The interior of the watchtower was dim and cool, lit only by slats of sunlight filtering through carved gaps in the living wood. The air smelled of sap, old stone, herbs, and something ancient, like history that never died.

Their footsteps echoed softly as they entered a wide chamber. In its center sat a massive stone table, rough-edged, carved from a single slab of mountain rock. Dozens of seats circled it, but only three were occupied.

At the far end sat the Elders. Not just beastmen, relics of an older age.

The first resembled an owl, feathers faded to gray-brown, eyes wide and unblinking as polished amber stones. His head swiveled fractionally as they approached, too smooth, too silent.

The second was shaped like an old dog, fur silvered, one ear torn, jaw heavy with age but not weakness. Scars laced his arms like stories carved in flesh.

The third was a cat-like woman, fur thin and pale, eyes slitted green and sharp as glass. She wore bone jewelry that tinkled like whispers when she moved.

They did not smile. They did not greet. They simply stared.

Ludger learned quickly that beastfolk silence was not emptiness, it was measurement. Weighing presence. Testing spirit without a word.

He kept his posture straight, expression neutral. But even he felt his brow twitch, almost frowning as those ageless eyes scanned him, reading weight, intent, danger.

He forced the muscle to smooth out. No weakness. No discomfort.

Kaela’s hand hovered near her dagger belt. Renvar sat too stiffly. Maurien’s breathing leveled with practiced discipline. Rathen drew a long, controlled breath.

The three Elders spoke together—not synchronized, but sequentially, like a sentence broken into three voices, low and resonant.

“Sit.”

No invitation. A command.

Harkun took a seat along the side. Warriors lined the walls like statues. The pressure in the room thickened. expectation heavy enough to crack ribs.

Ludger moved first. He walked to the table, pulled a chair without bowing, without hesitation, and sat. Calm. Controlled. Equal.

Kaela sat beside him, grin sharp. Maurien took the opposite flank, silent as winter. Rathen placed himself slightly behind, deferential but present.

The Elders watched every placement, every breath. And when the last chair scraped into position, the owl Elder finally leaned forward, eyes narrowing like a razor edge. Judgment had begun.

The owl Elder’s feathers ruffled once, barely, and his beak clicked softly. When he spoke, his voice was old bark and midnight wind.

“We have heard the details from Harkun,” he said, each word crisp and slow. “Your capture of a Grove-born raiding party. Your choice to return them alive. Your arrival under white flag rather than flame.”

His head tilted with avian sharpness, eyes wide and unblinking.

“I confess, I did not expect the Empire to contact us in such a manner. They usually prefer… spectacle. Banners. Speeches. A warband of soldiers at their back.”

His stare hardened like a blade tip.

“But perhaps losing most their borders has made them cautious.”

A reminder of history. A jab meant to probe reaction.

Kaela tensed, but Ludger raised a hand slightly, calming, confident. He spoke evenly, without bowing to provocation.

“We came from Imperial lands, yes,” Ludger said. “But we are not here as Imperial envoys.”

All three Elders focused on him fully now, shifting weight, leaning forward. The dog Elder’s ear twitched. The cat Elder’s gaze narrowed, intrigued.

Ludger continued, voice steady.

“We represent two guilds, the Ironhan, and the Lionsguard.”

He did not hide behind titles. He didn’t elevate himself. He simply stated truth like fact carved in stone.

“We suffered losses due to pirates bearing runic Groves weapons and ships. Our men died. Our routes bled. We tracked the source here, not to threaten your land, but to learn who is turning your young into tools of foreign provocation.”

A ripple passed through the room. Small, subtle. Not offense. Recognition.

The owl Elder blinked once, slowly. “Guild representation rather than Empire mandate…” he murmured. “So you claim no throne. No crown. Only grievance.”

Maurien’s eyes glittered faintly, this angle mattered. Rathen inhaled through his nose like a man grateful a child was holding himself with more political grace than most diplomats.

Ludger nodded. “We came to speak. To understand. And to prevent this from becoming a problem large enough that generals start speaking instead.”

The cat Elder’s whiskers twitched, amusement or approval, impossible to tell. The dog Elder leaned forward, voice a rumbling growl.

“A guild seeking peace through information? Interesting.”

His gaze swept their group.

Suspicious, weighing.

Testing if they were lambs or wolves.

“You bring our prisoners home instead of burning them. You come without Imperial steel. You stand before elders without groveling.” His eyes locked on Ludger. “This is unusual.”

Ludger replied simply, no pride, no fear.

“So is war between three nations over pirates.”

Silence sharpened like drawn steel.

Rathen cleared his throat softly, the kind of sound diplomats used before threading a needle through a lion’s jaw.

“If I may,” he said, inclining his head toward the Elders without looking subservient, “you have certainly heard of the recent disturbances. Not only in Groves waters, but across the Empire and the Velis League as well.”

The dog Elder grunted, acknowledgment. Rathen continued, measured and steady.

“The Empire fights internal rot. The League suffocates under corruption. Places once stable now crack. And from what Vorak told us, parts of your own Groves are moving in similar shadows.”

At the name, several beastman warriors shifted, claws grazing wood. Vorak’s betrayal was no secret here.

Rathen raised his hands placatingly, not apologetic, but factual.

“We’re not here asking for an alliance. We know the past. Our nations don’t share meals easily, much less borders.”

A faint twitch of the owl Elder’s feathers, agreement.

