Chapter 52: Traitor

Chapter 52 Cameron Now comes the hard part,the council members on Alric’s side. One thing I’ve known—one thing that never fails, whether in boardrooms or back alleys—is that even the most loyal men flinch in front of a pot of gold. I’ve watched hardened negotiators fold at the mere scent of opportunity. I’ve watched spies, embedded for years in our competitors, turn soft the second they tasted freedom wrapped in gold leaf. So, the question isn’t whether Alric’s men are loyal. The question is: Are they immune to what I’m offering? I doubt it. We walk through the thinning crowd—wolves still gathering meat from the trucks, some casting long glances at us, some pretending not to. Lenora stays close, but she stiffens as soon as she sees our next target. Madam Elira. One of the oldest council members. Late fifties, maybe early sixties. Her presence is like cold steel—sharp, rigid, ancient in her convictions. She’s dressed like she’s still living in the era where arranged bonds were traded like livestock. Her hair is knotted tight in a painfully severe bun, and her mouth thins the second she sees me. I hear her and Lenora are not fond of each other at all, apparently it happened because she chose to learn how to fight instead of nurture like ’female wolves are supposed to’. We approach. "Madam Elira," I say, nodding respectfully. She doesn’t respond. Not even a grunt. Her eyes cut straight through me. "Should you not be out there?" she says, tone frigid. "I was under the impression this gathering involved a test of strength, not a parade." "I’m conducting the second half of the test," I say evenly. "Provision and planning. The future, not just brute force." She lifts her chin slightly. "Traditions matter, young man. Not everything needs reinvention." I offer a smile. "I agree. Which is why I’ve come to speak to you first." Simone, with perfect timing, hands me the folder. I extend it. Elira eyes it like it might contain a virus. When I hand it to her, her fingers hesitate before taking it. "What is this?" "An offer," I say smoothly. "A contribution to your department." She opens it. I watch her face shift—skepticism melting into surprise, then disbelief, then something close to hunger. She catches herself quickly, lips pressing together. "When?" she asks, voice lower now. Controlled. "As soon as you’re ready." She closes the folder slowly. Like she doesn’t want anyone else to see it. "I don’t know if—" "If it makes you uncomfortable, I can take it back." I reach out, and predictably, she tightens her grip on the envelope. "...Understood," she says tightly. "Thank you." "No thanks needed," I reply. "It’s deserved." We leave her there, clutching her ticket to academic immortality like it might vanish. "What did you give her?" Lenora asks as soon as we’re clear. I take her hand. "What do you think someone obsessed with tradition and heritage wants more than anything?" "A personal visit from the ghost of her ancestors?" she quips. "Close," I smirk. "I pulled some strings with the Neta brothers—got her an invitation to speak and exchange records with the high elders of two ancient packs. One that traces its lineage to the Native wolf clans of the Americas. The other? Descendants of Fenrir’s bloodline in Norway." Lenora blinks. "Madam Elira’s never left White Stone territory in her life." "Exactly." Lenora stares at me like I’ve just performed magic. "You know... most people would’ve just bribed her." "I did," I say, smirking. "But I used currency she actually values." We walk away from Madam Elira. Through the shifting crowd, I catch sight of a young guy carrying an entire torso of cow meat on his shoulders like it’s nothing more than a gym bag. He’s lean—skinny, even—and grinning like he’s just stolen candy. I can’t help but smile. I was beginning to think this whole thing might’ve been overkill. Three truckloads of meat? But seeing wolves carting away entire limbs of beef like holiday gifts makes me realize—maybe not. "Next trio," Simone mutters, flicking her wrist to point up ahead. "They’re grouped together. Of course." Of course. We weave through the crowd, and there they are. Mr. Stellan, head of the Treasury—nose constantly buried in numbers unless it’s gossip. Elder Howell, white-bearded and leather-skinned, the only person in the pack who probably predates the walls of the ancestral hall. And then Mr. Olin, the council’s Communications officer and self-appointed "keeper of order," which basically means he likes to hear himself talk. All three of them are deep in conversation, standing