Wildborn

One Night Off

The lanterns were lit and the entire packhouse thrummed like a hive. Pathways had been swept, marble urns overfilled with hydrangea and moon-roses, and long white runners unfurled over the lawn like narrow ribbons of starlight. Bri arrived at the coordinator’s table precisely when she’d promised, mentally reciting some notes she'd taken earlier. She’d already memorized the layout Soriah had sent: north pavilion for dignitaries from other packs, west terrace for the student cohort, central lawn for mingling and speeches and eventually a dance floor, food stations staggered to prevent bottlenecks.

Delta Petra came around the corner and gave her a smile.

Petra was all angles and competence, her dark hair pulled into a severe knot, a sleek black gown complimented her tall frame. Simple and functional, making sense for the role she was to play tonight. She set a stack of cards down, glanced at Bri, and gave a nod that felt like a commendation.

“Brielle,” she said. “Thank you for stepping in. Soriah deserves one night where she’s not managing the pack.”

“Glad to put my prior service industry experience to use,” Bri replied. “Where do you want me?”

“Everywhere,” Petra said dryly. “If it breaks, fix it. If it wobbles, wedge it. If someone cries, hand them water and send them to me.”

She slid over a slim folder. “Contingencies. Seating lists. Vendor numbers.”

Bri skimmed the tabs, music, seating, catering, lighting, security, and felt a spark of satisfaction that she had helped most of the committees with these plans. “Understood.”

“Good. You’ll be my runner tonight.” Petra’s gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. “Truly, thanks for giving Soriah a night off.”

Bri dipped her head. “Happy to be of help”

Petra’s mouth tilted. “Then let’s keep her off-duty.”

They dispersed: Petra to the entrance arch where arrivals would pass beneath strings of crystal lights, and Bri to the sound booth where a pair of Omegas fussed over a glossy console. Guests were already trickling through the ivy-covered gates, warriors in sharp suits, elders in traditional formal wear, and students in the latest trends of finery.

“Playlist,” Bri said to the Omegas. “Do we have it loaded?”

They exchanged an alarmed look. “It… should be,” one said.

“Should be,” Bri repeated, amused. “May you please show me.”

The boy swallowed, opened the console’s library, and revealed a neatly labeled set of files, only to click through and find every track file path blank. Somewhere between the Delta's office and the garden, the music cues had vanished.

“Okay,” Bri said, calmly. “It’s not a crisis. It’s a quiet room.”

The girl Omega wrung her hands. “But the Luna wanted a classical set for arrivals and a folk set for the first hour and—”

“And she’ll get it.” Bri pulled her phone from the side pocket of her dress. “We’ve got a secure network. I’ll build a stopgap list now; send a runner to the Delta's office to retrieve the original files.”

She tossed her notebook onto the console, fingers flying and thanking her lucky stars that Meg was a music phenom and something had rubbed off on her. “Search terms: Vivaldi, strings only, light tempo; then traditional waltz; then moon-folk, no ballads, nothing over seven minutes. We’re going to want instrumental to start, low volume. You … ” she pointed to the boy, “please adjust the levels and keep the bass soft. We’re not trying to rattle anyone's teeth.”

They stared at her, wide-eyed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Bri smiled. “I am not a ma’am. I’m a very determined miss. Now, please hurry and go.”

Within three minutes, a calm wash of strings drifted across the lawn, dignified enough for elders, cheerful enough for students. When Petra passed by, she gave Bri a single, approving nod and moved on.

The crowd thickened: more warriors from border patrols just returned, their suits sitting slightly strange over combat frames; neighboring allies with their own pack insignias pinned discreetly at the lapel. The girls of the academy clustered in fragrant knots, excitement electric in the air.

“He is on his way.” one whispered as Bri passed, eyes bright.

“My cousin says he landed an hour ago,” another replied, fanning herself with a program. “I bet he’s gotten even more muscly.”

“And the jawline?” a third sighed. “Please say it’s true.”

“Oh, it’s true.”

Bri hid a smile and tucked the folder under her arm. She felt like she was temporarily taken back to Saturday night at the diner after an away football game, waiting for the players to arrive.

She made a lap of the lawn. Lanterns hummed softly beneath the vaulted branches, casting a mellow glow over the guests. The west terrace already had a throng of students; she detoured to the north pavilion and found the dignitary tables shining with crystal and silver. Good. Onward to the food stations, she greeted the catering lead (a formidable Omega named Del), confirmed the timing, checked the backup propane, and noted the pudding station’s location like a general marking resources. As she worked, she caught flashes of Soriah moving through the garden.