“What we seek,” Rathen said, “is simple. Cooperation. Between those willing to maintain order. So that people who thrive in darkness do not drag all three nations into war.”

He let the weight settle. No honeyed promises. No empty diplomacy. Just necessity. Maurien’s gaze remained locked on the Elders. Kaela leaned back in her chair, relaxed, but ready. Ludger watched their eyes, tracking micro-reactions like a hunter reading body language instead of words.

The cat Elder’s tail flicked once, tapping the table softly.

“Cooperation,” she murmured. “Not alliance. You offer something smaller. More cautious.”

“We offer what is realistic,” Rathen replied.

“And what do you expect in return?” the owl Elder asked.

Ludger answered before Rathen could speak again, voice low, direct.

“Information,” he said. “On the underworld guild in your territory. On the clans speaking with foreign hands. On who supplied runic weapons to Vorak.”

No soft phrasing. No dancing. The room stilled. Even beastmen respect directness.

“And if we refuse?” the dog Elder asked, leaning in slightly.

The air pressed tight. Ludger didn’t look away.

“Then you deal with them yourselves,” Ludger said. “Before they ignite a war that none of us can control. Because we won’t wait quietly while they attack our people again.”

The silence that followed was not hostile.  but calculating. Measured. The sort of quiet where decisions that shape continents begin. The Elders had been approached with respect, honesty, and iron. Now they would decide how to answer.

The three Elders exchanged glances, no whispers, no gestures, just the weight of centuries speaking through a single shared silence. A predator’s council.

Their eyes flicked with understanding, wariness, and something more ancient than negotiation.

Finally, the owl Elder clicked his beak.

“We will share information.”

The dog Elder rumbled, “But not freely.”

The cat Elder finished, “Terms will be set.”

Ludger leaned forward slightly, palms resting on the table.

“What terms?”

No hesitation. No defiance. Just readiness. The Elders looked at one another, then the dog Elder spoke first.

“There is a matter within the Groves,” he said. “In our borders, people have begun to vanish. Warriors. Traders. Families. Entire hunting bands.”

Kaela’s posture straightened at the implication. Maurien’s eyes hardened like steel sharpening itself. The cat Elder continued, voice soft but sharp as claws.

“Our trackers find no bodies. No blood trails. No sign of monsters. Only… absence.”

Owl feathers bristled like rustling parchment.

“We suspect they are not dead. We suspect they are taken. Sold. Used. Perhaps by the same hands that gave Vorak runic steel.”

Rathen let out a controlled breath. “Slavery routes.”

The room soured instantly, Kaela’s jaw tightened, Renvar’s fists curled on instinct. Even beastman guards growled under breath. Ludger’s eyes narrowed.

“I’ve fought pirates, mercenaries, raiders, criminals,” he said slowly. “But I haven’t seen a single beastman slave in foreign lands. Not one.”

Rathen nodded. “Same for the Ironhand. Beastmen aren’t exactly… discreet cargo.”

The owl Elder’s feathers lowered a fraction.

“Because they are not paraded. They are not sold in open markets or cities. They vanish into shadows, underground guilds, hidden ports, private buyers with gold.”

A weight settled over the table like lead. A new enemy. Not pirates. Not just political agitators. Something older. Quieter. Profitable.

Ludger’s expression hardened, not angry, but focused.

“What do you want from us?”

The dog Elder’s growl rolled like distant thunder.

“Find where our people are taken. Find who profits from it. Bring us proof, or heads.”

The cat Elder’s pupils narrowed to slits.

“If you do this, we will work with you. Every clan implicated. Every outsider who walks our forests in the dark.”

The owl Elder finished with finality.

“Cooperation for cooperation. Information for information. Hunt with us, not behind us.”

The deal wasn’t small. It wasn’t safe. But it offered what Ludger needed, routes to the underworld connected to all three nations. And an excuse to dive deeper.

Kaela whispered, “This is getting fun.”

Maurien murmured, “This is getting political.”

Rathen silently agreed, it was both.

All eyes rested on Ludger. The decision was his.

The Elders watched Ludger silently as gears turned behind his calm eyes. He weighed risks, routes, political sensitivity, time costs, and, more importantly, opportunities. Information was currency. Influence was power. And right now, the table had offered him both.

Before he could speak, the owl Elder raised one wing slightly.

“There is one more matter,” he said, voice low as wind through dead leaves.

The dog Elder nodded. “If you accept, we will provide something further than words.”

The cat Elder leaned back, tail curling around her chair like a living question mark.

“We will send trackers. Our finest sniffers. Beastmen who know forests and shadow roads better than Imperial generals know maps. They will travel with the Lionsguard, for a time.”

Maurien’s brow lifted. Kaela blinked, surprised but not displeased. Rathen stiffened, understanding the political weight instantly.

Harkun added from the side, voice steady:

“They will work under cooperation terms, hunt with you, share signs, follow trails. Through Empire land, through League borders if needed. Your guild’s freedom of movement makes you… useful.”

Ludger didn’t react outwardly, but inside… So the Lionsguard name reached even here. That fast. That far. Not as nobles. Not as heroes.

As a force. A group that acted when others stalled. A guild that didn’t drown in politics. The kind capable of moving between nations without armies or treaties.

He didn’t say it aloud, but something cold and sharp clicked in his mind:

If I want results, I can’t wait for nations. Guilds move faster. Lighter.

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