwrapped a ceremonial dagger from its red silk covering, the blade gleaming with runes that predated written language. Without hesitation, she drew the edge across his palm, opening the flesh in one clean stroke.

Blood welled up, rich and dark, dripping steadily into a carved wooden plate positioned at the altar's center. Deimon didn't flinch, though the silver content in the blade's edge made the wound burn hotter than it should. Selene placed the blood-filled plate before a stone effigy and began chanting in the old tongue, words that stirred the very air with power.

"Don't worry, Madam Selene,"

Deimon said casually, pinching his wounded palm and watching with satisfaction as his accelerated healing began to knit the flesh back together. "I have a bonus performance planned for tomorrow's ceremony. Something special."

Selene's chanting paused. "And what might that be?"

"A public prosecution,"

he announced, pride suffusing every syllable. "Right before the assembled elders and clan heads. A demonstration of justice and authority."

The high priestess's eyes narrowed. "I don't suppose this involves your Luna?"

" Defaulted Luna,"

Deimon corrected sharply. "You mean to say defaulted, Madam. Let's use the proper terminology. She failed in her duties. She betrayed her station."

Selene resumed her ritual, her voice flat with resignation.

"Fine then. Bring the circus if you like . Just try to savor the moment—it comes once every generation. Most don't live long enough to see their own ascension ceremony."

"Oh, I've made full preparations, Madam." Deimon's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "This is a moment I've fantasized about since I was a pup barely able to shift. It will be the most spectacular lunar ritual you'll witness before you die. A ceremony talked about for generations."

"You speak to the high priestess as though I were your playmate, young Ashworth." Selene's rebuke carried genuine anger now. "Show some respect. Your money cannot buy everything—not tradition, not honor, not the blessing of the spirits. Now lower your head."

Deimon obeyed, though the gesture felt mechanical, stripped of genuine deference. Selene dipped a long, thin willow branch into the mixture of his blood and ceremonial ash. With practiced precision, she painted intricate symbols across his forehead—ancient marks of recognition, spirals and crescents that bound him to the old ways.

"I commend you, Deimon Ashworth, as Ashworth the Fifth and Tenth of your line. You have been ascended. The spirits accept you, Alpha Ashworth."

The words emerged formal and final, carrying the weight of inevitability rather than blessing.

"Took them long enough."

Deimon rose to his feet, performing a shallow bow that bordered on insult. "Peace be with you, High Priestess."

"Your ascension ceremony is due tomorrow at moonrise,"

Selene called after him. "Make proper preparations. The higher-ups want to see the grandson of the great Magnus Ashworth—the white wolf in a pack of blacks—impress them. Don't squander your bloodline's legacy."

The moment Deimon stepped beyond the sanctuary's threshold, his expression twisted into a scowl.

"Who does she think she is?" he muttered venomously. "Priestess of misfortune. Withered old crone."

Jabari waited in the shadowed corridor with fresh clothing. He handed Deimon a silk robe without a word, accustomed to these post-ritual tirades.

"She had no choice but to acknowledge me," Deimon continued, shrugging into the garment with sharp, angry movements. "Without Ashworth backing, this entire clan would crumble into shambles within months. They'd be begging on street corners."

"What if they had refused to acknowledge you, Master Ashworth?" Jabari asked quietly, his tone carefully neutral.

Deimon's laugh was cold and humorless. Jabari had expected some violent threat—perhaps something about ripping out Selene's windpipe or burning the sanctuary to ash.

But Deimon's response was more chilling for its certainty.

"She wouldn't dare. None of them would. They love money more than they love the pack, more than they love the spirits, more than they love their sacred traditions. Especially the higher-ups."

His voice dripped with contempt. "Lousy old hag, calling a white wolf—the rarest of our breed, a genetic miracle that appears once in a thousand generations—insolent. Tomorrow, I'll show them exactly what they've been forced to recognize."

His mood seemed to settle as they walked through the moonlit corridors toward his private quarters, his anger transforming into cold satisfaction.

"Have Zoey summon all our allied clans,"

he ordered. "I don't want a single pack missing from tomorrow's rites. Under the bloodshot supermoon, the son of Viktor Ashworth, grandson of the legendary Magnus, will shift at full power and become the most formidable Alpha in recorded history. Mark my words, Jabari—it will be a sight that rewrites our people's understanding of strength."

His eyes blazed with absolute conviction, with the unshakable pride of someone who had never truly been challenged.

"Yes, Master Ashworth,"

Jabari murmured, agreeing as he always did.

Deimon marched toward his luxurious apartment, settling into comfort and anticipation, completely unaware that his Luna was already gone.