Chapter 96: Prophecy, Loyalty!

The territory of the Howling Moon Clan was shrouded in night.

Russell stood on the rocky ledge of the New Moon Valley, his blue mane streaked with gray.

Graymane werewolves lived short lives, barely fifty years.

Six years had turned this once-youthful chieftain into middle age; his fur no longer gleamed as brightly, but his eyes remained sharp as blades.

In the valley, werewolf warriors were resting.

Their bodies bore fresh and old scars—some left by ogres, others from hunts or internal fights.

Russell knew well that discontent within the clan was growing.

The young challenger, Manefire, had publicly questioned his decisions at gatherings more than once, while the elder shaman, over sixty, was nearing the end of his life, his mind growing dim and confused, no longer able to steady the clan’s spirit.

Aowu! A low wolf howl echoed from afar.

It was the patrol returning.

Russell leapt down the valley slope, racing back to the territory to speak with the patrol and learn the situation.

The news they brought was grim.

The Bonechewer Clan’s ogres were still expanding, and would likely return to the New Moon Valley at any moment.

Russell exhaled silently.

He looked up at the night sky, as if waiting for something.

Six years ago, the Dragon Lord had promised to return, but time was wearing down the clan’s patience; some members had forgotten the dragon’s power, and dissenting voices had begun to rise.

Russell walked slowly, patrolling his territory.

By the firepit deep in the territory, several werewolf warriors who had just returned from patrol were tearing meat from a hunter’s leg; fat dripped onto the coals, sizzling.

“Manefire challenged the chieftain again at the training ground today.”

A young werewolf spat out bone fragments, lowering his voice: “He tore half the chieftain’s battle totems carved into the cliff wall.”

Manefire’s parents had once opposed allegiance to the dragon-kind, and Russell had personally defeated them, turning them into great wolves.

Therefore,

Manefire bore hatred toward Russell.

After six years of growth, this gifted young werewolf had become the strongest warrior of the new generation, no longer hiding his hostility toward the chieftain, seeking to challenge his position.

The old warrior sneered, revealing his broken canines.

“Six years ago, Manefire trembled at the sight of the venomous snake, hiding behind his mother’s legs—now he dares point at the chieftain’s claws.”

“But the chieftain is old,” the she-wolf whispered, her ears twitching warily.

“During the last rock-bull hunt, the chieftain’s charge was half a beat too slow—if Frostfang hadn’t cast his spell in time, the prey would’ve escaped.”

The fire crackled.

Russell’s figure appeared on the other side; the young warriors shrank back, unwilling to respond.

Passing by the warriors, Russell acted as if he had heard nothing, walking straight toward a stone hut pressed against the cliff.

Around a bonfire,

Manefire and his three loyalists were sharing a freshly killed boar.

Fresh meat, still steaming, was torn into bloody strips by sharp teeth—no roasting or cooking, just eaten raw; the young werewolf preferred flesh raw.

Manefire was a tall, powerfully built werewolf.

His bluish-gray mane was streaked with red, rippling in the wind like a flame—hence his nickname.

As he devoured the raw meat, Manefire’s gaze fell on the chieftain, watching him enter the old shaman’s hut.

“The old man’s authority is fading—last hunt nearly let the prey escape.”

Manefire licked blood from his claws, his fur flickering in the firelight: “His claws aren’t as sharp as mine, his body isn’t as strong.”

A scarred werewolf whispered: “The chieftain’s been visiting the shaman’s hut often lately—is he preparing some ritual to strengthen himself?”

Manefire slammed a paw against the cliff wall; loose stones tumbled down:

“The shaman is half-dead—he can’t strengthen him.”

“At the next full moon ceremony, I will challenge Russell before the entire clan.” He bared his white fangs: “Then I will become the new chieftain of the Howling Moon Clan!”

The old shaman was nearly dead.

Frostfang, Russell’s daughter, chosen to inherit the shaman’s role, was still a fledgling—lacking the old shaman’s prestige, she posed no threat.

Manefire had made up his mind.

He would replace Russell.

Russell’s claw gently parted the animal-hide curtain hanging at the hut’s entrance; a thick, foul stench—mixing burnt herbs and decay—hit him.

The old shaman’s hut was darker than six years ago.

He curled in the corner of his bed, his hunched form nearly merging with the shadows.

Beside him sat a slightly smaller female werewolf, her teeth bright white, her mane braided into fine plaits, a necklace of bone beads around her neck.

Frostfang Belli, Russell’s daughter and the shaman’s heir.

She had been combing the old shaman’s fur, patiently picking off fleas; she paused at her father’s arrival and stepped outside.

Hearing footsteps, the old shaman’s cloudy yellow eyes slowly turned, pupils dull and lifeless.

“Russell… you’ve come.”

The old shaman’s voice was like air forced from a leaky hide—slow, labored, rattling with phlegm.

Russell nodded, squatting silently beside the firepit.

Six years ago, this stone hut had been the clan’s most sacred place; the old shaman’s prophecies had pinpointed the exact hour of the rainy season’s arrival.

Now, only dry, withered shrubs burned in the firepit, their glow weak and listless.

“I can no longer hold back Manefire.”

Russell sighed, weariness etching his brow: “He’s gifted, growing fast—I’ve passed my peak.”

Manefire was cruel, vengeful, and lacked the vision or wisdom to lead a clan.

As a warrior, he was excellent—but as chieftain, he would be the Howling Moon Clan’s ruin. Yet the clan revered strength; if Manefire defeated Russell in formal challenge, Russell could not stop him from taking the chieftain’s seat.

“No… no… the Dragon Lord is coming.”

The old shaman’s cloudy eyes flickered with a faint smile.

Russell froze, his gaze brightening: “Is this true? Can you be certain?”

The old shaman seemed to have a final surge of vitality; after a light cough, his voice grew clear and steady.

“My life is ending—but perhaps by the protection of my ancestors’ spirits, I glimpsed a fragment of the future.”

“What future?”

Russell asked.

The old shaman did not answer.

The future was never fixed; revealing a prophecy brought backlash to both the seer and the listener, and altered the future itself.

Every seer or shaman capable of prophecy was an expert at secrecy.

The old shaman raised his withered claw, gripping Russell’s arm tightly, speaking each word with effort: “You must… follow the Dragon Lord… no matter what happens… never waver in your loyalty… this is the Howling Moon Clan’s greatest chance.”

Russell nodded solemnly—then watched the old shaman slowly close his eyes.

He felt grief, sorrow.

The revered elder had passed—yet a snore interrupted Russell’s mourning.

He had only fallen into deep sleep, not died.

The old wolf feared wind and cold; Russell pulled the blanket over the shaman.

Boom!

Suddenly, a deep thunder rolled closer.

Like the breath of a great beast, or the sound of wings beating the air.

The old shaman, just closed his eyes, snapped them open again—his gaze no longer cloudy; Russell, startled, immediately brightened.

The youngest cubs born in recent years did not know what this sound meant.

But Russell and the old shaman both knew it well.

“Help me up!”

The old shaman struggled to sit up.

(End of Chapter)