The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

Messenger

Their afternoon is much the same as the last, the group spending their time holed away in Laren’s office, teaching and instructing Irving on his fighting technique. As if Rick senses her need to process all of the new information, he leads the charge, falling easily back into his former boots of tavern owner. Mora watches the training without actually seeing anything; her mind and heart are struggling with the prospect of becoming a Sovereign Queen.

The evening and night is a blur. She feels herself replying when addressed but her mind is so far absent that she doesn’t even realize she is alone in her room until Gladys reaches out and touches her shoulder.

“Queen Namora? Are you all right?” the woman’s voice is soft and hesitant as she withdraws her hand.

Mora glances around, finding herself seated on the couch before her fireplace. She reaches up and rubs her face, “I think I just need some rest, Gladys. Thank you.”

“Of course, my lady,” with a stiff bow, the handmaid sees herself out.

Though her body says it is time to rest, her mind cannot even focus on that. Mora paces the length of the room before finally stopping in front of her desk and the large wooden box on top of it. It is not the time to deal with the secrets inside of it but she feels compelled to pull out the large book and the wooden cylinder. Perhaps forcing herself to decode some of the text will give her the ability to refocus her attention on something, on anything.

Her progress is slow; the symbols on the cipher are so vastly different from the writing she was taught. Their elegant strokes seem to flow from right to left, tiny details of added dots or tails on them change their meanings. It is almost as if the language itself was created to be art, to represent a beauty found within the world around instead of imposing a foreign symbol to represent it.

She knows better than to write the translation down onto paper, as that will make it more dangerous simply by making it easier for anyone but her to understand. Instead, she painstakingly memorizes each sacral, referring frequently back to the cipher, softly repeating the words aloud as they are revealed to her. When she finally makes it through the first full page, she discovers that the text is a fable about the origin of island that makes up the land.

They are the world builders, They are the life givers.

They are the beings who placed each star in the night sky, They are the ones who tasked the sun and moon with their cycles.

When They saw our world, our solitary drop of water, They took pity upon it.

They dove into the oceans and from the heart of our mother They pulled up the land.

Upon each land They bestowed a Gift of life: the spirit of steadfast, the charisma to accomplish, the strength to protect, the durability to withstand.

It is from this Gift that the first immortals were created, those who were tasked with guardianship, the shepherds of the first beings of man.

Upon completion of service, each immortals made a replacement, using the Gift that They bestowed upon the land, just as those before them had done, just as those after them will do.

It is our duty as these shepherds to not only protect our flock but to protect the Gift that They granted us, for without it life cannot exist.

Mora leans back in the chair as the fable washes over her. She has never been one to put stock in the tales of old yet she knows that every fable has some truth to it and she knows exactly what truth this one reveals-immortals are not born, they are made.

Quickly she closes the cipher and book, locking them both back into the wooden box. She attempts to shut her eyes, yearning for sleep to call to her yet it does not. Her mind, though scattered all day is now keenly focused on the fable. She speculates that if she reads further into the book, she will discover the process of how to create an immortal.

Before she knows it, she is on her feet; she sweeps the box up into her arms and crosses the room swiftly to stand before the fire. The knowledge in her hands is more powerful than any one should ever be privy to, it is dangerous and if someone else were to get ahold of it, it wouldn’t just be Derven at risk, it would be the entire world. She leans forward, fully prepared to set the box in the flames, to remain in ignorance of all in order to avoid disaster. The heat coming off of the fire singes her delicate hands, yet she hesitates.

She does not know why.

Grabbing her cloak, she slips into the secret passage, placing the box just inside of it. Her heart races in her chest, her hands shaking as she stands in the darkness of the narrow hallway, staring downwards at the box she cannot see. Instead of gaining answers, all she has done is found more questions-what is the Gift? How did the immortals chose their successors? Was it her mother’s intent to change her into an immortal as well? Who in their right mind chose Irron?

She spins on her heels and walks blindly through the passage until she has reached the cool night air outside of the castle. Swinging her cloak over her shoulders she breaks out into a run, darting across the open field to the forest’s edge, seeking sanctuary in the trees before slowing to a walk. Her throat burns with the exertion but it is a welcomed distraction from the overwhelming feeling constricting her chest. Her entire life she felt like she was waiting for the opportunity to prove her worth to the world but never did she think that she would face so many challenges at all, let alone all at once.

