The Primal Hunting Grounds came alive as the pack moved with singular purpose, each member a vital piece in Myron’s strategy. The southern perimeter was the first target—a dense stretch of forest teeming with untapped resources but plagued by aggressive wildlife. Myron stood at the edge of the Moonlit Den, his gaze fixed on the treeline as Thoran Swiftclaw led a team of scouts and trackers into the wilderness.

  Kaela Moonhowl remained close, her glowing staff emitting a soothing aura that rippled through the pack. She turned to Myron, her tone calm but firm. “The morale is holding steady for now, but they’ll need results soon. Idle wolves grow restless.”

  Myron nodded, his golden eyes sharp. “They’ll get their results. The southern perimeter is just the start. Once Thoran clears it, we’ll set our sights on the village.”

  Thoran Swiftclaw crouched low, his sharp eyes scanning the forest floor for signs of movement. His team followed in silence, their footsteps barely disturbing the undergrowth. The perimeter was dense with life—a mix of potential prey and dangerous predators.

  “Moonfang bear,” Thoran’s voice resonated through the pack link, his wolfish grin widening as the mental image of the massive creature flickered across the connection. “Big one, too.”

  Several pack members shifted uneasily, some instinctively baring their teeth. The Moonfang bear wasn’t just dangerous—it was a test of their unity. Thoran stepped forward and shifted mid-stride into his werewolf form, his sleek wolf features elongating into a towering humanoid beast. His claws gleamed in the faint moonlight as he growled, “Stay sharp. We take it down clean. Brynna’s counting on us for this meat.”

  As the bear lumbered into view, its silver-streaked fur gleaming under the moonlight, Thoran charged. His movements were swift and feral, blending the agility of a wolf with the raw power of a human. The bear roared and swiped at him, but Thoran twisted away, his claws raking across its side. The pack surged forward, some in wolf form darting under its claws while others in werewolf form delivered powerful strikes.

  The kill was swift, the bear’s final roar fading into the night. Thoran shifted back into his human form, wiping blood from his hands. “Good work,” he said, his voice steady. “Secure the meat and pelts. We’ll leave the scraps for the scavengers.”

  Back at the Moonlit Den, Ragnar Bloodfang oversaw the hunting teams in his werewolf form. Towering over the pack, his golden eyes gleamed with authority as he barked orders. His deep, growling voice carried over the den. “No slacking! Every claw and fang needs to be ready by dawn. If you can’t fight, sharpen weapons or pack supplies.”

  Kaela approached him, remaining in human form. Her glowing staff cast soft light on his hulking figure as she spoke with a calm authority. “Pushing them too hard will only strain morale, Ragnar.”

  “They’re wolves, not kittens,” Ragnar shot back, his voice a low rumble. But after a moment, he sighed. “Fine. I’ll give them a breather once the gear’s packed.”

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  Kaela nodded, satisfied. “You’ll need them at their best for the village.”

  Meanwhile, Myron gathered intel on the nearby village. Brynna Shadowfur, still in her wolf form, had returned from a scouting mission. She shifted smoothly into human form, her sharp features illuminated by the faint moonlight. “The village isn’t as undefended as we hoped,” she reported. “They’ve fortified their walls and placed wards at key entry points. Small-time mages, but enough to make a direct assault messy.”

  Myron listened, his golden eyes narrowing. “Messy doesn’t mean impossible. How many defenders?”

  “About a dozen,” Brynna replied. “Mostly melee fighters, with a few spellcasters. The wards are the real issue—they’ll slow us down.”

  “Not if we’re faster than they can react,” Myron said sharply. “Ragnar will lead the frontal assault in his werewolf form. Brynna, you’ll take a team in wolf form to disable the wards. Fenris will circle around to cut off their escape.”

  Kaela frowned slightly, her glowing eyes meeting Myron’s. “And what if they have reinforcements?”

  “They won’t,” Myron said confidently. “Not if Thoran’s scouts are doing their job. This village is the first step toward our expansion. Failure isn’t an option.”

  In the village, the tension was palpable. A young mage named Kareth hurriedly reinforced a ward at the gate, his hands shaking as he chanted the incantation. “They’re coming,” he muttered, his voice tight with fear.

  An older warrior, Garron, stood in his leather armor, gripping a sturdy axe. He placed a reassuring hand on Kareth’s shoulder. “Hold the line. If we break, the village falls. We’ve survived worse.”

  Kareth swallowed hard and nodded, but the growing howls from the surrounding forest sent a shiver through his spine.

  As dawn broke, Myron’s pack descended on the village. Ragnar led the charge in his werewolf form, crashing through the gate with sheer brute force. His claws tore into the defenders, their cries drowned out by his feral growls. The defenders scrambled to hold their ground, but Ragnar’s presence alone sowed chaos.

  Brynna’s team, all in wolf form, darted around the battlefield, targeting the warding crystals. Their nimble movements and sharp fangs shattered the defenses one by one, sending waves of panic through the defenders.

  Fenris prowled the outskirts in his werewolf form, his glowing eyes scanning for escapees. Those who tried to flee met swift and brutal ends as he emerged from the shadows, his claws gleaming with fresh blood.

  Kaela remained at the rear in her human form, her glowing staff channeling healing energy to the frontline fighters. “Stay together!” she called out, her calm voice carrying over the chaos. “Push them back!”

  Myron observed from a vantage point in his human form, his golden eyes alight with satisfaction. The village was falling, its defenders overwhelmed by the pack’s relentless assault. This was his vision in motion—a pack united, unstoppable.

  This was how a pack should move—swift, coordinated, ruthless. No hesitation, no wasted effort. He had shaped them into something more than just hunters. They were conquerors now.

  As the dust settled, Myron strode into the village in his human form, his gaze sweeping over the ruins. Ragnar approached, his towering werewolf form dripping with blood. “The village is ours, Alpha. What’s next?”

  Myron smirked. “We consolidate, fortify, and prepare for the next move. This is just the beginning.”

  A low growl rumbled from Fenris as he stepped forward, his werewolf form fading seamlessly into human form. “Expansion means blood,” he said simply.

  “And blood means control,” Myron finished, his tone cold but triumphant. As the pack howled their victory, Myron’s golden gaze shifted to the horizon. The Primal Hunting Grounds were growing stronger, and the world of Aethel would soon know the full force of his ambition.

  Then, a sharp ding echoed in his mind. Myron’s eyes flicked to the glowing interface as a new notification awaited his attention.

  Myron’s smirk faltered—just for a second.