Greetings and salutations! This is my first humble attempt at doing some fanfiction, so any comment or critique would be greatly appreciated. As a general disclaimer this story contains many characters canon to the Wereworld series that I do not have the rights to, but also several OC's that have been implemented in order to further the story. In simple words, I hope you enjoy!

Young Werelords

The Wolf's Den

Harsh cries echoed through the night. The boy stumbled over roots that reared up from the ground like serpents, poisonous sap leaking from cracks in their bark. Afraid, he cast his eyes about, but in the shadows of the forest, red eyes glared back at him. The stench of death invaded his senses, and he gagged as corpses fell from the trees like rotting fruit, rearing up to confront him with blue flames dancing in their empty eye sockets. A withered, blackened hand grasped his throat, forcing him to look down into a sheet of ice. Beneath, a beautiful girl lay. But as he watched, frost crept up her body, stealing her heat, killing her slowly. The boy backed away, clawed hands pulling him deeper into the blackness as tears fell from his cheeks over the girl that vanished…

The sun streamed in through the open shutters, casting its dappled light over the bedroom, bringing with it a fresh breeze and the scent of baked bread. From within his twisted covers, Drew Ferran awoke with a start, heart racing as the nightmare that had plagued him for years receded in the daylight.

"Troubled sleep, my King?" asked a gentle voice with barely concealed sarcasm.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Drew flipped over to see the genial face of Hector, his trusted advisor and best friend, looking down at him. Five years had passed since the War of the Werelords, and in that time Hector had greatly recovered from his affliction.

What at first began as simple experimentation quickly devolved into something much worse. With Drew gone, an absence he never forgave himself for, Hector had fallen under the sway of dark magicks. After communing with and then absorbing the spirit of the Wererat Vankaskan, Hector's old master, his powers grew to uncontrollable heights. Possessed by the corrupted spirit of his deceased brother, Hector went from a meek magister to a feared necromancer by the name of Blackhand and took up residence in the Sturmish city of Icegarden, turning it into a city of the risen dead.

Eventually Drew was capable of freeing Hector from his curse, but at a price. Hector lost his hand, but Drew lost something more precious: his new bride, Lady Whitley of Brackenholme, who sacrificed herself to give him the chance to save Hector.

"You don't know the half of it, Hector," Drew replied casually, wincing as his bones creaked and cracked after remaining dormant for so long. "Same dream as it always is."

"I could brew up a tincture to help you sleep better-" began Hector.

"Restrain yourself Hector. I've put up with this dream for five years now, I can withstand it five years more," said Drew with a grimace. "Now go, get down to the Hall. I'll join you and the rest of the company once I've dressed."

Hector nodded and swiftly withdrew from the room, closing the heavy oaken door behind him. Drew sighed softly, drawing back the covers and watching the morning light dance across the intricately made White Fist of Icegarden that sat on his left wrist. He still remembered the arcane ceremony that had bound the mystical gauntlet to his arm, performed under the light of the moon.

He shook his black hair out of his eyes and picked up his cotton shirt and pants, pulling them on over his toned, scarred body. Reaching down, he slipped into his boots before walking calmly towards the door, pausing only to put the forest-green leather jerkin that identified him as a captain of the Woodland Watch.

Stepping into the well-lit, ornate corridor of the Great Oak, he made his way down towards the hall, following the sound of raucous merriment. The last to arrive, he waited in the shadows of the archway, observing his friends and colleagues-in-arms as they enjoyed each other's company.

Duke Bergan sat in his wide and sturdy throne at the head of the table, his mighty war axe leaning against his leg and a tankard of ale in his hand. The Old Bear threw his head back and roared with laughter at something Hector said, the rafters shaking at his exaltation.

Behind a pile of cooked meats, Lord Mikotaj, the White Death of Shadowhaven, sharpened his colossal spear with a whetstone. Beside him, Drew's half-brother Trent, grinned wolfishly as the tall, pale warrior muttered something coarse under his breath.

Two newcomers to the city of Brackenholme were sat at the table. Drew assessed them from his hiding place, studying their appearances to determine their intentions.

