Chapter 347: Early Ambush
Winter Solstice was near.
And just like every single year, without fail and mercy, without the basic human decency to ask before descending like a plague of well-meaning locusts, Arkai Dawnoro’s pesky beastlord "friends" were gathering to bother him.
Knowing he was residing at his Capital Residence this time of year, they had descended enthusiastically, coordinated like a natural disaster.
Food appeared. Alcohol materialized. The kitchens, which had been operating at a calm, reasonable pace appropriate for a noble household—
...were suddenly commandeered by a rotating cast of beasts who all claimed to have brought "the good venison" and "a cask of that mead you liked twenty years ago, remember?" and "my grandmother’s recipe, you’ll love it, shut up and eat."
Of course, Arkai was the only one uninformed.
Everyone else, the servants, the guards, the kitchen staff, perhaps even Cecilia herself, had been notified days in advance.
The beastlord network, especially the ones more than a century old, was efficient and completely dedicated to ensuring that Arkai Dawnoro could never, ever anticipate when he was about to be ambushed by affection.
Most of the attendees were same-aged lords with a century or more tucked under their belts. Old enough to remember when the north was wilder, when the borders were bloodier, when Arkai himself had been a young wolf with more teeth than sense.
Some were his direct vassals. Others were acquaintances from the past twenty or thirty years, beasts he had met in battle or trade or the strange, meandering social web of long-lived creatures who measured friendship in decades rather than seasons.
The point was to give Arkai Dawnoro a surprise birthday banquet prior to the Winter Solstice itself.
Why?
Obviously, because they did not want him to anticipate the ambush and flee.
Arkai Dawnoro, the Black Wolf King of the North, terror of the borderlands, survivor of a hundred battles and a volcanic eruption, had a well-documented tendency to vanish when he caught wind of an impending celebration.
He would find urgent business elsewhere. He would suddenly remember a border dispute that required his immediate attention. He would simply not be there when the guests arrived, leaving them to drink his wine and eat his food without him, which they would do happily, but it was the principle of the thing.
So. Surprise banquet. Prior to the actual birthday. He would never see it coming.
Today, Arkai, who knew Cecilia had an appointment alone, who had initially planned to spend these quiet hours plotting the perfect romantic birthday date with his wife, complete with candles and furs and that vintage of northern wine she had mentioned liking, was instead standing in his own great hall, watching it fill with beasts.
Anton Vasiliev led the invasion.
"Cousin!" Anton’s voice boomed across the hall, scattering servants and making several wall hangings tremble. He had truly returned to full health. "I brought people!"
Behind him, the floodgates opened.
Lord Berengar of the Airovud Pack, who was also a grizzled wolf with silver streaking his dark fur even in humanoid form, his left ear missing a chunk from some ancient battle he refused to discuss, carried an entire roasted boar on one shoulder.
"Lord." Berengar greeted. "I brought the boar. You’re welcome. Where’s the mead?"
Lord Caius of the Silverpine Clan, exactly a hundred years old this year, a fox beastlord whose humanoid form was unnervingly beautiful, all sharp cheekbones and amber eyes and silver, flowy hair that fell like water, glided in behind Berengar, carrying nothing heavier than a small, ornate box.
He never carried things. That was what other people were for.
"Kek, Your Majesty, finally you’re going to get married, huh? Congrats." Caius mocked. "I brought saffron. Real saffron. Do you know what I had to do to get real saffron far north in winter? You will weep when you taste what I make with it. Weep. Openly."
Lady Drusilla of the Siocmane Herd, a werereindeer matriarch whose human half was weathered and handsome and whose beast lower half was a massive build in dappled grey, had to duck significantly to enter the hall.
She carried two casks of something that sloshed promisingly, one under each arm.
"Your Majesty Arkai Dawnoro!" She greeted him warmly. "I brought the good stuff. The actual good stuff. Not the swill Anton tries to pass off as ’vintage.’"
"My vintage is excellent—" Anton protested.
