They came with drums, not banners—an odd kind of arrival that felt like a trader's polite footstep instead of an army's trumpet. At first the watchers thought it another allied company, a convoy of bowmen and shields sent by the holds. Then the lead carriage slowed into the clearing and a flag, small and discreet, unfurled the mark of House Therin: a gilt thread coiled around a star.
Lira stood on the hearth steps and watched them come, the pebble warm in her palm. The sky was the color of old pewter; the reeds whispered as if gossiping. The horses' hooves sank soft into the packed earth. Men in good coats climbed down, steady and careful, and behind them came porters with crates bound in rope. The carriage's driver wore a neutral face; the men with him did not look like hunters so much as businessmen who knew how to make price and not ask too many questions.
Aric was the first to move, chairing himself into the space between the newcomers and the pack like a blade finding a scabbard. Kellan remained beside Lira, shoulder pressed to hers in a steady, silent way that had become a shape of comfort. Rook drifted like a shadow looking for mischief. Darren had already summoned the High Alpha to greet them formally; the Council would look composed, at least in public.
A man stepped forward from the carriage—a thin thing with powdered hair and a smile measured in small, showy gestures. He carried the look of someone who could make a fortune from rumor and then sleep like a man who had not spent it. He bowed with the calculated grace of House Therin's protocol.
"I am Matren of House Therin," he said. His words were honeyed and cool. "We come with goods and with a proposal. Word travels fast of marvels, and where marvels travel there is—well—interest. We come to offer a bargain that will benefit both the pack and my house."
The pack's murmur rippled like a stirred pond. Mothers pressed closer to their children. The High Alpha's face folded into the lines of someone who had learned how to receive offers without looking eager.
Aric's reply was smooth. "State your terms, Matren. This pack will not sell itself or its people."
"No one asks that of you," Matren said with a practised pity. "We propose a trade: protection for expertise. House Therin has reach in the cities and silver in vaults. We can help keep your borders clear of contract-hunters and buy off those who would trade in rumor. In return, we request access to a—research opportunity. Certain…rarities are of interest to collectors. We ask only the opportunity to study artifacts and—should they be found—acquire samples under fair market arrangement."
The word sampled hovered like a blade. Lira felt the pebble thrum colder for a second. "Samples?" she repeated. A dozen meanings opened and none of them good.
Matren smiled, like a man showing the edges of knives and calling them fine tools. "A sample may be hair, blood, or—if necessary—odor. Items of provenance. We do not mean to harm. We mean to preserve and catalogue. The market demands authentication for the rarest lines. Think of it as scholarship."
Kellan's laugh sounded like gravel. "You ask for proof by taking pieces of us," he said. "You call that scholarship."
"It is how knowledge grows," Matren said, unfazed. "And protection has a price."
Rook's fingers tightened on his dagger. "If you call this protection, give us the names of those you mean to buy off. Traders and hunters aren't the only people with coin. Who underwrites you?"
Matren's smile did not falter. "We have patrons. We have clients. Contracts are delicate matters, but House Therin does much with influence. We can show you letters of credit, mercantile guarantees. We propose a deal done in daylight with witnesses."
Darren stepped forward, the legal caution in his face like a shield. "Any arrangement will be formalized and witnessed by the Council. We will not sign vague compacts."
Matren inclined his head. "An excellent idea. We prefer order."
Vale, who had lingered at the edge of the circle like a black mark, moved then with the indifferent grace of someone who chooses to enter only when he thinks he can change the shape of a conversation. He crossed the space and did not bow. Instead he met Matren's eyes and the air along the line between them turned colder.
"You want samples," Vale said softly. "You want access that no trader has ever asked for in public. Why present such a thing in the open if your patronage is secret?"
Matren's smile thinned. "Because we wish the pack to feel respected. Because we would like to be seen to be civil."
"You bring civility to mask appetite," Vale said. He turned to the High Alpha. "Accept their coin and you make the pack's bodies marketable. You will tie yourselves to the way their houses think—specialists and collectors, auctions and curiosity-cabinets. You will wake wanting to be paid for births and deaths. Ask yourself: who profits from your history being parceled?"
