The night before full moon saw a late cold snap that covered the budding leaves of the trees in frost. The frozen dead leaves crunched underneath David’s feet as the four of them went for a very early morning walk – Greg had woken them all before dawn when he had transformed in his sleep, stumbling over them in the small room they shared. One night later, and they would have been in huge trouble.

Of course, if it had been the first night of full moon, Greg wouldn’t have been asleep in their room.

He was stomping ahead through the forest, cursing Pierre and the weather and his general life, by the sound of it.

“Annoying, meddlesome old sod,” David heard him grumble. “Can’t even let me sleep. I could be at Brines right now. With Thoko and the cubs. Sleep in a real bed, transform in a nice cosy basement, not this frozen hellscape. I hate those stupid cages. Bossy, bothersome old cur... curmudgeon...”

Nathan sniggered at the litany, but David wondered how much of this was Greg’s full moon irritability and how much of it was pent-up frustration.

All the other werewolves had already transformed, roaming the forest. David had spotted three groups so far, Ragna with Rhuad, Anthony, and Oli, a couple of wolves not originally from Pierre’s pack, and over there was a single she-wolf, Annabelle. Pierre himself or his pack stayed out of sight. Did the old man ever spare a thought for how hard his presence had to be on a werewolf as young as Greg? Everyone else in his pack was much, much older. They probably didn’t lose control of their own body to the point where they changed shape just because the pack leader turned?

Or did they? Morgulon had implied that Greg was less – perceptive – to an elder’s powers. But surely, someone at Bernadette’s age would still be more inured?

Perhaps separating him from Pierre would be for Greg’s own good? He could probably figure out a way to set him up with Bernadette again?

David shook his head. He would have to ask Greg again once full moon was over, whether or not he really wanted to stay with Pierre’s pack. Perhaps when they stopped at Brines. Maybe Morgulon could temper Pierre’s influence a little. Or would having two elders that powerful in the same place only make it worse?

And how would it affect the newly bitten werewolves at Deva Castle if he brought the pack there?

“Mithras’ flaming torch, I just wanted one night of bloody sleep...” Greg stopped abruptly and turned back to his brothers. “Where the hell are we?”

“At a best guess, about two miles west of the camp,” David replied. “We haven’t exactly followed a straight path. Want to go back?”

Greg groaned and swung around in a full circle twice, before throwing up his hands and walking off almost due north. “We’re going to be late for breakfast!”

“You will if you keep going that way,” David called after him. “I thought you can tell where the others are?”

“They are that way.” Greg stopped and pointed in the direction he had started in. “I think.”

“Must be doing something down at the river,” Nathan commented. “This way.”

He used his walking-spear to push aside some low-hanging branches and set off towards the camp.

“Should’ve brought food,” Greg muttered. “Should’ve stayed in camp. Should’ve punched Pierre. What’s he gotta go and transform in the middle of the night for? And why’s it so cold suddenly?”

He clearly didn’t expect an answer, but Nathan called back from his new place in the lead: “It’s called weather.”

“It’s supposed to be spring!” Greg yelled back. “Can’t believe it snowed last night, might as well have stayed in the mountains... Should’ve brought food. Real food,” he added, when Andrew reached into a pocket and offered him an apple. He took the fruit anyway.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the crunch of Greg eating, until he tossed the core and stopped again in his tracks, staring towards the north. There was a deep frown on his face as he muttered: “What are they doing over there?”

“Maybe they want to make sure the food arrives safely?”

Sometimes later in the day, a shipment of life stock was supposed to reach the camp. David would have preferred to have it arrive yesterday, given that they had to feed fourteen werewolves over full moon, but the Lackland Company had assured him faster wouldn’t be possible.

As a result, breakfast was a little tense, to say the least. Mostly since there was not, strictly speaking, a lot of breakfast to be had.

David skipped the meal altogether, simply passing his bowl to Greg. He stayed next to the kitchen to watch Nosson do the best he could with the few supplies he had left: Beans and oats. Nobody was happy with that ration, neither soldiers, nor navvies, nor werewolves who all returned for the meal.

“You don’t need to stand guard, your lordship,” Pierre growled. “You don’t really think this is the first breakfast for us that's less than satisfying?”

“Who says I’m worried about you?” David replied.

Pierre, unfortunately, wasn’t fooled. “I’m not that senile yet,” he grumbled, not quite glaring at David.

“Yet you are old enough to force Greg to change his shape even as he was asleep in the room. Which we so happen to share. While neither of us appreciates being woken in the middle of the night, I am fairly positive it was least pleasant for Greg. Perhaps, the next time you feel like taking a morning stroll, you might be bothered to not include him in the compulsion to transform?”

Pierre actually looked embarrassed at that. “I – am sorry about that. I hope nobody got hurt?”

“Asides from Greg staggering all over us? No, we didn’t get hurt. He’s got better control than that.”

“In that case, I will try to be more careful in the future.”

David nodded. He almost left it at that, but there was something about the way Pierre phrased it – or perhaps it was a side-effect of dealing with Clermont and the palace so much – that made him call: “Pierre?”

He waited for the elder to turn and look at him, giving him a wide smile as he added: “In case you – or perhaps someone else around here – were wondering just how good Greg’s control is: We do sleep with our weapons at hand. If anyone makes me shoot my little brother, even if it’s just a little, I’ll make sure that person regrets it.”

Pierre’s only answer to that thinly veiled threat was a glare and a stiff nod.