A soft rustle of leaves instinctually halts her movement; she hears a quiet, low chirp, her head immediately turning to the source. Bathed in dappled moonlight, sits the lightly colored brush tiger. In this close proximity, Mora sees that he is larger than she initially realized, in fact he might be the largest male she has ever laid eyes on.

He makes the soft chipping noise again, his tail lightly flicking as he sits and watches her. She knows she should slowly reach down and draw the knife from her boot but instead she feels compelled to move forward towards it. His large, reflective eyes watch her, his ears perking up towards the sounds of her soft footsteps yet he does not tense, he doesn’t attack nor does he run. Halting just a few feet away from the tiger, Mora’s heart races when her hand slowly reaches up towards his head. Mere inches from his fur, she freezes.

The tiger raises his chin, his cold wet nose touching her fingertips as he smells her. A low rumble comes from within him; Mora almost panics when he moves but he doesn’t attack, instead he steps forward and rubs his face against her thigh, marking her with his scent. A small sigh of relief escapes her; tentatively she rests her hand on his back, feeling the warm coarse fur slide underneath it.

A smile crosses her lips, “Namur,” she names him, recalling the word that her mother often used when referring to the brush tigers. After he has circled her, his long tail gently swaying in his wake, Mora starts to walk forward, Namur falling in step beside her as if they were old friends.

Within the serenity of the forest her mind finally clears, the calmness of peace washing over her. As she curiously wonders how Greystar will react to her new companion, she alters her path to head towards the stables. At the edge of the forest, Namur tenses, raising his head to huff in the night air. Mora watches him curiously, wondering what he senses that she does not, until she hears the rustle of footsteps a ways off.

When a low growl escapes the tiger’s throat, Mora sets her hand on his back to quiet him while she peers off into the distance towards the stables. From the trees a large figure emerges which, by the stature and movement, Mora knows to be Eric-however, she doesn’t recognize the man that he roughly drags along behind him. Eric shoves the man into the stables.

Sensing no danger, Namur butts his head into her leg in farewell before turning and disappearing into the forest. Mora watches him until he vanishes before she follows Eric.

Inside the stable she is surprised to find him waiting near Greystar’s stall; the Warden leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his intent stare fixated on a man sitting atop a wooden tack box. Even though there is little light being shone through the windows, Mora can still make out the teal tinge of his uniform. She stops when she reaches them, her brow quirked at the man.

He only briefly glances at her before he drops down to one knee, lowers his head and offers a greeting, “Queen Namora.”

Her eyes flicker to the Warden before she looks down to the man, “Please, rise and explain to me why you are crossing into Derven under the cover of darkness.”NôvelDrama.Org © 2024.

The man rises though his posture cringes slightly; he wrings his hands, “I apologize for the secrecy of it all, my lady, but I was given explicit orders not to be seen by anyone other than you. I fear I have failed in my endeavor though, as this Warden caught me in the woods.” He glances curiously at Eric, before mumbling, “However I don’t know why someone of Sceadu is in Derven.”

“I’m not sure how that is your concern,” Mora frowns at him, “Now, who sent you?” When the man hesitates, she adds, “The Warden has my utmost confidence.”

He swallows hard, “Prince Philip sent me, my lady. With a letter.” After getting a nod from Mora, the man crouches down and opens up a small satchel at his feet, withdrawing a folded piece of parchment to hand to the Queen. When she takes it, she recognizes the teal wax impression as the royal seal of Geofen. She finds the entire matter very odd and even more so when the man adds, “He expressed to me that I was to wait for your written response and to return it to him in the same matter.”

Skeptically, she raises her brow at him, “He expects me to read it and reply immediately? Very well. You shall wait here with the Warden while I return to the castle so that I may draft a reply.”

The man nods and tensely sits back down on the wooden box under the keen gaze of Eric.

With swift feet, Mora leaves the stables and enters the castle; she takes care to avoid encountering anyone and is soon back in the antechamber of her room, sitting at the desk. She picks up a small knife and slides it under the wax seal before opening the letter.