Illando returned home still wrestling with his feelings.

His den lay in one of the more rugged parts of the Silk, if the word really applied. In the centre of Wildhearth, the Silk was the city's vibrant beating heart, awash with wealth, sheathed by steel and glass, and throbbing with political intrigue, especially now. On its edges, however, there was a blurring of the lines between the districts and the centre, a barrier layer where the common citizens of Wildhearth meshed with the powerful elite of the Conclave of Accord.

It was on this dividing line that Illando and his pack lived. His den sprawled comfortably across the border of the Mellit Haar District, a place packed to the gunnels with enforcers, Conclave security and high ranking watchguards. Some of the more down-to-earth Designates from the Conclave were happy to make their residence here too, but mostly Mellit Haar was home to Wildhearth's most trusted, and most violent servants.

The den itself looked like a big, overturned bowl, fashioned from smooth bricks of dark ceramic and studded with small circular windows that glowed invitingly in the night. No longer clad in his enforcer armour, Illando dragged himself wearily to the main door, now wearing a more comfortable black kilt and loose-fit grey bodywrap. He fumbled in his kilt pocket for his scent key; yawned fitfully. It had been a long bloody day.

Illando longed to stay out of the politics, but Hera's actions had thrust the normally clandestine dealings of the enforcers into the light. The rest of the city had been shown the ugliest side of wolfkin ambition, and didn't like it much at all. Kin on the outskirts already treated the enforcers with distrust. Thanks to Hera that was beginning to boil over into open hostility. On top of that, there had still been no formal replacement announced to command the enforcers.

Illando and the other loyalists had cobbled together a command structure to stamp out the last of Hera's followers, but things still teetered on a knife edge. He hated it. He just wanted things to go back to the way they were, when the mere mention of the wolfkin enforcers had been enough to scare the city into line.

Sighing, he tugged the scent key – a small flat rectangle loaded to match his own unique musk – from his pocket, and inserted it into the slot beside the door. A couple of seconds trawled by as the formidable locking mechanism, checked, checked and triple checked the combination of scent and Illando's enforcer credentials, before rather begrudgingly bleeping its acceptance. The light on the control panel shifted from red to green.

Can't be too careful.

Especially now. Hera's stupidity, as well as nearly turning Wildhearth's entire government upside down, had the added joy of having made every wolfkin in the city a target for kin with a claw to sharpen. However justified their grievances might have been, Illando would kill anyone who tried to take it out on his pack.

The heavy door slid open, revealing the warm brown ceramic of the entryway. A broad chamber ten feet across opened out as a reception area, and at the far side a cylindrical passage led down into the main hearth, lit with a handful of electric lamps strung along the ceiling. From further down the tunnel Illando could see the glow of the den's main hearth, a fire that never truly went out.

His footpaws rasped gently against the smooth floor, a gentle heat warming them from beneath the hardmud. Enforcer salaries certainly covered some luxuries, he reflected wryly, loping down the gentle curve of the hall and into the den itself.

Much larger than the entrance, Illando's hearth formed a sprawling circle around the central burning firepit. The pit sank several feet down into the foundations, glowing with the last embers of the day. Stacks of logs and ceramic basins packed with coal were scattered round its edges, and beyond them a haphazard arrangement of hammocks, chairs, couches and cushions spilled away, like someone had packed them all into a bucket and slung the whole lot out across the floor.

At seemingly random intervals around the edges arches opened up to private rooms, some open, some closed off by cured barkhide and crushed leaf curtains. Half a dozen wolfkin milled around in the central space, lounging, eating and drinking. There were thirteen of them that lived here in total – three mated pairs and a scattering of younger wolves still finding their way in the world. Paws raised and barks of greeting echoed through the hearth as Illando entered.

"Ay, ay, look what the night dragged in!" drawled a lithe-limbed male currently busying himself at the den's long arc of a kitchen area on Illando's left. The wolf turned to flash a fanged smile over his shoulder. "Looks like y'could use some shine in your coat, Illando." A smokey glass bottle seemed to materialise in one paw, half-full with a golden liquor. "Lasher?"

"You're a mind reader, Tross," Illando chuckled, crossing the room and gratefully accepting the bottle. He examined it briefly. "This from your new batch?"

"Ay, two days to the good. Best drunk fresh from the barrel." Tross grinned, sliding a glass over to him.

"I'll take one of those," a light, gravelly voice chimed across the chamber. Illando turned, lounging back against the kitchen worktop on his elbows. A smile crawled across his face as the curtain to his private room swept back, and his mate stepped out, the sight of her doing more to settle his mind than any quantity of lasher could.