near the edge of the square like they’re the final boss trio in an RPG. Lenora instinctively squeezes my hand tighter as we approach. I rub my thumb across her knuckles. "Gentlemen," I say with a nod. There’s a moment of silence. The kind that tastes like dust. Elder Howell speaks first. "You’ve made quite the spectacle this evening, young man." Olin clicks his tongue. "You know, in our day, proving one’s worth didn’t involve circus acts and bribery." "Nor foreign meats," Howell adds, eyes narrowed. "Whatever happened to a good elk?" Lenora opens her mouth, probably to say something sharp, but I gently tug her hand down. "Change is hard," I say simply. "But necessary." Mr. Stellan doesn’t speak. He’s eyeing the file Simone just handed him like it might bite him. Simone smiles and offers him a pen. "This is—" Stellan breathes, jaw slightly unhinged. "This is a check?" "A check," I confirm. Stellan frowns at the blank line. "There’s no number." "That’s what the pen is for," Simone replies smoothly, stepping forward with her clipboard like this is any other Tuesday back at Anderson HQ. She’s polished. Warm. Almost bored. But I know that tone. We’ve bribed prime ministers with it. "You get to add them," she says gently. Stellan blinks. "What?" "You write the number yourself." Her voice has a hint of amusement now. "Within reason, of course." He hesitates. Looks around. Olin and Howell are watching him with murder in their eyes. That just makes it better. Slowly, like he’s afraid the ink will explode, he leans the check against Simone’s clipboard and scribbles a number. "Just one more," Simone says, a little tilt in her head. Stellan glances at me. I give him a mild smile. He adds a zero. "Another one," Simone says, casually, like she’s reminding him to take his vitamins. Another zero. His hand is trembling now. Lenora makes a choked sound next to me—either a laugh or a strangled gasp. "One last," Simone says, her voice almost cooing. Stellan adds it. He stares at the number like it’s a religious experience. Then at Simone. Then at the check again. His pupils are wide. "You said... within reason?" he asks weakly, like he’s afraid he’ll wake up and find this was all a cruel dream. I wink at Simone, who tilts her head just slightly and gives him the kind of smile that’s converted more corrupt men than I can count. She gently guides the stunned Stellan to the side, clipboard already in hand, body angled like a temptress and executioner all in one. I step forward, subtly positioning myself to block the other two elders’ view. Howell and Olin are trying to crane their necks, but they don’t dare interrupt what they think is just more bureaucratic nonsense. Meanwhile, Simone works her magic. A minute passes. Then another. And another. Until— "Elder Stellan," she says, voice sweet like sugar and final like a gavel. "Are we in agreement?" Stellan straightens his spine like he’s just been knighted. His entire posture has changed—from a suspicious old bureaucrat to a proud, gleaming benefactor. He walks back over, holding the check like it’s sacred scripture. "This is a blessing from the goddess that you have brought to our pack," he says, loudly enough for half the wolves nearby to hear. His hand clasps mine with reverence. Olin’s mouth falls open. Howell blinks once, twice. Confused. "Elder Stellan, what the hell is this?!" Olin barks, storming over. "You’re not actually falling for this—this sham, are you?" "I have always known the Goddess’ mercy would shine down on us one day. Today, it seems, she sent it through this young man." Stellan says with a serene expression, entirely ignoring him. "Stellan—!" Howell tries, reaching for his arm like a father pulling back a son from disgrace. But Stellan slaps his hand away, dramatically, like a scandalized noble in a soap opera. "Respect, please!" he snaps, suddenly affronted. "How dare you touch me like that?" Olin’s mouth opens and closes, stunned. Howell just stands there, blinking, as Stellan dusts invisible dirt off his shoulder like he’s never known struggle in his life. Then—just to hammer the nail deeper—he hooks his arm into mine and says with an exaggerated flourish, "Come, my boy. You shouldn’t have to linger in such impolitecompany." "You were the one going on and on about tradition! That we don’t accept outside help!" "Well, perhaps the Goddess is reminding us to open our minds." He gives me a smug nod. "You! You traitor!" Olin yells after us, practically sputtering. We leave Howell and Olin behind, seething and exposed, one flip closer to majority.