"Come back!" the Chieftain roared from within his tent. His voice echoed across the vast land like the roar of a true lion, commanding, powerful, and bone-deep intimidating. The sound alone brought his warriors to a halt, heads bowing instinctively in submission.
One by one, they retreated from the chase and returned to camp, their fierce energy subdued.
But the Chieftain, still seated on his long, cushioned chair, didn't look angry. Instead, he rested one arm lazily on the armrest, a sly smirk curling his lips. His eyes gleamed with a knowing light, sharp and calculating.
He was satisfied.
Things were unfolding just as he wanted. With this display, he now held the upper hand in the negotiation.
He knew the werewolves well, honorable on the surface, but sly as foxes when it came to political maneuvering. If he had let those two old men continue the talks, they'd have whittled down his demands bit by bit until he walked away with scraps.
