The Moonlit Den pulsed with a quiet, otherworldly glow as Myron stepped inside. The interior was cavernous yet warm, a blend of natural wood and stone that seemed to grow organically from the earth. The air inside hummed with a primal energy, alive with the power of the moon above. Myron’s steps echoed faintly, but the den’s other occupants—a small gathering of lycanthropes—remained still, their sharp eyes fixed on him.
A glowing altar stood at the center of the den, carved with runes that shimmered faintly in the moonlight filtering through the open roof. This was the heart of his pack, the place where bonds would be forged and warriors would rise. Myron placed a hand on the cool stone, and the air grew heavier as the recruitment interface materialized before him—a translucent screen filled with glowing names and silhouettes.
“Let’s see who’s worthy,” he muttered, his voice echoing with the faint snarl of command.
The options shimmered before him, but one figure stood out—a feral lycan with sharp claws and a wild, untamed energy. Myron’s golden eyes lingered on the silhouette as he assessed its potential. The Feral Claw wasn’t just about raw power; it embodied the instinctual savagery Myron wanted to cultivate in his pack. Strength was important, yes, but it was the hunger for dominance—the relentless drive to prove oneself—that truly mattered to him.
“Feral Claw,” Myron said, and as he spoke, the runes on the altar flared. The den’s air shifted, and from the shadows emerged a young lycan, his body lean but bristling with potential. His claws gleamed as he flexed them, and his yellow eyes glowed with the eager hunger of a predator.
The Feral Claw knelt before Myron. “I am ready to hunt,” he said, his voice gravelly but strong.
“You’ll get your chance,” Myron replied, smirking. He liked the deference, but it was the predator’s edge in the young lycan’s tone that mattered more. “I expect you to earn your place.”
The Feral Claw was a reminder to the others: loyalty was important, but only if it was paired with competence. Myron didn’t want docile followers—he wanted wolves that thrived on the edge of chaos, constantly fighting to keep their place in the hierarchy.
The interface shifted, presenting the next set of options. Myron’s gaze fell on a slender figure holding a bow strung with a faintly glowing string. The Howling Bowhunter wasn’t as physically intimidating as the Feral Claw, but its precision and cunning appealed to a different part of Myron’s strategy. Power alone couldn’t conquer the Primal Hunting Grounds; he needed versatility.
“Howling Bowhunter,” he called, and again the altar flared. A wiry figure stepped forward, his movements fluid and precise. A quiver of arrows slung across his back rattled faintly, the sound like a distant wolf’s howl. His grin was sharp, and his eyes held a mischievous glint.
“Targets won’t know what hit them,” the Bowhunter said confidently, spinning an arrow between his fingers.
“They’d better not,” Myron replied, his tone dismissive but approving. A capable hunter who thrived on precision and cunning would complement the brute force of his other recruits. Myron’s leadership style thrived on balance—pitting opposites together to ensure no one got too comfortable.
When the Tier 3 options appeared, one silhouette stood out—a figure armed with both a bow and claws, radiating a deadly calm. Myron’s smirk deepened. The Moon Hunter wasn’t just a warrior; it was a hybrid, embodying the versatility Myron prized. A leader needed warriors who could adapt—lycans who could shift seamlessly between raw aggression and calculated strikes.
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“Moon Hunter,” Myron declared, and the altar’s glow deepened. From the den’s far corner, a tall lycan emerged. His bow rested casually in his hand, but his claws, faintly glimmering, hinted at his dual nature. He nodded once, his movements controlled and deliberate.
“I serve where the moon leads,” the Moon Hunter said, his voice quiet but steady.
“Then it leads you to me,” Myron replied, his smirk widening. “Let’s see if you can keep up.” The Moon Hunter wasn’t just a soldier—it was an enforcer, someone who could set the standard for the rest of the pack. Myron valued warriors who could embody his vision without constant oversight, and the Moon Hunter was a step toward that ideal.
The glow of the interface shifted again, offering choices beyond combat—those who would sustain the pack. Myron hesitated briefly, his arrogant nature warring with practicality. He couldn’t deny the importance of what came next. The strength of a pack wasn’t just in its warriors; it was in its ability to endure.
“Herbalist,” he called, and an older lycan woman stepped forward, her hair streaked with gray but her sharp eyes filled with wisdom. She carried a satchel filled with herbs, the faint scent of them calming even Myron’s restless energy.
“We will thrive with the land’s gifts,” she said simply.
“Make sure of it,” Myron replied. He didn’t like relying on those who wouldn’t fight, but he understood their value. A dead pack didn’t claim territory.
Next came the Pelt Crafter, a burly lycan whose sinewy hands already bore the calluses of hard work. “Your warriors will fight stronger, Alpha,” he promised, his voice deep and steady.
Finally, Myron’s gaze settled on a wild-looking lycan with braided hair and a fierce gleam in her eye. “Beast Tamer,” he said, and she strode forward with a massive wolf at her side, its glowing eyes locked on Myron.
“My beasts are yours to command,” she said, her voice a low growl.
“They’d better be,” Myron said, though the sight of the wolf sent a thrill of satisfaction through him. The Beast Tamer was more than a specialist—she was a force multiplier, someone who could expand his influence beyond the pack itself.
The final selections were administrative, the backbone of his growing territory. Myron called for the Pack Keeper, a calm and methodical lycan who nodded respectfully as he stepped forward. “The pack will grow under my care,” he promised.
Then came the Territory Warden, a scarred lycan with a piercing gaze. “No one will pass our borders without my knowledge,” he said, his tone unyielding.
Finally, Myron chose the Alpha’s Voice, a towering figure whose presence seemed to draw the attention of everyone in the room. “Your pack will howl in unity, Alpha,” he said, his voice a booming declaration.
For Myron, these final selections represented the spine of his pack—their ability to operate as one. His management style wasn’t about micromanaging every detail. It was about setting expectations, choosing the right lieutenants, and letting the pack sort itself out. Weakness would fall away naturally. Loyalty would come with results.
By the time the recruitment was finished, the den was alive with energy. Warriors, workers, and leaders stood before Myron, their eyes glowing with purpose and loyalty. Myron stepped forward, his boots crunching against the stone floor as he surveyed them. They were his—a reflection of his power, his ambition.
“You are the first of many,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of his arrogance. “Together, we will take this land and make it howl with our dominance.”
A primal howl erupted from the pack, their voices echoing through the den and into the moonlit forest beyond. Myron raised his hand, feeling the surge of power that came with their loyalty. It thrummed beneath his skin, a wild energy that set his blood alight. His heart pounded—not with fear, but with something deeper, something primal. This wasn’t just leadership. This was instinct, raw and undeniable. He caught himself grinning, his teeth bared in something between a smirk and a snarl. These weren’t just recruits—they were the foundation of his vision, the instruments of his dominance. And as their howls merged into one, he knew, with absolute certainty, that this was only the beginning.
The Primal Hunting Grounds were no longer just a territory—they were a stepping stone. Myron would not stop until the howl of his pack echoed across all of Aethel.
