A Werewolf's Unexpected Mate

[Gale’s POV]

We walked away from the warm, floral-scented light of the ring-toss stall, the sounds of our group’s easy chatter a soft bubble around us. As the noise of that particular crowd faded, an unbidden image flashed behind my eyes: Filafelia’s small, determined face, her odd yellow-green eyes wide with mischief and professional curiosity, walking alone in search of potion ingredients in a village this size, with so many shadowy characters around.

My feet slowed slightly. I fell into step beside Ray, who was walking with his usual long, relaxed stride, the lantern light catching on his monocle.

"Ray," I said, my voice lower than I intended.

He glanced down at me, a faint question in his orange eyes.

"That... Fizzer. She’s a witch. Most werewolves still carry an old grudge because of the Great Species War. The past isn’t forgotten." I kept my gaze forward, watching the shifting shadows of the crowd ahead. "I heard her earlier. She’s a Royal Artificer. What if some pack with a long memory and a short temper sees her traveling alone and decides to make a point?" The question came out sharper than I’d planned.

Ray’s pace didn’t change, but I felt his full attention shift to me. He looked at me, not with surprise, but with a slow, deep assessment—like he was examining a new piece on a strategy board.

"What’s with that look?" I snapped. "I’ve lived three-fourths of my life in Elphame, so I don’t know all your surface-world protocols—"

He didn’t let me finish. "No, it’s not that," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine amusement. "It’s just... rare to see you expressing concern for someone outside our immediate circle." He said it plainly, as if commenting on the weather.

"I’m not concerned," I insisted, scowling at him. "I’m... curious. There’s a difference."

He smiled, a knowing curve of his lips that was infuriating. "All Royal Artificers—whether human, werewolf, or witch—are issued a royal badge upon appointment. It’s forged with a unique sigil. They’re required to carry it when traveling." His tone became explanatory, patient. "It serves as their passport and their shield. It allows them entry into even the strictest towns that might otherwise bar a witch. More importantly, it’s a declaration of the crown’s protection. Anyone who harms a badge-bearer is seized and sent directly to Shadow Ridge Prison." He paused, letting the name hang in the air. "To be dealt with by the Warden. Zane Asher’s reputation for cold, merciless justice is... comprehensively discouraging." He finally looked back at me, his smile still in place. "I hope that lessens your... worries."

"I said I wasn’t worried!" My grip tightened on the stupid fairy stuffed toy tucked under my arm, its soft body giving under the pressure.

"But," Ray continued smoothly, as if I hadn’t spoken, "on the off-chance some stray bandits or particularly foolish outlaws don’t recognize the badge and try to ambush her... Fila isn’t helpless." His voice took on a faintly proud, mentoring note. "She’s terrible at formal spell-casting—all fizzle and no focus.But Ann spent months teaching her basic dagger work. The girl is small, but she’s quick and knows where to cut. And her real strength is her alchemy. The attack potions she brews are... unconventional. And volatile. She can protect herself quite effectively." He gave me a sidelong look. "I hope that lessens your strategic assessment a little more."

Potions and dagger? I hadn’t seen her carrying either. Then I remembered—the storage ring she’d mentioned. Of course. Everything would be in there.

I realized Ray was still looking at me, that same placid, all-knowing smile on his face.

"Stop that," I grumbled, clutching the stuffed toy like a lifeline. "I am not worried about her."

"It’s no use denying it," Ray said cheerfully. "I can smell it, you know."

"Tsk!" I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest, the plush now squashed between my elbow and my ribs. This living, breathing lie detector was no joke. His senses were a profound violation of privacy.

"Another game stall up ahead!" Ovelia’s happy voice cut through my internal debate. She was pointing, her other arm full of the vibrant bouquet, her face alight with simple excitement.

"Are we not done playing? I’m hungry already!" I complained, my stomach giving an agreeing rumble.

"Not until you and Ann have played a game," Ace stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He was still holding Ovelia’s hand, the giant wolf plush tucked under his other arm.

"Fine, let’s just get this over with," I muttered, stalking a few paces ahead of the group to get a clearer view.

The stall was crowded, with a ring of spectators standing in unusually quiet concentration. Inside, a player was frantically trying to catch thick, falling wooden sticks as they dropped one by one from a gaming machine. The focused silence of the crowd was... interesting.

•Fall & Catch Frenzy Stall•

[Ovelia’s POV]

We moved to the edge of the quiet crowd. The centerpiece outside the stall was a tall, black-lacquered gaming machine with a wide circular base. A central pole rose from it, and at the top, a curved horizontal bar held five separate, slender wooden sticks, each suspended by a metal claw.

