The week of preparation was a frenzy of controlled panic. The Lodge transformed into a digital fortress and a media bunker. Alex and Sharma, working with a small team of trusted tech-savvy volunteers (including a surprisingly adept Mara), encrypted, duplicated, and scattered the "Revelation Package" across dozens of secure servers worldwide, set to auto-release in a cascading sequence if a digital "dead man's switch" wasn't reset every 12 hours.
The Sentinelry, under Walker and Jenkins, established hardened checkpoints on all roads into Millfield. They weren't trying to keep people out—that was impossible—but to control the flow when the flood came. They drafted contingency plans for everything from peaceful media crews to violent anti-"monster" mobs. Kiera, her hand healed, trained her mixed patrols in crowd control and de-escalation, their very presence a calculated statement: We are not hiding.
The Stewardship, led by Lily, performed a different kind of fortification. They held a quiet ceremony at the Stone Circle, explaining to the forest's consciousness what was about to happen. They didn't ask for permission; they asked for understanding, for resilience. The forest's response was a deep, resonant hum that vibrated in the bones—a sound of grim readiness. The Boundary Stone Hedge grew thicker, its thorns longer, its hum taking on a sharper, more defensive edge.
Sebastian, in a move that surprised everyone, used the last of the Blackwood family's considerable, off-the-books funds to hire a discreet, expensive public relations firm in New York. Not to spin the story, but to help frame it. "We must speak a language the world understands," he told the skeptical Council, "even as we tell them of things it does not."
The 168-hour deadline to Captain Vance came and went without a direct response. No sign of a stand-down. No more stealth helicopters. Just silence. It was the most terrifying answer of all.
On the eighth day, at precisely 9:00 AM Eastern Time, the Blackwood Trust launched its revelation.
It did not come as a single news blast. It was a coordinated, multi-platform event. The full "Millfield Revelation" dossier was published on a dedicated, starkly designed website. Simultaneously, a condensed, narrative version of Alex's chronicle was released to major news outlets, science journals, and environmental rights organizations under embargo. Dr. Sharma held a virtual press conference, her delivery clinical and devastating, presenting the evidence of corporate and state-sponsored aggression against a legally chartered ecological reserve.
But the centerpiece was a live stream, hosted from the Stone Circle.
Alex, Lily, and Kiera stood before a single, high-quality camera. They were not in lab coats or uniforms. They were in their work clothes, stained with soil and wear. Alex introduced them, not with titles, but with names. Then, he simply began to tell the story. He spoke of moving to Millfield for quiet, of the first howl, of meeting Thomas Jenkins, of the terror and the mystery.
Then, he turned to Lily.
The camera didn't flinch. It showed her in full, clear detail—the patches of fur, the altered bone structure of her jaw, the kindness in her human eyes. She spoke, her voice still rough, about her love for plants, about the day she got lost, about the pain of the change, and about the discovery of Heart's-Moss and the forest's song. She held up a sprig of the silver-flecked plant. "It is not a cure," she said. "It is a conversation. With the pain, with the forest, with myself."
Then Kiera. She spoke of the centuries-old burden, of the cage of control, of the choice between rage and responsibility. And then, as the camera watched, she performed a controlled, partial shift. Her features softened, ears elongating, a dusting of grey fur appearing on her skin. It was not a full transformation, but it was undeniably, breathtakingly real. "This is not a disease to be eradicated," she said, her voice layered with a subtle growl. "It is a state of being. One we have learned to live with, in balance with the forest that shares it. The real threat is not from us. It is from those who see life they don't understand as something to own, or destroy."
The stream cut to the evidence: documents, photos, the video of the Covenant net in Briar Crack, the thermal image of the stealth helicopter, the grim photo of the organic sarcophagus. Alex's voice returned, outlining the Trust's structure, the Council, their plea not for pity, but for recognition of their right to exist and govern themselves.
The live stream ended. The internet exploded.
The reaction was a tidal wave of noise. Headlines screamed: "WEREWOLF SANCTUARY REVEALS EXISTENCE, ACCUSES GOVERNMENT OF BIOWARFARE." "SCIENTIFIC MIRACLE OR APOCALYPSE? THE MILLFIELD ANOMALY." "SMALL TOWN'S SECRET WAR FOR A SENTIENT FOREST."
Within hours, Millfield was under a different kind of siege. News vans from every major network jammed the roads, held at the new checkpoints. Satellite trucks lined the fields. Drone cameras buzzed like angry hornets over the Boundary Hedge, only to have their signals mysteriously degrade and fail as they crossed into Blackwood airspace—the forest's own electromagnetic defense, now consciously directed.
The town itself was polarized. Some residents, emboldened by the global attention, became fierce defenders, giving interviews on their porches about the "good work" of the Trust. Others boarded up windows, terrified of the onslaught of outsiders and the Exposing of their neighbors' secrets.
Inside The Lodge, the Council monitored the chaos. The "dead man's switch" remained untripped; no overt hostile move had been made against their digital infrastructure. It was as if the federal government was frozen, assessing the public relations nightmare.
Then, the first outside ally arrived. Not a politician or a soldier. A delegation from the Lakota Sioux Nation, who had seen the stream. They arrived in traditional and modern dress, asking to speak to the Council and the "Stone People." They saw parallels to their own struggles for sovereignty and the protection of sacred lands. Their arrival, covered respectfully by a few invited journalists, added a powerful layer of moral and indigenous authority to the Trust's cause.
Next came a contingent of leading biologists, ecologists, and parapsychologists, demanding access for "peer-reviewed, ethical study." Sharma began vetting them, seeing an opportunity to build a firewall of legitimate academic interest around the Blackwood.
But amidst the clamor, a single, priority-encrypted email arrived for Alex and Sharma. It was from Captain Elara Vance.
*"Your gambit has paused the hand holding the torch. It has not removed it. Public opinion is a fickle shield. The faction you embarrassed is regrouping. The faction I represent is now in a position to talk, with the world watching. We propose a neutral, third-party mediated summit. Location: The United Nations Secretariat, New York. Topic: The legal status and international protection of the Blackwood Biocultural Zone. You have 48 hours to accept. This is the only path to lasting security that does not end in ashes."*
It was the next move. They had forced the world to look. Now, the world's institutions were being forced to respond. The UN. It was the biggest stage imaginable.
The Council convened again, exhausted but electrified. The Unveiling had worked, beyond their wildest hopes. They were no longer a secret. They were a cause. A diplomatic incident. A scientific wonder.
"This is it," Sharma said, her eyes gleaming with a fierce light. "This is our chance to move from a micro-state to a recognized protectorate. Under UN auspices, even as an observer entity, we gain a legitimacy that even the US government would hesitate to violate."
"It's a trap," Jenkins insisted. "They'll get us in a room full of lawyers and diplomats and carve us up into manageable pieces."
"Or," Kiera said, looking at Alex, "we get in that room and tell our story to the whole world, again, with the UN seal behind us. We make our case not just to governments, but to humanity."
The vote was swift. The risk was astronomical. The potential reward was a future.
They accepted.
The Unveiling was over. The world now knew about the werewolves of Millfield, the sentient forest, and the secret war. But the next chapter would be written not in the woods, or in a town hall, but under the fluorescent lights of the United Nations, where the fate of the impossible would be argued with parliamentary procedure and international law. The bridge they had built was about to be stress-tested on the global stage. They were going to New York.