"Perhaps not," Elder Korvus acknowledged, his scarred face impassive. "Perhaps a father's love for his daughter weighs more than the love of a king for his people. Perhaps your pain is more significant than the pain of the thousands who bury their children every week."
The words were quiet, almost gentle, but they cut deep.
"But it is what we require."
The three Elders rose as one, their movements synchronized in that unsettling way that marked them as pack, as something fundamentally different from human.
"We leave you to discuss among yourselves," Elder Thorne said, his voice carrying a finality that made Aldridge's stomach clench. "But know this, we will not accept alternative proposals. We will not negotiate different terms. This is our offer, presented in good faith and with full seriousness."
He placed both hands on the table, leaning forward slightly.
"A true alliance through marriage, binding our bloodlines for generations to come. Or we continue the war until one side achieves total victory, until one of our peoples is broken beyond recovery."
Elder Korvus's scarred hands spread wide in a gesture that might have been resignation or might have been a threat.
"We can wait, Mr. President. Our extinction wolves are dying, yes, but we are patient. We have time. We have resources. We can sustain this war for years if necessary."
His eyes locked onto Aldridge's.
"Can you? You have two days..."
The question hung in the air like smoke.
The Elders filed out of the conference room, their footsteps silent on the carpeted floor despite their size. The door closed behind them with a soft click that sounded like a cell door locking.
The human delegation sat in heavy silence.
No one moved. No one spoke. The weight of what had just been proposed pressed down on all of them, making the air feel thick and hard to breathe.
The casualty report still glowed on the screen behind them. Three thousand two hundred and fourteen dead this month. Fifty-three per day, on average. The numbers had become so familiar that they'd almost lost meaning, had become just statistics instead of people with names and families and futures that would never come.
But now, faced with this choice, the numbers suddenly felt real again.
Fifty-three people. Every day. Fifty-three families destroyed. Fifty-three futures erased.
Or one.
One girl. One sacrifice. One marriage.
Finally, General Hawthorne broke the silence. Her voice came out very quiet, almost a whisper, as if she was afraid to speak the words aloud.
"Marcus, we're losing fifty-three people a day on average."
She looked down at her hands, at the data tablet in front of her with its endless columns of names.
"The projection for next quarter is worse. Seventy-two per day if the current trajectory continues. By this time next year, we're looking at over a hundred daily casualties."
"I know the numbers," Aldridge said harshly, the words coming out sharper than he intended.
He knew the numbers. He saw them every morning. He signed the death notifications. He wrote letters to grieving families. The numbers lived in his head, followed him into sleep, woke him up at three in the morning in a cold sweat.
He didn't need anyone to remind him of the numbers.
"The extinct wolves they mentioned," Ambassador Okoye added, her voice careful, measured. "Those are irreplaceable bloodlines. Genetic lines that have existed for thousands of years. If they're willing to risk continued losses despite that, despite knowing those bloodlines can never be recovered..."
She trailed off, but the implication was clear.
They were serious. This wasn't a negotiating tactic. This was their final offer.
"So I should just hand over my daughter?" Aldridge's voice cracked on the words. "Tell her that her life, her future, her choice, none of it matters? That she's just another casualty of war, except instead of dying she gets to spend the rest of her life chained to a monster?"
"Of course not," Chancellor Wei said quickly, though his voice shook. "But Marcus, we have to consider it. We have to at least think about it, discuss the possibility...."
"No."
Aldridge stood abruptly, his chair scraping back with a harsh sound that echoed in the quiet room.
"We find another way. There's always another way. There has to be."
But even as he said it, he could hear the desperation in his own voice, could feel the certainty crumbling beneath his feet.
He gathered his papers with shaking hands, stuffing them into his briefcase without looking at them, needing to move, needing to get out of this room with its recycled air and its terrible choices.
As he reached the door, he caught sight of his reflection in the dark window glass.
He looked old.
The thought struck him with unexpected force. When had that happened? When had the lines around his eyes deepened into crevasses? When had his hair gone more gray than black? When had his face begun to sag with the weight of decisions no person should have to make?