One was of the same complexion as Mikotaj, but where the White Death was muscular and broad, this character was lithe and willowy. Long silvery-white hair fell like mist around their face, and when they turned to look Drew dead in the eyes, Drew couldn't suppress the grin that filled his face as he looked into the amber gaze of Miloqi, sister to Mikotaj and one of Drew's closest confidantes.

The other visitor was unknown to Drew however. His darkened skin and black hair suggested he came from the desert realm of Omir, as did his light silken clothing wrapped loosely around his body. An ornately carved staff lay across his lap, three metal hoops of different sizes looped through the top at various points.

Finally, Hector spotted Drew lurking in the shadows. "There he is! Fellows, raise your tankards for our esteemed leader!"

"Three cheers for the Wolf of Westland!" called out Trent.

Drew waved their cheers aside graciously and slunk into the room, eyes casually locked onto the Omiri visitor. The male met his gaze levelly, his dark brown eyes narrowing slightly as he in turn assessed who Drew was.

"What brings you to the realm of the Bear, Omiri? Seems a little too… alive for your liking," chuckled Bergan, looking down at the boy with raised eyebrows.

"Enough," snapped Miloqi. "I brought him here. He has… potential."

The Omiri stood up from his seat unexpectedly, the rings embedded in his staff jangling slightly with the sudden movement. Immediately Drew's company was on the offensive, several weapons drawn and aimed towards the young man, Drew's fabled sword Moonbrand included.

Miloqi, however, was unfazed, and lightly pushed the head of her brother's spear aside, a light flickering in her eyes. "Really boys, is this how you treat visiting royalty?"

"Of course!" exclaimed Hector. "Forgive me, my lords, but I had forgotten to announce the good news: Lady Hayfa finally agreed to the terms of our treaty. And to show her intentions are true, she intended to send her son. Which would mean…" Hector turned to the Omiri with a quizzical expression.

"Your assumptions are correct, Boarlord. I am Lord Hayan, heir apparent to the city of Ro-Shann. And," he said with a slight smile, "A distant cousin to you, Drew Ferran."

Mikotaj's booming laugh cut through the silence that followed. "A relative? Why did you not say so? Let me welcome you in the way of my people," he said, pulling the Omiri lord into a bear hug and ruffling his black hair with a meaty fist, while Miloqi sighed and placed her head in her hands, publicly humiliated by her brother's antics.

Drew smiled and took a lengthy draught from his tankard. As he placed it back down on the table, he felt a huge hand gently land on his shoulder, and looked up to see the kind face of his father-in-law smiling down at him.

"Now Drew, you know I hate putting pressure on you. Brenn knows how much has been heaped upon you over the years. But you've grown into a powerful and proud young man, and I wouldn't be saying this if I didn't think you could handle it." The old Bear reached into his jerkin pocket and pulled out a crisp roll of parchment, bound with the Parliamentary seal. "This came last night from Westland. The Council of Men have agreed to attend Brenn's Feast alongside us therianthropes."

"Nothing to be concerned about there, my Lord. You were making this out to be some sort of tremendous fuss, but I see no problems here."

Bergan huffed softly, reaching up with one finger to wipe a tear from his eye. "Lad, that's not the problem. The Council will only attend the Feast if it is held in your home."

"My home?" Drew asked, baffled by the request. "Why would they want the Feast to be conducted in a cottage outside of Tuckborough?"

"No lad. They want to hold the Feast at your real home. The home you've not stepped inside for over twenty years. This year, Brenn's Feast will be held in the Howling Hall, the estate in Westland belonging to your father and all previous generations of Grey Wolves."

"You mean..."

"Yes, Drew," the Duke said in a voice choked with emotion. "You're going home."

Whew! That was quite the opener, wasn't it? Nice to see dear Hector having recovered from his dreadful ordeal, Miloqi still as mysterious as ever and Bergan showing a much more complex side to him that we have never known. But what do we make of Hayan, the Omiri lord? Is he to be trusted, or will he prove blood is thicker than water, and become a greater threat than his mother ever was? Hmm? Keep reading to find out!

Peace!