Cephia was a powerfully built young wolfkin, with a luscious coat of alabaster and charcoal and long, sweeping locks of pearl-white headfur. Eyes the colour of a searing blue fire twinkled as she looked at him, her muzzle parting in a sly grin that exposed her perfectly curved canines. She was as beautiful as the day he'd laid eyes on her, clad in a full length bodywrap of pale green that tightly hugged the contours of her body, cinched at the waist with a black cord, where it split to glide down the front and back, revealing her legs on either side. Her bushy tail swished back and forth as she crossed the den towards him.

There was a rasp of glass against stone as Tross slid a second glass across the worktop.

Illando poured them each a measure of the lasher, handing one to Cephia as she reached him. She gave him a sultry smile, sidling up alongside him and clinking her glass with his. They both drank deep and he exhaled hard through his teeth as the potent liquor torched its way down his throat.

"Cheers," Cephia said, turning the glass back and forth in her paw before winking at Tross. "One of your better brews."

He treated her to an exaggerated bow. "High praise, milady."

"Careful now." Her teeth flashed and she cuffed the other wolfkin lightly around the ear. "Wouldn't do to have you mocking your alphas, would it?"

"Wouldn't dream of it." Tross hopped back out of her reach, grimacing. "I'm glad it hits the spot."

Illando smirked, coiling a paw around Cephia's waist and tugging her close. "She's right, Tross. Damn fine brew."

"Well, it never hurts to have more tasters," the brewmaster replied. He raised the bottle, beckoning to the other wolfkin in the hearth. "Up off your paws, you lot. Come give a little toast to a job well done, ay?"

The other members of the pack didn't need much convincing. They scrambled from their places and eagerly gathered around the kitchen, extracting glasses of their own.

"How was your hunt?" Cephia asked as Tross dished out more measures of his lasher to the others.

"Successful." He took another sip of lasher. "That should be the last of Hera's lackeys feeding the Fire tonight."

"Good." Her expression darkened, claws tinkling against the side of her glass. "That mongrel bitch has caused us all enough trouble."

"Peace'n'Fire, how'd we come to killing our own?" rumbled another male named Brusser. He shook his head, arms folded across his broad chest. "Doesn't feel right." The beta male of the pack, he was a stocky, black-furred wolf who ran private security for some of Wildhearth's largest freight carriers.

Beside him, his mate, Ampheera, nodded emphatically. "I'll take no pleasure in fratricide." Though she was slim and light-framed for a wolfkin, she carried the same unmistakable air of predatory grace that characterised their species. She took a delicate sip of lasher, eyes downcast, tucking a stray look of dark headfur back between her ears.

"Nor I," Illando agreed. "But what choice did I have?"

She shrugged apologetically. "None. I know that."

"No-one's judging," Tross piped up. "It's just a... grim business."

"Dealt with not before time," Cephia said firmly. Her paw tightened around her glass as she took a fresh sip. "The Conclave's a mess right now. Designates are openly campaigning as anti-wolfkin. There have been death threats, even against some of my guards. We've had to detail extra security for wolfkin designates and technicians."

Illando felt a roil of anger in his gut. "Your commanders can't let that stand."

"Some will, some won't." She sighed, spreading her paws. "Even in the guard ranks I've had to knock some heads together. Everyone's looking at us like we're still part of Hera's game."

"Fangs'n'Fire."

"Aye, she's right," Brusser interjected with a solemn nod. "It's dangerous out there right now. Other kin don't care what you've been doing to make amends. They look at us and all they can see is fear."

"Hera put a lot of them through the burn of the Fire," Ampheera said. "I can't say I blame them."

"I can," Illando growled back, turning to Cephia. "We had nothing to do with Hera or her... experiments. A gang of bigoted loudmouths running the Conclave is the last thing Wildhearth needs. If you need support-,"

"We can handle it," she assured him. "And, honestly, I don't think involving more wolfkin will help. In fact, it would probably make things worse." A rueful smile crossed her face. "As far as the rest of the city is concerned, the enforcers don't have their trust right now. You've got a long way to go to earn it back."

*

A rhythmic banging on the outer door of the den roused Illando from a troubled sleep.

He jerked awake, instantly alert, claws curling against the blankets. Beside him, Cephia twisted into wakefulness, blue eyes flashing in the dark and teeth baring automatically. She pressed up against him, grabbing his arm with one paw. He blinked; glanced at the solar clock embedded in the wall of the room. Darkfour, pretty much the middle of the night at this time of year. His teeth clenched in annoyance.