Silence answered him. Matren's jaw tightened as if a mouse had bitten at the seam of his fine coat.
Aric stepped between Vale and Matren—his posture an assertion of public order and private question. "We will not be bought," he said. "If House Therin's protection comes with conditions, state them plainly. If you mean only to offer tokens, we will accept aid. If you mean to collect parts of our bloodline, you can be assured you will not find willing sellers."
Matren's eyes flicked to Lira, as if the pebble in her hand were a ledger. "Young woman," he said silky, "House Therin recognizes the value of living myths. We offer preservation. Science. Money to fund the pack's coffers. We will not take what is not given. We ask only for the chance to study and the first right of purchase for any relics that come to light in your territory."
Lira felt the weight of the pack's gaze. The High Alpha's nod was small, thoughtful. "We will consider the terms," he said. "But under no condition will we allow harm to our people. House Therin will sign a binding that binds them to the law of the pack."
Matren bowed and produced a rolled parchment with multiple seals. "We welcome such oversight."
When the caravan settled into a guarded temporary quarter and merchants began to trade, Lira pulled Kellan aside. The market's noise was a constant hum—barter, bargaining, laughter thin and suspicious. She felt small and large at once.
"Do we accept?" she asked.
Kellan's mouth was a line. "If it is protection in exchange for coin and trade, perhaps. But the asking for samples changes the ledger. It is not protection if it seeks to possess your line in pieces."
Rook wandered near them, eavesdropping openly. "I'd gut every broker who thought to treat you like a specimen," he said without subtlety.
Vale watched them from the shadows and stepped close enough that Lira could see how small the crease was at the side of his mouth when he considered Matren. "They will not take pieces without consent," Vale said quietly. "Not with the Council watching. But knowledge is hungry. Curiosity eats in layers; it is rarely satisfied with a single thing."
Lira folded the pebble into her palm until her fingers ached. Her choice was a knot: benefit now and risk becoming a curiosity, or refuse and invite a house with coin to bribe others who might not care for law.
That night Matren held a private supper in the caravan's tent and invited the High Alpha and several elders to taste fine wine and hear golden plans. The pack's people watched from the hearth like children watching adults who had too many secrets.
When the elders returned, their faces were tight with a new calculation. The High Alpha sat in his chair like a man weighing a heavy animal in his hands.
"We have offers," he said. "Coin can buy guards and supplies. It can also draw eyes." He looked at Lira. "You may speak—if you wish."
Lira stepped forward. The caravan's lamps made Matren look softer than he had in daylight—someone who might have been kind in another life. She felt the pebble's pulse rise as if in counsel.
"House Therin offers coin and reach," she said plainly. "They also ask for access. I will not give my blood or my scent as proof to line anyone's ledger. If they bind themselves to pack law, sign guarantees, and give us training, then we may accept help. But let no one think of us as objects to be priced and parceled."
The High Alpha considered her words. "Then it will be terms and witnesses," he said. "We will draw a contract that keeps the power with the pack. No samples, no seizure of body or blood without explicit consent."
Matren's polite mask slipped for a fraction of a breath. His tone was a careful knife. "Consider the price of refusal, Lira of the White Line," he said. "Refusal can be costly—houses do not enjoy closed doors when there is profit on the other side."
Outside, beyond the caravan's canvas, the marsh sighed and somewhere a horn sounded—distant and insistent. The game was widening, and the pack's choices would be the first moves.
Lira glanced at Kellan, at Aric, at the others who stood like weather around her. The pebble felt warm and strangely steady. She had asked for voice; she would use it. But the world had moved a piece on the board she had not expected, and now the stakes were no longer only for her heart or her pack — they were for the shape of who they would be if the world tried to buy them.
She folded her fingers around the pebble and let the warmth spread into her palm. "We'll sign terms," she said finally. "Terms that protect the pack, not the purse. And we will keep our own counsel about what we are willing to show."
Kellan's grip on her hand was a quiet promise. Vale watched from the dark and did not smile. Matren watched from his tent and did not change his mask.
The moon above the marsh was a hard coin. Under it, markets and myths moved as one—intertwined, patient, hungry.