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He had given them a chance; given them laws to abide by and exiled the survivors from lycan territory. Allowed them to live, even as many called for them all to burn.

And how did they repay this kindness? His father had barely cooled within the grave and they were assembling and rebelling already. If they thought him weak, he would show them just how wrong they were.

"Vidar, the witches -"

"I do not want to hear it, Iona." Vidar interrupted his sister, casting his gaze away from her worried face.

"They will retaliate! You need to be prepared!" She pushed on insistently, striding to stand in front of him.

"I know." He responded, glaring up at her now. His little sister was the only person he permitted to speak to him so informally, with the occasional exception of his Beta.

Iona went on as if she hadn't heard him. "The Alpha of the Wentworth Pack warned us that this would occur. The witches have been gathering forces in Britain for some time now, they have grown uncontrollable. If war breaks out..." Now his sister began to pace, her heeled boots clicking on the stone floor. "Treaties must be made!"

"Treaties?" Vidar laughed humourlessly, "The witches are under our rule and always have been. There will be no treaty made with their kind. They will submit."

"But the Wentworth Pack-"

"Is not our problem, Iona." He ground out, pulling himself up to his full height. He towered over most wolves, and his sister was no exception. "We are not in England; we are in Norway. We will deal with our own problems, and they will deal with theirs."

Iona flinched, opening her mouth again to argue. Vidar silenced her with a look that brooked no argument.

"Now, unless Marcus Wentworth has witnessed a legion of witches marching on our territory from Britain...?" He questioned, obviously mocking her concern.

She frowned at her brother, crossing her arms sullenly. "You know he hasn't."

Vidar smirked, "Then there is nothing to worry about, __lskling."

His use of the sweet endearment only served to ruffle her feathers further, seeming to dismiss her like an overly paranoid child. Iona glared up at her brother.

"Skjerp Deg!" She shot at him in their native tongue, before whirling around and storming off toward the huge wooden set of doors.

Vidar's husky laughter followed her on the way out, and before she could slam the doors behind her she heard her brother call out "Drittunge." in reply.

As much as he teased his sister for her concern, he wasn't an idiot. He'd been looking into the issue over in Britain for many months now, and knew something would have to be done on their part soon.

The witches were gathering, they were moving. Plans were surely being made, and he doubted they would benefit his people. He needed to make a move, and soon. Perhaps a visit to the Wentworth Pack would not be out of the question.

But he would have to do so in a way that did not strike more alarm in his Pack than there needed to be. His sister was meddlesome and that could be a problem; his concern for her safety was paramount. She was under his protection, especially now that their parents were gone, and he was determined to keep her out of unsavoury dealings.

She spoke of treaties and peace, but such things were a pipe dream in their world. He had seen the carnage of war firsthand, had delivered death by his own claws. They could never live side by side with the witches, it would be as absurd as breaking bread with a bloodsucker.

He'd find something to distract Iona with, something helpful for her to focus on and divert her attention, and then he'd pay his old friend Marcus a visit. It was time they settled this witch problem, once and for all.

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__lskling - Term of Endearment (ie: sweetheart, dearest etc.)

Skjerp Deg - "Sharpen yourself up" (ie: you're making an idiot of yourself)

Drittunge - "Brat"

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Her feet were bare, scratched and bloodied

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