"Who in the bloody Fire would that be?" Cephia hissed, her smooth features crumpling into a glower that could have melted stone.

"Let's find out," he murmured, sliding out of the bed and out of her grasp. "I don't think anyone dumb enough to pick a fight would bother knocking."

Cephia scowled as he buckled on his kilt, and Illando relented slightly, scooping up a short-hafted axe from the weapon rack on the wall of their room. He tapped a claw against its single head, the dark metal ringing in the quiet of the den.

The knock sounded again, more insistent this time.

Cephia rolled loose of the bedclothes, quickly flinging on a short kilt of her own and a flimsy, sleeveless bodywrap of pale blue. Her paw closed around a curved longclaw dagger and she straightened up, sweeping her white headfur back out of her eyes.

"Let's go see who wants to piss off sleeping wolves, eh?" she growled.

He couldn't contain a smirk. Cephia's firebrand temper was just one of the many things he loved about her. There was no-one better to have at your back in a fight, especially if your foes had just rudely interrupted her sleep.

With her close behind, he pushed the curtain aside and stepped out into the hearth. The heads of several other wolfkin poked out in a scattering of frowns and glares, expressions ranging from the confused to the outright furious.

"What's going on?" Brusser asked, keeping his voice low.

"Late night caller – nothing to worry about," Illando grated. "Get back to your beds. We'll deal with this."

Brusser frowned, but he wasn't about to challenge the pack's alpha pairing over something like this. He dipped his head in acknowledgement and slid back into the shadows. Illando and Cephia set off up the entrance tunnel to the front door of the den, and they reached in time for a third round of knocks to echo down towards them. His grip tightened on the axe and he gave Cephia a small nod before moving up the threshold.

The heavy metal door had a thin slit of reinforced glass at eye level. Illando moved over to it, his burning golden eyes reflecting faintly as he peered out into the night. A stab of confusion shot through him and he raised an eyebrow at what he saw on the other side.

"Interesting," he murmured.

"Who's out there?"

"I think we've got a couple of visitors from the Conclave."

And with that, Illando opened the door, to reveal two individuals in grey, unmarked armour. A male wolfkin, ashen-furred and slender, stood alongside a massive female bearkin that towered over all of them like some kind of obelisk. She had dark brown fur, and was one of the largest individuals Illando had ever clapped eyes on, having to stoop a little just to see under the door frame. Instinctively he eased the axe into sight, letting the pair see that he was armed.

"My apologies for calling on you unannounced," the wolfkin said, his tone infuriatingly bright in spite of the late hour. "You are Enforcer Pack-Leader Illando?"

"That's me," he replied, still not taking his eyes off the bearkin. "Can I help you?"

"My name is Officer Remore." A dip of the head to the bearkin. "This is my colleague, Officer Careah. We've been sent with a message."

"A message from who?" Cephia cut in, moving protectively up behind Illando, her snout twitching distrustfully.

Remore's eyes shifted to her. He looked the female wolfkin up and down, made a disinterested hmm sound, before turning his attention back to Illando. "From the Conclave."

"I'm not on duty," Illando told him flatly.

"I'm aware of that."

"You're not part of Conclave security," Cephia growled. He could feel the suspicion rolling off of her like radiation. "Who do you work for?"

"I'm afraid that you, Guard-Leader Cephia," Remore answered, still utterly calm, "do not have the clearance to ask that question. All you need to know is that we are a new branch of Conclave Security, and we are here to speak to Illando, not you."

"Then what's so urgent you had to come battering down my door in the middle of the night?" Illando asked quickly before Cephia could answer, feeling her tense up with indignant anger. "I don't care who you are, or who you work for. If you need something from the enforcers, go through the proper channels."

"I'm afraid we are not here in an official capacity," the wolfkin replied. "We were told to ask for you directly."

Illando could feel his hackles rising, a growl beginning to boil in the back of his throat. "Why?"

"Wildhearth is in a dangerous place right now," the bearkin, Careah, finally spoke. Her voice was deep and rich, like someone was pouring honey right into his ears. "I believe you know that."

"Of course I know," Illando snapped. "What in the Peace and Fire do you think I've been doing for the last month?"

"We know the lengths you've gone to in an effort to eliminate Hera's legacy," Remore said. "That is why we are here."

"The new High Alpha would like to speak with you in person," Careah continued in her syrupy voice, shifting aside slightly and gesturing with one massive paw to the streets behind her. "We have been sent to escort you for an audience, because we have a job for you."