Chapter 4
The creatures inside had wolfish heads, hulking humanoid bodies, thick black fur, and slabs of corded muscle.
Werewolves.
Only now did Giles realize the familiar scent from earlier hadn't been his imagination.
He had smelled his own kind.
These weren't units belonging to some other Lord. They had to be native werewolves of this world.
Why were they here?
Why were they attacking a Frost Sabertooth stronghold?
Had the omen drawn them into the Frostlands too?
Questions tumbled through Giles's mind, but he kept his head.
If he could smell them, they could smell him.
The blizzard gave him some cover, thinning his scent before it reached the cave—but that was a far cry from being truly hidden.
If the native werewolves found him, the outcome wasn't hard to predict.
The moment he identified the creatures inside, Giles decided to leave.
Before he could move, a raspy laugh echoed out of the cavern.
"You mangy cats stole our bloodline, and somehow you've been playing king of this frozen wasteland ever since."
Giles flinched—then realized the speaker wasn't talking to him.
The werewolves were addressing the Frost Sabertooths.
He slowed.
This might be his chance to learn something useful.
"You filthy mutts are nothing!" a wounded Frost Sabertooth snarled. "Our Chieftain will avenge us!"
Its defiance didn't provoke the werewolves into granting it a quick death.
They burst out laughing instead.
"Hear that?" one of them said, glancing at his companions. "The little runt actually believes it."
Another werewolf grinned.
"The only thing your Chieftain will do when he sees us is turn tail and run."
"Liar!" the wounded Frost Sabertooth roared. "You're only Veterans! Our Chieftain is—"
A werewolf kicked it in the chest.
Three fresh claw marks tore through its fur.
The creature's loyalty seemed to genuinely annoy him.
"Your Chieftain is a thief."
The werewolves wanted to break their captive before killing it—and not just with pain.
The speaker crouched down in front of the wounded creature.
"You half-wild animals never would have gained those forms if your Chieftain hadn't stolen our bloodline. Did you honestly think that transformation belonged to your race?"
"He fled north because he knew we'd come for him. That's why your kind has been hiding in this miserable frozen country ever since."
The werewolf spread his arms, smiling in mockery.
"Still, we're a generous people. A little stolen blood hardly matters to us."
The Frost Sabertooth went rigid.
Its transformed body did resemble a werewolf's.
The death-laced aura, the rapid regeneration, the physical changes—all nearly identical. The only difference was that the Frost Sabertooth's transformation was weaker in every respect.
Beastfolk placed enormous weight on bloodlines.
Measured against the werewolves in front of it, the Frost Sabertooth bloodline clearly sat several grades lower.
The only ability that seemed truly native to its race was its limited command of frost.
But something still didn't add up.
If the werewolves genuinely didn't care about the stolen bloodline, why cross such a vast distance to attack the Frost Sabertooths at all?
The captive was only a Recruit. It lacked the knowledge to work it out.
"But now..."
The werewolf's grin stretched wider.
"We're short on manpower, and there's something in these mountains we intend to claim."
He leaned in close.
"So we're going to need your race's help."
His claws punched through the Frost Sabertooth's chest.
The creature stared down in shock as the werewolf ripped out its heart and bit into it, chewing with relish.
Outside the cavern, Giles finally understood.
He had stumbled onto intelligence far more valuable than anything he'd hoped for.
The Frost Sabertooths owed their transformations to stolen werewolf blood.
The omen had already drawn other native races into the Frostlands.
And that final remark about needing the Frost Sabertooths' help carried an obvious meaning.
The captive had been too slow to grasp it.
Giles was not.
The werewolves had come to the Frostlands to conquer the Frost Sabertooths and press them into service as troops—soldiers for the coming struggle over whatever lay hidden beneath the mountains.
That was enough.
Giles had learned far more than he'd hoped for, along with a glimpse of the chaos about to swallow the Frostlands.
There was no reason to go anywhere near the omen itself.
Events had already escalated far past anything he could safely meddle with.
The smart move was to leave now and carry everything he'd learned back to Lilith.
Giles began to withdraw.
A mocking voice sounded behind him.
"You've been eavesdropping for quite a while. Planning to leave without saying hello?"
Giles froze.
Every hair on his body stood on end as he spun around, ready to fight.
The werewolves had said it themselves—they were Veterans.
So was he.
A fight wouldn't necessarily be hopeless.
The werewolves looked him over openly, utterly unconcerned that he might attack.
One of them cocked his head.
"His bloodline is unusually concentrated. Killing him would be a waste."
At this range, members of the same race could sense the strength and purity of one another's blood.
Among werewolves, bloodline concentration was one of the chief measures of status.
Their leader shot the speaker a vicious glare.
"Who said anything about killing him?"
He strode toward Giles, paying no attention whatsoever to his combat stance.
Since the werewolf showed no immediate intent to attack, Giles held his ground and asked warily, "What do you want?"
The leader ignored the question and glanced back at his companions.
"This one's interesting. There are two distinct signatures inside him."
The other werewolves traded confused looks.
Then they studied Giles more carefully.
Their leader was right.
Two separate bloodline auras coexisted within his body.