C5

"Your claws are shaking, Commander. Sit still or the blood-marking ritual will fail before the moon hits its peak."

I blinked through the haze of a sleepless night, the leather harness of my vanguard uniform pressing heavily against my collarbone. The alpha enforcer leading the detail waved his hand, and twenty low-ranking pack omegas stepped into the iron-reinforced armory, flanking me on either side with silver-buffing kits and formal pack plates.

"What is the meaning of this mobilization?" I asked, my voice dry from the lingering smoke of the northern border skirmishes.

"The Afolayan Dominion does not celebrate a Vanguard Commander's naming day without proper blood rites, Chika," the lead enforcer barked, motioning for the omegas to assemble the ceremonial chest pieces around my torso. "Lucien decreed it before the morning patrols went out."

The memory of our bitter tactical argument from the previous midnight flashed through my mind, turning my blood cold. Lucien had promised this public marking to cement my authority over the territory, but our clashing Lycan instincts had left a wall of silence between us.

"Halt the assembly," I commanded, pulling away from the silver plates. "I need an open frequency with Lucien before I wear the Dominion's crest."

The enforcer bowed his head, his ears flattening slightly in respect. "The Alpha King left the citadel before dawn to address a breach at the central fortress. He will return when the execution orders are finalized. Step into the chemical wash first."

My jaw tightened as I gripped the edge of the iron table, my wolf pacing restlessly beneath my skin, wondering which rival faction Lucien was hunting now.

"The Bayzee Syndicate tore up the blood pact, Alpha King," Brook muttered, his head bowed so low his nose nearly touched the stone floor of the central fortress briefing room.

Enzo Afolayan, the ancient patriarch of the Dominion, stood by the reinforced slit window, his blind eyes staring out over the foggy mountain pass. Lucien and Brook stood three paces behind him, the pressure of Enzo’s unspent alpha aura crushing the oxygen from the room.

"Why was the Dominion's council left blind to this defection?" Enzo’s growl vibrated through the floorboards, thick with ancient, predatory disappointment.

Lucien kept his eyes fixed on the strategic maps, his expression an unreadable mask of dark obsidian, while cold sweat soaked through Brook's tactical gear.

"The Bayzee wolves shifted their allegiance to an independent lunar cartel whose black-market silver mines just tripled their output," Brook stammered, his knuckles turning white against his holsters. "The border strip we seized from the Foster Clan became a toxic dead zone before we could harvest the raw essence."

Enzo turned his scarred face toward Lucien. "What is the executioner's counter-strategy?"

Without a word, Lucien slid an encrypted data-slate across the steel table. "The transaction protocols favor the Foster survivors, leaving our strike teams no legal leverage within the High Council. The situation is frozen."

"Can your execution squads not liquidate the assets?" Enzo demanded.

"Unless the Afolayan Dominion completely purges the Ellis Pack from the shipping docks, our supply lines will collapse by winter," Lucien stated flatly.

Brook’s chest heaved with terror at the mention of total syndicate warfare. When he took over the dock logistics, he had sworn to keep the blood pacts profitable, but the reality had veered into disaster. He bared his fangs in a silent, desperate effort to control his panic, knowing his status within the mafia hierarchy was bleeding out.

Leaning heavily on his silver-headed cane, Enzo stepped toward Lucien, his amber eyes catching the dim torchlight. "In the old cycles, the Dominion never lost a hunting ground under your watch. What changed?"

Lucien met the patriarch’s stare without a single tremor in his aura. "In the old cycles, I held the executioner's gavel. Now, Brook manages the asset distribution."

The subtext cut through Brook like a silver blade, making his shoulders twitch.

Enzo let out a dry, raspy chuckle that sounded like grinding stones. "Given this massive operational failure, how should the pack law be applied to Brook?"

Lucien’s gaze shifted to Brook, whose scent was souring with fear. "Under current mafia protocol, a vanguard commander cannot dictate the punishment of an administrative officer."