The next three days were tense, even though the food situation did improve once the shipment arrived: With the food came a flood of new workmen into the camp who had never dealt with werewolves before. It wasn’t ideal to have them start on a full moon. Lieutenant Sears had at least visited the newly bitten ones in the cells at Deva, but he and his men had never been around elder ones either, or any that were running free. They had a hard time trusting the huge group to come to the prepared cages on time.

David had, too, if he was perfectly honest. But you had to start somewhere.

And the walls of the camp were repaired to the point where they could shoot any attacking werewolves safely from above. David had had all sixteen cages lined up on one side, so that he could see at a glance how the werewolves were locked up. Hopefully, it wouldn’t just give David a better overview but also calm the werewolves a little if they could keep their whole pack in sight.

Oli was already inside his cage, padded out with a lot more straw, and even a few blankets.

Nathan and Andrew stood at David’s sides, all three of them armed with their crossbows and silver, just in case.

“There they are,” Nathan said.

Ragna, Anthony, and Rhuad were first to approach the waiting soldiers. Not Sears’ men, but veterans who knew what they were doing. Ragna took the cage right next to Oli, and Rhuad flanked the boy from the other side. Another pack forming?

Next was a single she-wolf, Annabelle. David hadn’t seen her turn human once, much like Morgulon. Pierre’s pack, including Greg, approached as soon as Annabelle was locked up, and a minute later came the last three: Laurent, Jerry, and May.

David exhaled slowly as the last metal gates closed.

“About half an hour early,” Nathan commented with a glance at his fob watch. “Nice and safe.”

“Let’s just hope tomorrow goes the same,” David commented.

It mostly went fine. All sixteen werewolves had transformed during the night, and the next morning, there was a bit of an argument with some of the new workers who loudly clamoured that the wolves shouldn’t be allowed to exit the cages at all until full moon was over. They quietened down when Oli turned human, still pale-faced.

Greg didn’t turn human, and neither did any of the other wolves, not until the third day, when it was finally over. That morning, they all transformed, and gladly accepted the water Eyal’s men brought out so they could clean up before getting dressed.

They stayed human for breakfast inside the repaired Great Hall, possibly because Nosson served a small feast. They were visibly tired, and David couldn’t help but yawn himself.

He barely even looked over when a strange werewolf sat down across from him. She took the seat right next to Andrew and stared at David while he finished his own meal, never saying anything.

David was just about to ask for her name when he recognized her. She hadn’t aged enough for her beautiful face not to be still recognizable. The only thing different about her was her eyes.

Lady Annabelle.

David couldn’t help but gape at her.

It couldn’t be her. She was dead! George Louis had told everyone –

George Louis had lied.

Of course he had lied.

There was no doubt about it. Here sat the wife of Duke George Louis, the Duchess of Mannin, who had supposedly died four months after giving birth to Prince George.

Not dead at all. A werewolf.

Annabelle ducked her head nervously, fiddling with the hemline of the simple shirt. She was clearly waiting for a reaction from him, but David had no idea what to say.

He rubbed his face with both hands and finally asked: “Did Greg tell you that Duke George Louis is leading this rebellion? Or did you see him?”

She twitched, nodded.

“David?” Andrew asked. “Something wrong?”

David stared at Annabelle, trying to figure out what he should say. Nathan seemed to have sensed that something was going on, because he was coming over. “Problem?” he asked.

“It’s not a problem as such,” David finally said slowly. “Annabelle here was – is – the wife of Duke George Louis.”

Annabelle avoided his brothers’ surprised stares, her jaws and throat working, but no words came out. With visible effort, she managed: “He tell?”

“Did he tell anyone that you got bitten?” David shook his head. “No. He claimed you died from a fever, a late complication of the birth.”

Annabelle nodded wordlessly. She just stared down onto the table.

“Do you still want to help?” David asked. “I can try to place you somewhere far away from Deva so you won’t have to meet him – unless you want to?”

He had no idea how close she and George Louis had really been. Had they even liked each other? Cared for each other? It was a bit hard to imagine, given how much George Louis had supposedly cheated on her.

There was another shrug and a long pause. “My son?” Annabelle asked finally. “Fine?”

“George is fine, yes,” David said. He rubbed the back of his neck. The prince was still bugging him that he wanted to meet “real life werewolves,” every time he visited the castle. George Louis had forbidden him from visiting the newly bitten ones in the cells of Deva Castle. Would he allow the boy to meet his werewolf mother?

“George Louis is keeping him close,” David said aloud. “He’s at Deva with him.”

Annabelle nodded. “Deva.”

“You want to go to the city with the others?”

She nodded again.

“Very well.”

“You don’t think the duke is going to – I don’t know, make trouble?” Nathan asked.

David laughed tiredly. “When isn’t George Louis making trouble? He put me in charge of all werewolves. Annabelle is old enough to count as an elder. If he doesn’t like me hiring her, that’s his own problem, not mine.”

“What if he tries to make it hers?” Andrew asked. “Or if it becomes a point of contention politically?”

The question was clearly on Annabelle’s mind, too. David wished he could have promised her that he would deal with whatever was coming. Instead, he shrugged. “Annabelle, do you want to become queen?”

Annabelle gave David a withering look. He smiled.

“There you are. I don’t see how it could become a point of contention at this point. Most people likely won’t recognize her, and if she doesn’t stake any claims... We only have to hope her family doesn’t try to blame George Louis for what happened. That might get messy.”

A husband was supposed to protect his wife, after all. If Annabelle’s parents tried to make a case that he had neglected to do so – but they would deal with that when it happened.

He owed George an apology, didn’t he? For insinuating that he had killed his wife with his own hands?

Damn.