The Extra Wants Control

Chapter 30: They are here 4

[ Werewolf Territory]

The continents, once rearranged by some unknown force, were shifting back. Their ancestral homeland, the island they'd fought tooth and nail to claim independence on, was now rejoining the very Beastmen continent they'd spent centuries shunning.

The armistice with the Beastmen, a fragile peace forged after a brutal war, felt like a cruel joke now. The werewolves, proud and independent, were about to be thrust back into the uneasy alliance they'd broken free from. Stories of the past war, the clash of claws and fangs, the reeking stench of spilled blood, flooded Logan's thoughts.

A man, his skin the rich hue of polished mahogany, burst into the training room, his voice echoing. "Alpha! Those creatures are attacking again!" Muscles tensed beneath his black hair as he awaited the Alpha's response.

The Alpha, a towering figure with a mane of black locks forming natural dreadlocks, grunted as he unleashed another brutal blow against the sandbag. Sweat dripped from his hazel eyes that narrowed in concentration. "Deal with it, Agon," he rumbled.

"Shall I send my pack?" The man queried, ever eager to prove himself.

The Alpha paused mid-punch, considering for a moment. "No. Send Calvin's pack. They're better suited for this terrain."

"Understood," Agon bowed before hurrying away to relay the orders.

Alone again, Logan turned toward a holographic display that flickered to life, revealing a regal tiger queen. "Now then," he growled, a low rumble emanating from his chest, "what could you possibly want with me, Tiger Queen?"

"Why the sudden call, Tiger Queen?" Logan rumbled, his voice laced with a hint of defiance.

"The reason is obvious, mutt," she snarled. "The Beastmen war council convened. Why were you not present?"

"My people fought for their independence from the Beastmen label," Logan retorted, his jaw set. "We are Werewolves, not simply Beastmen lumped in with the rest. We are stronger, smarter, we are better! We stand alone."

The tiger queen let out a derisive snort. "Bold claims for a declining race. With your father's demise by my hands the last straw you clung on is gone, your race's strength faded, mutt. You lot are weak now. And you," she continued, her voice dripping with disdain, "will never reach demigod status. Your pack mentality prevents it.

To birth a demigod, your race needs seven eleven-star wolves to submit to that wolf as Alpha. Do you see that happening? How long has it been since a Werewolf reached eleven stars? You yourself haven't even achieved that rank. Submit, Alpha Logan, or face the consequences."

With a final, menacing glare, the projection flickered and died.

Her words were a venomous whip, slicing through Logan's pride. He clenched his fists, frustration coursing through him. "Damn her," he muttered. His father's ill-advised actions towards the tiger queen had left his entire race at her mercy. Werewolves are now her spoils of war which she will claim.

The tiger queen ended the call abruptly, leaving Logan alone with his turmoil. "Should I submit and play nice until I'm strong enough to break free?" he pondered. But the thought was quickly dismissed. That queen was too cunning, too ruthless to leave any room for disobedience.The tigress is too cunning.

"This war... why now, when we are so ill-equipped?"

Logan stared out the window, a storm brewing on the horizon, mirroring the turmoil within him. The burden of leadership, the weight of his ancestors' legacy, and the threat of war pressed down on him, forcing him to make a difficult decision – submit or fight a battle they will not win.

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While the other races schemed and panicked, the vampires of their continent reveled in the brewing chaos. War? To these creatures of the night, it was a feast, a spectacle, a replenishing of their very sustenance. Decades of enforced peace had left them yearning for the hunt, the thrill of the kill.

Their land was ruled by the Vampire Queen, a fearsome being who demanded nothing less than absolute strength from her court. The four Count Clans – Chatham, Blanche, Lenoir, and Mordred – were the highest authorities answering directly to her. Unlike the elaborate titles of other courts, these Counts bore a simple, yet powerful, moniker. Why were there no Dukes or Marquises?

The Queen herself had declared it – only the strongest deserved such titles, and these four vampires were all certified ten-star powerhouses, but still not upto her standards.

In a grand chamber, the Counts convened. "Any word from the Queen?" Count Mordred, a man with a predatory grace, with crimson eyes and a predatory grace, was the first to break the tense silence.

Count Levoir, a tall and stoic figure, shook his head. "The Queen expects us to handle our affairs. Approaching her with a mere war is an invitation to… well, let's just say not to tempt fate."

"Mere?" scoffed Count Blanche, a figure cloaked in dark robes. "Is a racial war considered minor these days? Though, yes, we can handle it ourselves. But I'd prefer it if you didn't call it 'mere'. Afterall it'll be a stage for races to show off" Blanche said with amusement. She too was eager for this war and doesn't want anybody call it 'mere' cause she'll get to fight so many beings.

"She'll step in if things escalate," said Count Chatham, her voice brimming with fervor and a hint of something else – admiration. "For now, I'll deal with this attacker personally."

The room crackled with a sudden tension. Mordred leaned closer, a curious glint in his eyes. "Chatham, are you considering a challenge for the throne? You're nearing eleven stars…"

A dangerous glint flickered in Chatham's eyes. "Mordred," she hissed, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Have you been feeding on goblin blood lately? It seems to have dulled your wits. You've never met the Queen. You have never faced the Queen, nor do you understand the monstrous power she wields.

Another word of that nature, and your reign ends here." Her threat was underscored by the icy glint of a drawn sword and a surge of potent aura.

Mordred flinched under the pressure of her rage. A flicker of fear, quickly masked by bravado, flitted across Mordred's face. "Just asking," he muttered, his bravado quickly crumbling.

LeNoir, ever the pragmatist, cut through the tension. "We welcome war," he rumbled, "but we don't court chaos. We shall hunt with vicious efficiency. Bolster defenses, organize the armies. Every vampire has a part to play. In times of war, all fangs shall be unsheathed."

"Okay." Agreed the two Counts except Mordred who said " I don't really like you giving me orders but I'll do it just this once."

" It was a suggestion... but if you want to fight I'll gladly take you on. Oh please give me a reason to kill you Mordred, please, I've been rather bored for the past couple of centuries will you help be relieve my boredom. Ohh please say yes." Levoir's grin widened, a touch of sadistic amusement in it. He said, his aura flaring as the air crackled with barely contained power.

"Muscle-headed brute," Mordred muttered, fear momentarily replacing his 'bravado' before he masked it completely.

Sensing the standoff wouldn't be productive, Countess Chatham spoke up once more. "Meeting adjourned. I have invaders to welcome." With that, she swept out, leaving the others to their tasks.

The remaining Counts exchanged a silent glance. With a nod and a flicker, they disappeared too, leaving the chamber empty once more. The silence held a chilling weight, a promise of a coming storm – a storm the vampires craved.