Sapir Englard The Millennium Wolves Novels & Stories

“I wondered that myself and looked there is a large coven in the area there, and they are no fan of wolves. But I think with the right payment it could have been done. Maybe.” “We may have to go visit this Tiffany Miller and see if that is the case.” Siron suggests as he lifts himself from his chair and heads for the door.

“That language he used... Have you ever heard it before? Anywhere?” He went still, the warmth from his arm tightening around me. “No,” he said after a beat. “But I’ve heard of it.” I sat up, curiosity sharpening. “What do you mean?” “There’s an old tongue,” he began slowly, as if dredging words from a place he rarely visited. “Older than the packs. Older than the treaties. Older than the founding bloodlines. My grandfather used to say it was the language the first wolves spoke, before the Moon Goddess gave us the gift of speech as we know it now.” His eyes locked with mine. “It’s not spoken anymore, Lyra. Not for centuries. Not even taught. The only place I’ve ever heard it mentioned–”

Wayne muttered and Olive whipped her head at him, scowling deeply. “Don't even think using words like that on me will get me to stop being angry,” she blurted but Wayne laughed and winked. “This is a masterpiece. It contains every myth and legend regarding the firewolf, what is true and not true,” Mufasa spoke out as he began glancing through the pages. “Apparently, they're rare and only happen in millenniums. According to Milicent who almost turned us all to book shelves of course,” Crusoe stated.

Love ricocheted around my ribs, knocking into every denial I’d neatly stacked. I coughed. “Can we circle back to the part where I didn’t sign up for a whole wolf king? Or a bond. Or… pups.” The last word strangled. She tried not to smile and failed. “Then take this in steps.” She steepled her fingers. “Wolves understand three languages best—truth, touch, and timing. Speak plainly. Touch with consent. Choose your moments. Do that, and you’ll never be prey in this den.” “Truth, touch, timing,” I echoed, filing it next to Jarek’s knock pattern and the Hold word. “And the… pups?”

My eyes were glowing yellow, a warm, golden light that seemed to pulse with an inner power. Suddenly, a majestic wolf appeared beside me, its fur a shimmering silver-gray in the dim light. The wolf's eyes locked onto mine, and I felt a jolt of recognition. "Hello, Isla," the wolf said in a low, raspy voice, its words echoing in my mind. "My name is Elara. I've been waiting centuries to meet you." I stared at the wolf in wonder, my mind reeling with questions. The wolf's voice was unlike anything I'd ever heard before - rough and wild, yet somehow familiar.

Her voice was urgent, almost panicked, and it sent a cold wave of fear crashing through Elara's chest. "What's happening?" Elara asked, her voice trembling as she grabbed Mira's arm. "What's going on out there?" Mira hesitated, biting her lip, and then she sighed, her shoulders sagging with the weight of whatever news she was carrying. "There are wolves from another pack at the border," she said quietly. "Blackfang Pack. They're asking questions, looking for someone. A pregnant omega who ran from their territory a few months ago."

My gold-ringed eyes, though softened by age, still held the sharp, clinical clarity of the White Wolf. "The pups are asking for the story of the mud again, Elara," Killian rumbled, his voice a low, warm vibration that still made my blood dance. He sat on a fallen cedar log, his slate grey fur now a beautiful, snowy white, his silver eyes reflecting the morning sun with a predatory, romantic wit. "Then let them hear it, Killian," I replied, sitting between his knees as he pulled me into a hard, grounding embrace. "Let them know that the mountain was once a cage and the fire was once a weapon. Let them know why the sixty-beat rhythm matters."

Her tears dried off and her eyes widened towards the reality of what he had said. She swallowed a lump in her throat while she still stared at him, her hands falling to the side of her body, and another tear dropped from her eyes. “If I couldn't stop the phantom, there's no way you can ever do that.!” He said again. He just had to utter the truth roughly, letting them see why he wasn't supporting the idea in her head. She was only a werewolf who had learned the act of shifting into her wolf form. Any other thing which had to do with battle, his daughter Mila was unskilled in it.

It is listening. Behind us, branches snap. One of the werewolves, Dax, and the female mercenary, Liora, are arguing about direction. Therin’s voice joins in, smooth and mocking. Elyra glides ahead, muttering something that might be a spell. The she-wolf, Renna, keeps close to the witch’s shadow, and the older wolf, Corran, trails her protectively. The rest scatter into fog. “Just a tip,” the Herald’s voice booms from nowhere. “The forest feeds on loneliness!”

I swallowed hard at the words of that she-wolf. I could see in her eyes that she truly believed what she was saying—but I wasn’t like her. “I’m Lena, and the one who’s been taking care of you is Meg. She’s a red wolf, which is why she doesn’t speak.” I glanced involuntarily at Meg, who lowered her gaze in shame. Oh, poor thing, I thought immediately. Red wolves were born with some kind of defect that even wolf genes couldn’t overcome, and in Meg’s case, it was that she couldn’t speak. But the scar on her face intrigued me, though I didn’t have time to dwell on it.