"Your vintage tastes like fermented regret and horse piss."
"That’s the point, Dru. It’s traditional—"
Lord Theron of the Niyol Flight, an eagle beastlord whose humanoid form retained the piercing golden eyes and the faint, feathery texture to his silver-white hair, had simply appeared on the balcony overhead without using the door.
"I brought clouds." Theron said. "No, truly. I arranged for light cloud cover tomorrow so the sun would not glare in your eyes. I’ve even calculated the wind direction. You’re welcome. Also I brought cheese."
Lord Vladik of the Eshkura Clan, a panther beastlord so dark-furred that his humanoid form seemed to absorb light, his yellow eyes gleaming from the shadows like twin moons, had leaned beside the fireplace like he owned the space. "Where’s your Luna, Lord? I brought high quality pelts. Also more meat!"
Lady Yolanda of the Mowa Coven, a serpent beastlord whose lower half long and filled the space, her dark hair cascading down her back like oil, her eyes slit-pupiled, had brought an entire retinue of attendants carrying covered dishes.
They steamed and smelled of spices no northern kitchen had any right to contain. "Lord Dawnoro, our beloved." She hissed. "I have been perfecting my spiced lamb since last year."
By every measure, this was actually a small birthday banquet.
The great hall of Arkai Dawnoro’s Capital Residence was hosting perhaps a bit more than a dozen individuals. Most were aides or assistants.
It was a modest gathering by any noble standard, like a "quiet" evening among friends, if one squinted and ignored the roasted boar, the casks of suspicious vintage, and the serpent lady’s retinue of attendants.
These people rarely went public, after all. Their exclusive interests applied only to exclusive connections, the kind of beings who had lived long enough to value discretion over spectacle, intimacy over ostentation.
But even if that was true, even if they were reclusive and selective and disinterested in the broader social whirl of beastlord society, they still could not be compared to the Black Wolf King, Arkai Dawnoro himself.
He was simply... more.
More powerful. More influential. More terrifying. The kind of being that other powerful, terrifying beings still got nervous around.
They might still get scared of him. They might still kneel for him, if circumstances demanded it. The weight of his name was not diminished by familiarity. If anything, familiarity made it worse, because they knew exactly what he was capable of and chose to be here anyway.
But perhaps, they were the closest thing Arkai Dawnoro could still call "friends."
Companions. People who showed up at his home unannounced, filled his hall with noise and chaos, insulted his cousin’s wine, and demanded he enjoy himself. People who had known him for decades, centuries, and still chose to return.
It was... something.
Arkai sighed resignedly.
"Since you are all here," he said, his voice cutting through the cheerful chaos, "let us celebrate Anton’s full recovery as well."
Anton Vasiliev glared at him. The expression was pure disgust.
"Don’t push the celebration to me!" Anton’s voice boomed across the hall. "You’re the star today! Don’t dodge the well wishes, you little shi—"
"Tch." Arkai spat. "Coward."
The hall erupted.
Everyone started to laugh and celebrate. They bowed at Arkai with funny flair, deep, sweeping gestures that were half respect and half mockery, and extended their gifts toward him with roaring cheers.
A cask was thrust into his line of sight. A platter of something that smelled incredible. A bolt of fabric so fine it seemed to shimmer in the lamplight. A small, carved figurine of a wolf, clearly priceless, offered with a grunt and a nod.
Arkai grimaced. He plugged one of his ears with his pinky finger.
But everyone knew that his annoyance was the real reward here. The gift they were all actually giving him was the opportunity to be annoyed.
"By the way, Lord." Lord Vladik asked. "Where is your Luna? Is she busy?"
A ripple of interest passed through the gathered beasts.
"Nah." Caius dismissed lazily, his amber eyes glittering with mischief. The fox beastlord swirled his wine and smirked. "It is likely just him exhausting her in bed, yes?"
