CHAPTER 204: THE CELEBRATION

The Helvellyn Clan claims the upper reaches of the Helvellyn massif in the Lake District, their hidden domain stretching from the shadowed crags of Striding Edge to the glacial hollow of Red Tarn. Few outsiders ever glimpse their true lair... a network of volcanic caves concealed by treacherous rockfalls and swirling mist. In summer, they prowl the ridgelines where the wind masks their scent; in winter, they retreat to deep geothermal caverns near Glenridding Beck, warmed by hidden hot springs.

In ancient times, they were known as Felllyn. The Vikings called them Cait Sidhe. In the modern tongue, they are known simply as werecats.

The werecats have lived on Helvellyn’s slopes for centuries, blending the cunning of the hunter with the patience of the predator. In earlier ages, they were whispered of as witch familiars and omens of death, blamed for the vanished shepherd or the hiker who never returned. In truth, they defended their domain with unwavering conviction, considering trespass not merely an intrusion, but an affront.

In modern times, they kill less openly. They are cautious now... aware that the human world has its own ways of hunting. The Supernatural Act also restrains them from acting wantonly.

Werecats do not enjoy mingling with other races. Most live their entire lives within their underground city, rarely seen beyond their territory. There are no recorded instances of outsiders visiting their home. Even with their close ties to Clan Blanc, meetings are always held in nearby towns or neutral ground for the exchange of techniques and knowledge.

On rare occasions, they establish selective contact with trusted locals to act as intermediaries. Some clan members may choose to live among humans in Keswick or Ambleside for a time, usually for trade or other specific purposes.

To the werecats, humans are short-lived and restless... quick to destroy what they do not understand. They are neither wholly prey nor wholly ally... merely another species to be used, bargained with, or avoided depending on the season. Their underground domain is entirely self-sufficient, eliminating the need for outside assistance. For this reason, they do not socialise with other races as frequently as werewolves.

They are few in number. Within the kingdom, Helvellyn is the only werecat clan. While other clans exist in distant regions, they have no central authority, unlike vampires or werewolves. Each clan lives unto itself.

Because of their withdrawn nature, despite having met almost every race in the world and every clan in the kingdom... Fiona had never before encountered the Helvellyn Clan. She returned Winifred’s curtsy with a symbolic bow and said, "You flatter me, Queen of the Helvellyn Werecats. The pleasure is mine."

"Oh? You knew?" Winifred arched a brow. "I don’t use the title of ’queen’ outside my territory. I prefer to present myself simply as a clan head, like the rest of you... it helps me stand out less. I thought no one here knew my title apart from Dominic."

She paused, then added, "But I should have expected as much from the Ambassador of Werewolves. Your role is to know such things. By the way, this is my youngest daughter, Lilith Winifred Helvellyn."

Standing slightly behind her mother, a young woman with light brown skin stepped forward and offered a precise curtsy. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Raynor." Her voice was low and soft, but every supernatural being in the hall heard her clearly. She was strikingly beautiful, her feline ears faintly visible even in human form, and she wore a simple black gown devoid of any ornamentation. Beside her dazzling mother, she seemed almost invisible... yet her presence lingered.

Fiona smiled. "Good. Good. You look exactly like your mother, save for your skin being a shade darker. I like your presence." Gesturing to Eleanor, she said, "This is Eleanor Elizabeth Raynor... my granddaughter, and the future head of the Raynor Clan. You appear to be of similar age. Why don’t you sit together? Edith, give them some space, please."

Edith obligingly shifted to another chair, and Lilith seated herself beside Eleanor. Winifred, however, took a seat next to Lionel Courtenay, who enthusiastically introduced himself before plying her with appetisers and drinks.

At that moment, the Gerymoore Clan from London arrived. At their head was George Gerymoore.

"I think we’re late," he said aloud, though not to anyone in particular... and everyone heard him nonetheless.

He strode directly to the centre table and bowed respectfully to Fiona. "Greetings, Councillor. We are a little behind schedule... hope you don’t mind."

Fiona chuckled. "No need for formalities. Today’s party is a celebration for Clan Blanc. Please, enjoy yourself."

Dominic was already on his feet to greet the older werewolf. "Clan Head Gerymoore, welcome. Please sit and enjoy the evening."