Brook exhaled a ragged breath, though he knew the upcoming tribunal would strip him of his remaining titles if he couldn't secure the loyalty of the frontline executioners.

Enzo turned his blind gaze back to Brook. "Cut all meat rations and ammunition support to the Foster survivors immediately. Their presence yields nothing for our wolves."

Brook nodded sharply. "Understood, Patriarch."

"Grandpa, the private jet just cleared the perimeter!" A sharp, dominant voice cut through the heavy air as the heavy iron doors groaned open.

Dressed in tailored black hunting leathers, Debora Afolayan entered the war room, tossing her combat helmet onto the table before wrapping her arms around Enzo’s massive shoulders. "The European territories are secured."

Enzo’s harsh features softened into a rare, terrifying grin. "Did your paws hit the dirt just now?"

"Yes. I intended to clean the silver-stains from my blades first, but the border reports forced my hand," Debora said, her gaze sliding toward Brook with a predatory gleam. "What happened, brother? Did you let a human syndicate out-hunt you? Are you ready for the cages?"

Brook’s eyes widened. "Why are you back from the northern front?"

"The campaign ended," Debora purred, her fingers tracing the edge of the strategic table. "I returned to take my rightful place in the Dominion's hierarchy. Did you think I would let a weak link ruin our bloodline's reputation?"

Her words left Brook completely exposed, his chest heaving as he refused to look at Enzo's darkening face.

Lucien remained silent, having anticipated her return. Debora’s hunger for the Alpha King's seat was no secret; she was a predator who slaughtered her targets without hesitation, and Brook’s failure was the perfect carcass for her to feed on.

Refusing to be broken, Brook snarled, "The Bayzee leader uses cloaking magic. I will hunt him down myself to balance the ledger."

Debora’s smile went completely cold. "Make sure you don't become the prey."

She turned her attention to Lucien, her eyes dropping to his heavily scarred thighs. "I consulted the flesh-weavers in the old country, Lucien. They believe a blood-transfusion from a purebred captive might restore your full Lycan speed."

Lucien tapped his knee, his voice dropping an octave. "I have broken enough weavers to know their promises are hollow. My seat remains steady."

Debora nodded, turning back to Enzo with absolute purpose. "Grandpa, I am ready for a command. Give me the sector Brook compromised."

Brook’s muscles bunched, his wolf screaming at the threat to his territory.

"Your brother’s execution lines are soft," Enzo declared with a savage grin. "Until he brings me the head of the Bayzee Alpha, you hold the keys to the shipping docks."

Debora’s eyes flashed gold with victory. "The Dominion will expand by the next moon, Patriarch."

Brook’s face went completely grey.

Enzo ignored the silent fury vibrating between the siblings, turning his attention back to Lucien. "I understand today is Chika Whitmore's naming day ritual."

Debora and Brook both locked their eyes onto Lucien at the mention of the new male mate.

Lucien nodded once. "It is his first blood-ceremony since our packs aligned. The Dominion will witness his ascension."

Enzo nodded slowly. "Good. My enforcers will deliver an ancient obsidian dagger to his quarters. My bones are too old for the ritual fires tonight."

"Thank you, Patriarch," Lucien replied.

"Clear the room and return to your sectors," Enzo dismissed them with a sharp flick of his clawed hand.

Lucien exited the fortress first, his heavy boots echoing down the stone steps. Brook followed, his jaw clenched so tight a trickle of blood escaped his lip as he looked at Debora’s smug profile.

Once outside the heavy gates, Debora matched Lucien’s long strides. "I have yet to smell this Whitmore boy. Is he truly an Alpha capable of holding your frontline?"

"I did not invite your sector to the ritual, Debora," Lucien stated without looking back.

"I will send a tribute regardless," she laughed darkly. "I must see the wolf who managed to survive your den."

Lucien stopped, his golden eyes locking onto Brook. "And you, Brook? Will your squad be present at the altar?"

Brook’s scent spiked with pure, unadulterated venom. "I will be there, Alpha King. And I am bringing the Blackwell enforcers with me."