"Hey." Lady Drusilla’s voice cut in, warm and rough. The werereindeer matriarch had already opened one of her casks and was drinking directly from it. "She is rumored to be a dragon. Would she not be the one exhausting him?"
"Pfff—"
The sound escaped from multiple throats simultaneously, laughter, barely suppressed. Some quickly hid themselves behind goblets and hands and sudden, intense interest in the ceiling.
Arkai glared.
His legendary silent menace came out. His black eyes swept across the gathered beasts, and one by one, they reacted according to their natures.
Caius giggled, utterly unrepentant. Berengar looked away, his mutilated ear twitching. Lady Yolanda coiled slightly, her serpentine lower half shifting. Several of the younger beasts hid behind their neighbors coquettishly.
"She had an appointment today." Arkai said flatly. "And I was supposed to plan something for my time with her on my actual birthday. You all ruined my planning sess—"
"Take her to my tribe!" Lord Theron said. "There is a beautiful waterfa—"
"My territory’s scenery is superior—"
"A beach! There is a cove—"
"Ah, ah! I know! There is this spicy club hotel—"
Arkai’s eye twitched. "Did I ask you to suggest—"
"No, no, no." Lady Drusilla waved her cask, sloshing whatever was inside. "Stargazing is very popular these days. The young people love it. You take her to a high place, lay out furs, bring warm wine—"
"My territory has the clearest skies—"
"The northern lights are visible from my—"
"There is a hot spring that—"
The suggestions piled on top of each other, overlapping and competing, each beastlord convinced that their idea was the obviously superior one. Arkai stood in the center of the chaos, his eye twitching, his ears ringing, and let it wash over him.
Everyone ate while they argued, and Arkai, despite himself, enjoyed it.
The noise. The chaos. The affectionate harassment. It was only once a year, after all. Once. And they had decided, without consulting him, that it must be his birthday.
Arkai did not dislike the party because they were throwing him a celebration. He disliked it because why did it have to be his birthday?
He knew they could only gather once a year. Their territories were vast, their responsibilities endless, and their lives scattered across the continent. Unless there was an invitation formally extended like his announcement banquet not long ago, they couldn’t just arbitrarily gather.
Once a year, they could all be in the same place without an official reason at the same time.
So why did it have to be for him?
Why couldn’t it be for any of their birthdays instead? Berengar’s. Drusilla’s. Caius’s hundredth, which had passed earlier this year with minimal fanfare because Caius had refused to allow anyone to celebrate it.
They all refused. Every single one of them. When their birthdays approached, they waved off Arkai’s attempts to reciprocate. No, no, this is your thing. We don’t need— It’s fine, really— Another time, perhaps—
Perhaps it was because he was the only one who had not yet had a spouse. For so long, he had been the solitary wolf, the Black Wolf King who ruled alone, who slept alone, who faced the centuries without a partner to share them.
Perhaps they had decided that he needed this more than they did. That the annual gathering was a gift they could give him, a reminder that he was not as alone as he sometimes seemed.
Perhaps it was also because he had the strongest influence and power among beasts compared to them. The Black Wolf King commanded respect in ways that the others simply did not.
Celebrating him was, in some sense, celebrating all of them. Acknowledging the hierarchy while also transcending it, because here, in this hall, they were just friends.
But still—
"Urk—"
Arkai choked on his wine.
The liquid went down wrong, or perhaps it was not the wine at all.
He felt it.
Wet.
Tight.
A vivid phantom feeling of being inside—
Wrapped in undulating, succulent walls that gripped and released and gripped again. Heat. Pressure. The unmistakable, maddening sensation of being sucked. Milked. Drawn into a rhythm that his body recognized even as his mind reeled.
His eyes rolled up into his skull.
Full-body pleasure crashed through him like a wave, drowning out the noise of the hall, the warmth of the wine, and the presence of his friends.
His fingers clenched around his goblet, knuckles going white, and he had to physically fight to keep his expression from collapsing into something fatally indecent.
One of his brothers—
One of his brothers was fucking his wife.