George glanced over the centre table, noting that it was occupied entirely by clan heads and alphas. Though he did not know Winifred or her daughter, his long experience told him that these werecats held no less prestige than the others. With a subtle gesture, he directed the elder woman accompanying him to take the seat beside him, while signalling the rest of his people to find places elsewhere.

Juliette was right behind him, leading the Gerymoore Clan to the only empty table in the room, where they promptly sat.

A few minutes later, Dominic Blanc rose to his feet and struck the rim of his glass with a spoon, the clear chime carrying across the hall. The room fell silent.

"Thank you all for coming," he began. "Tonight, we celebrate the union of two capable youngsters of our clan, Raphael and Laila. Please pray to the Goddess for their eternal happiness and love. We also celebrate the strength of our bloodline... the honour brought to us by two others of our clan, Ophelia and Caspian, for their recent success in the Grand Competition. Please pray to the Goddess for their success in life."

He lifted his goblet high. "To Raphael Blanc and Laila Blanc... may your bond be as unbroken as the moon’s pull on our blood. And to Ophelia Blanc and Caspian Blanc... may you return victorious from your trials. Now... everyone... eat, drink, and celebrate!"

A chorus of howls erupted, echoing off the high ceiling. The werecats merely smiled, sipping their wine in silence.

Cheers rose, goblets clinked, and the long tables came alive with the clatter of plates. Clan Blanc’s servers moved quickly, setting down platters of venison, haunches of boar, smoked fish, roasted root vegetables glistening with honey, and loaves of bread still warm from the oven.

Raphael and Laila began moving from table to table, greeting their guests.

"Drink!" Ciaran Raynor bellowed, slamming a goblet into Raphael’s hand. "You’re a husband now... cheers!" Raphael smirked and drank deep, the blood wine burning warm in his chest.

Ciaran pressed another goblet into Laila’s hand. "Welcome to our circle. You’ve chosen one of us. If he ever bullies you, just call me. I will beat the crap out of him."

"Thank you," Laila replied. "Please take care of me."

At the centre table, Lionel Courtenay’s booming laughter rang out. "Clan Head! A toast to your success... and to the night!" He raised his goblet towards Dominic Blanc.

Dominic returned the gesture. "To you as well... may our bond be as unbroken as the moon’s pull on our blood."

By the second course, the tables were thick with conversation. Old rivalries were smoothed over with feigned courtesy, while hints of new alliances were exchanged between mouthfuls of meat.

As the night deepened, some guests slipped away to the hotel’s upper floor, seeking rest before the festivities resumed. The older wolves were the first to retreat, accepting keys from Clan Blanc members. A few young women followed, offering polite goodnights.

The younger wolves, however, showed no intention of leaving. One Courtenay clansman had gathered a circle around him, spinning tales so outrageous that even the usually stoic werecats cracked a reluctant smile.

Raphael and Laila made their rounds, clasping hands, exchanging brief words with distant cousins and allied wolves, ensuring they personally greeted every elder present.

Near midnight, the music began... a wild, pounding rhythm that quickened the blood. Raphael and Laila took the floor for their first dance, their movements graceful and practised. Laila then danced with Dominic, as tradition required. Since Laila had no immediate family present, Raphael was spared from dancing with others.

The floor soon opened to all. Clan Blanc led the way, their movements a mix of human elegance and something older... hips rolling, steps sharp and precise. Other clans joined, filling the space with their own styles.

The werecats entered after a time, their motions sinuous and fluid, weaving through the wolves like shadows moving through torchlight.

Before long, the dancing turned into a friendly contest among the younger guests, each trying to outdo the others with speed, precision, or daring.

When the final note faded, Dominic rose again, striking his glass like a bell. The curtains had already been drawn back, and through the high windows the full moon shone silver and cold.

The hall grew still. Dominic partially shifted, his head taking the form of a wolf, and loosed the first howl. Fiona followed with a deep, resonant call, and then the others joined... a chorus that shook the floor and rattled the lanterns.

The werecats did not howl, but they stood silently, eyes bright, acknowledging the primal ritual.

The sound carried far beyond the hotel, across the frozen fields and forests, where lesser creatures stirred and fled.

When the last echoes faded, the clan heads and senior members withdrew to their rooms, guided by Clan Blanc attendants. Only the younger guests remained to carry the revelry into the small hours.