A beautiful woman with waves of dark hair, wearing a long, elegant coat, stood inside the stall. Behind her, on a high shelf, was a display of prizes: bundles of dried herbs, carved wooden toys, copper cooking utensils, and various trinkets. But one item immediately caught my eye. It was a book, its cover shimmering and shifting color as the lantern light moved across it—deep blue in one moment, emerald green in another. From this distance, I couldn’t make out the title.

Currently, a man with sleek black hair was playing. He stood in the center of the circle, his body tense. With a series of soft snips, the claws holding the sticks released them one by one. The sticks began to fall, straight down. The man’s hands shot out—snatch, snatch, snatch, snatch! He caught four in quick succession, tucking them under his arm. He waited, eyes locked on the fifth and final stick, his body coiled.

Then, the beautiful woman inside the stall moved. With a slow, deliberate motion, she undid the buttons of her long coat and shrugged it off her shoulders, letting it hang open. The crowd inhaled a collective, sharp breath. Beneath, she wore a low-cut blouse that revealed a generous amount of cleavage. She stretched, a seemingly innocent gesture that accentuated the view.

The player’s eyes, trained on the last stick, flickered. They dropped. For just a fraction of a second, his attention wavered, drawn to the sudden, deliberate display.

I saw a man, standing off to the side with a small, boxy remote in his hand—the stall owner. He smirked and tapped a button on the remote.

The fifth stick dropped.

The player, his focus broken, fumbled. The stick clattered to the wooden floor of the stall, rolling to a stop at his feet.

A collective groan of disappointment rose from the crowd. The beautiful woman quickly pulled her coat back on, her expression one of bland innocence. The player sighed, shoulders slumping, and began gathering the sticks to re-hang them.

"This game is an obvious scam," Gale declared, his voice loud and dripping with contempt. "Let’s find another one." The force of his anger seemed to part the crowd slightly, people shuffling aside to look at the source of the outburst.

"What do you mean, a scam?" the stall owner retorted, holding up his remote innocently. "It’s not my fault if a player gets... distracted." He said the last word with a sly grin, looking pointedly at his female assistant.

Gale and Ann both turned their glares on him. Ann’s was cold and sharp; Gale’s was hot and promised creative violence. The owner took an involuntary half-step back.

"Let’s go," Ray said, his voice a calm anchor in the tension. He gave us a placating smile, already turning to guide us away.

"Are you really sure you want to leave?" the stall owner called after us, his voice taking on a wheedling tone. "Our grand prize is a limited edition, one-of-a-kind cookbook! It contains all the local dessert and pastry recipes of Meadowlark Village, passed down for generations!

" He pointed, and his assistant held up the book with the shifting cover. So that was the book. Its shimmering cover made sense now—a treasure of local knowledge.

"And!" he added, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that carried perfectly. "It includes a secret, never-before-published recipe from the village’s most famous chef, retired decades ago!"

Limited edition... all the local desserts and pastries... a secret recipe...

The words echoed in my mind, bouncing around and settling into a deep, resonant want. My fingers, holding Ace’s hand, unconsciously squeezed tight.

"Is there a problem, Lia?" Ace’s voice was close to my ear, concerned.

I flinched. "S-So sorry..." I whispered, loosening my grip. I looked down at the beautiful bouquet in my arms. This was a chance to create joy, to learn, to make new desserts that I could serve them when we got back to the palace.

"You want that cooking book?" Ann asked gently, her keen eyes missing nothing.

I nodded, unable to form words. The desire was a physical pull.

"Like I said, it’s a scam," Gale reiterated, crossing his arms, the fairy plush looking absurdly grumpy in his grip.

I took a deep breath, the scents of the festival—sugar, woodsmoke, sweat—filling my lungs. I looked up, meeting the stall owner’s greedy gaze, then at the beautiful, impassive woman holding the book. I thought of the quick, cruel trick with the coat. I thought of the falling sticks.

"I... I want to play," I said, my voice firmer than I expected.

Gale looked at me as if I’d announced I intended to fly.

"I think I can catch those sticks," I continued, conviction growing like a warm flame in my chest. I shook my head, correcting myself. "No. I will catch all five of those sticks."

Ray was already moving. He stepped back up to the counter, his posture relaxed but his presence suddenly dominating the space. "How much per round?" he asked, his voice devoid of all warmth now. It was the voice of the General conducting a transaction.

"Twenty spina," the owner said, his greedy smile returning.

Ray gave the owner a coin, and the owner quickly accepted it.

Ace’s hand let go of mine. I felt his touch instead on the crown of my head—a warm, steadying pressure. "Go for it," he said. His voice was low, and when I looked up, he gave me a faint, encouraging smile that reached his eyes, just for me.

I nodded, a real smile breaking through my determination. I carefully handed my precious bouquet to Ann, who took it with a solemn nod, as if accepting a sacred duty.

I would get that book.