At first, Soriah stood as Bri had expected, reserved, poised, a quiet axis around which conversation turned. But as the night unfurled, Bri saw her laugh, actually laugh, twice. Once with Dominic, who said something dry that made her swat his arm, and once with someone Bri didn't know, who bowed elaborately at a joke and made two girls squeal with delight. Soriah’s dress was a study in restraint: midnight silk that flowed in a narrow column, a sleeveless halter with a clean bodice and mock neck. A thin belt of faceted onyx cinched her waist, throwing subtle light when she moved. Her dark braid was exchanged for a softened French twist and a pair of slim black earrings flickered at her jaw. She looked like what she was, a captain, a woman who knew the calculus of an entire room and still allowed herself a moment to enjoy it.

Bri relayed menu timings and was debating on adjusting the lighting angle on the hydrangea arch when an Omega sprinted up, breathless. “Miss Bri, the seating chart!”

“What about it?”

“Two elders arrived with guests who weren’t on the list. They’re insisting on placement at the head tables.”

Bri bit back a groan. “Of course they are. Please show me to the seating chart.”

They hustled to a tasteful display on an easel with calligraphed cards. The dignitary tables were full. She considered, counting quickly. “We’ll add an auxiliary table to the dignitary ring, close enough to flatter, far enough not to insult those already placed.” She pointed. “Please move the flower stand and lantern cluster, and pull a round table from storage and ask the kitchen cover it with a spare cloth. I’ll write new cards.”

The Omega blinked. “What about place settings…”

“Oh yes, thank you. Let's swap eight from the student overflow table. The students can eat off the lounge buffet later; the dignitaries cannot. Tell Del we’re plus-four in that ring.” She slid a crisp card free, wrote names in tidy script, and pinned them in place with silver tacks. “There. Announce the auxiliary table like it was always part of the plan.”

The Omega’s panic smoothed into relief. “You’re terrifying,” he said, admiringly.

“Only when hungry,” Bri murmured.

The music lifted to a gentle swell. Conversation rose with it. Bri passed Sera once, Sera looked incandescent, silver gown glittering with every movement, tiara alight as if the moon had dipped into it. She pressed a quick hug into Bri’s side when they crossed.

The next problem found her at the exact moment the brass at the entrance sounded a warning chord. That was the signal that the Alpha and Luna were moments away.

Del hurtled across the lawn from the kitchen terrace, eyes ablaze. “We have a situation.”

“Please tell me it’s about napkins,” Bri said.

“It’s about trout.”

“Of course, my favorite fish.” Bri’s smile didn’t budge. “What happened?”

“A supplier shorted our filets. I can stretch the lemon-herb trays, but we’re short three chafers for the dignitary ring.”

Bri calculated on the run. “What are you able to multiply quickly?”

“Wild mushroom risotto.”

“Wonderful. Let's swap the herb trout on the edge tables with the risotto. Dignitaries get the filets. Everyone else gets a happily elevated vegetarian course. Call it ‘Luna’s Garden Risotto’ and no one will blink.”

Del’s eyes lit. “You’re evil.”

“Only on Fridays.” Bri squeezed her arm. “Do you need hands?”

“I’ll take two runners.”

Bri flagged them and sent them.

As the music swelled again, she hurried back to Petra.

At the entrance arch, Petra stood flanked by her twins, a still point in the swirl. “We good?” she asked without looking away from the gate.

“We are risotto-rich and trout-neutral,” Bri said. “Music stabilized, seating expanded, chairs pacified.”

“Bless you,” Petra murmured, and then the gates opened fully.

Alpha Marcos entered with Luna Isabella and Sera between them. The crowd stilled with a sweep that felt like wind. Marcos wore traditional black tailored within an inch of perfection, broad-shouldered jacket cut to honor the line of his stature, silver embroidery climbing the lapels in a spare, elegant wolf motif. A ceremonial chain of linked crescents rested against his chest, understated in a way that made it more powerful. Luna Isabella shone in her signature blue, a deep sapphire silk that draped like water over her frame. Her sleeves were sheer, dusted with tiny crystals at the cuff; her hair was coiled and pinned with a delicate crown made of platinum ivy inlaid with sapphires. Sera walked between them like a gleaming arrow of light, silver gown, curls, her tiara catching every lantern as if the night bowed to her.

Bri felt something like pride that had no right to be hers. Then the kitchen comm crackled at her hip.

“Bri, it's Del. I lied. We’re not risotto-rich. One of the burners went out. I need you.”

Bri closed her eyes for half a second. The brass would sound again any moment, for the warrior entrance, for …

“Kai,” Petra said under her breath, as if reading the thought. “Go. I’ll cover the front.”

Bri ran.