Page 27 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

Sunday leans toward me with a stage whisper. “He knocked out Shadow and delivered them to Roxana for torture. And then showed his face here?Idiot.” She laughs, her eyes skating right past the blood pooling center stage.

She calls the next contender, a shifter from the Capitoline Wolves—a pack notorious for passing over female Alphas, no matter their strength. Vitto, one of the Alpha’s sons, steps forward. He drones on about the need for stability and order, then makes a clumsy attempt at acknowledging other supernatural contributions.

His words ring hollow. The progressive language clearly doesn’t fit in his mouth; he stumbles over terms, his voice cracking with hesitation. Stifled giggles ripple through the crowd. Even Sunday can’t quite suppress a smirk. Poor kid. He’s in way over his head.

Vitto’s uncertainty deepens, his arguments growing more incoherent. The audience shifts, attention splintering.

Sunday leans forward, her expression softening. “Thank you for your… enthusiasm,” she says gently. “But perhaps you could elaborate on your specific plans for addressing the challenges facing the WRE. How do you envision fostering cooperation between the different supernatural communities, specifically?”

His eyes dart desperately around the room. The scent of his fear and inexperience rolls off him—a stark contrast to the confidence of his sister, Anya. If only she had this chance.Anya would have been formidable

We endure four more candidates—a mix of overly ambitious shifters, nervous Dae, and vampires who seem to think that ‘woke’ means ‘the ability to tolerate the existence of lesser beings.’ It’s enough to make my wolf howl in frustration.

I begin to despair but we do take notes. Mine are… as expected, I suppose, clear, bullet points and a rubric of sorts. Gray is writing, something. I don’t recognize the language, runic perhaps I lean in, noting the distinctive, angular lines.Elder Futhark. But what is he writing? Battle plans? Political strategy? A love letter to Sunday or X? Knowing Gray, it’s probably all three. I observe his focused expression, the occasional chuckle escaping his lips.

A pang of longing shoots through me. He’s so captivating when he’s lost in thought, his brow furrowed in concentration, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Damn it, my wolf whines and I try to focus on something else. I tear my gaze away and force myself to concentrate on the proceedings. Sunday is ours, and that’s enough. It has to be.

She appears to be taking notes—asking sharp questions, checking items off her list. But when I glance closer, I see the lines and shapes of a farmhouse forming beneath her pen.

It’s not distraction; it’s focus. Sunday’s mind moves a mile a minute, always jumping from one thought to the next. Drawing helps her harness the chaos, giving her hands something to do while her brain keeps up.

The farmhouse comes together—a wide porch, gabled roof, wisteria climbing the posts. All the while, she’s still guiding the conversation, still steering the future of the Western RomanEmpire. At the base of the steps, she sketches Xavier’s jaguar, sprawled in the grass, soaking up the sun.

Xavier reaches over, their fingers deft and quick, adding a familiar hound beside the jaguar—Banjo, tongue lolling out. It’s subtle, a blink-and-you-miss-it addition, but Sunday notices. She fights a smile and focuses on the hapless demon in front of us, her pen poised as if she’s dutifully taking notes.

I linger on the drawing. It’s more than just a house; it’s a vision of home. A place where we belong and it’s a dream I’ve recently resolved to make real.

A welcome break in the monotony. A vampire from Bathory’s court steps up, and my ears perk up. She’s American, her accent hinting at Creole roots, and there’s a spark in her eyes that’s been sorely missing in the previous candidates.

“I am Camille Leathers,” she begins. Her words paint a picture of a WRE where cooperation and understanding flourish. She highlights her close working relationships with the Carpathian Wolves in the Bohemian region and the Rougarou during her time in New Orleans.

I lean forward, intrigued, as she continues her address. There’s genuine potential here, and I’m eager to hear more. Sunday asks a few pointed questions, starting with, “Who is your Maker?” The answer reassures me. Not Bathory, but a long-(finally)-dead riverboat captain.

Camille’s sincerity and the weight of her history offer a refreshing stability. She could be a reliable ally, a voice that carries both experience and restraint.

Then movement catches my eye. Corvus steps forward, and it’s as if he materializes out of the air. Despite his red-and-black face, the curling horns, and the sheer presence of his demonic form, he has a knack for blending in.

I know he’s a spy, a demon who played both sides—but he also helped us take down Roxana. That counts for something.Xavier’s fondness for him suggests there’s more to Corvus than cold ambition, but his motivations remain murky. Was his aid a gesture of loyalty, a strategic play, or a calculated grab for power? With Corvus, the lines are blurred.

More troubling is the legality of it all. He can’t glamour his demonic form, which means he’s violating the Council’s immigration laws and Secrecy Act just by standing here. Can we really crown a leader whose very presence breaks the rules we’re trying to reform? Are we ready to invite that kind of scrutiny?

I glance at Sunday. Her pen glides over her notepad, her expression composed. But the tightness in her jaw tells me she knows it too. Corvus’s charisma and competence are undeniable, but backing him could unravel everything we’re building. The question remains: Is he the ally we need—or a scandal waiting to implode?

Three shifter representatives follow, each offering a distinct perspective.

First, an otter from Francesca’s clan speaks eloquently about the otters’ legacy—the importance of diplomacy and compromise.

Next, a seasoned beta wolf from the integrated Sardinian pack emphasizes the need for strength and decisive leadership.

Finally, a lioness from the Atlas Mountains Pack strides to the podium, her presence crackling with intensity. The room stills. Her voice—a low, controlled growl—cuts through the polite veneer like a whip.

“We shifters have been treated as second-class citizens for far too long,” she begins, golden eyes blazing with righteous fury. “The vampires hoard their wealth, amassed over centuries of privilege, while we scrape by on the scraps they toss our way.”

She paces the dais, movements fluid and dangerous, a caged predator barely holding back. “The Dae manipulate the human world, their influence seeping into every corner of society, whilewe’re confined to the fringes, expected to clean up their messes. The Council is complicit in the genocide of entire shifter lines, and we’re told to be grateful for the unfarmable lands they’ve ‘graciously’ set aside for us.”

Her voice rises, reverberating through the hall. “And for what? Empty promises of protection? Hollow words of ‘mutual respect’? We are not children to be placated with trinkets. We are warriors. Hunters. The backbone of this world! We deserve a seat at the table—not just a footnote in your history books.”

Tension ripples through the room. Some shifters nod fiercely, their own frustrations mirrored in her words. My wolf howls in silent agreement, recognizing the truth she speaks.

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