The morning after Grandmother Elsa's storytelling dawned crisp and clear, with frost painting delicate patterns on the windows and the scent of wood smoke drifting from chimneys throughout Silverfang village. Bete woke earlier than usual, his dreams having been filled with running wolves and crimson moonlight that left him feeling restless and energized.
As he made his way to the kitchen for breakfast, he found Mira already awake, sitting at the small table with a bowl of porridge growing cold in front of her. Her attention was focused entirely on the window, where the pale morning light revealed their grandmother's prized chicken coop in the backyard.
"Something's wrong," Mira said without looking away from the window.
Bete followed her gaze and immediately saw what had caught her attention. The chickens, normally busy with their morning routine of pecking for insects and gossiping in the way that only chickens could, were instead huddled together in one corner of their enclosed area. Their usual chatter had been replaced by anxious clucking, and several of the birds kept looking toward the dense shrubs that bordered the back of the property.
"They're scared," Bete observed, moving to stand beside his sister. "Something's been bothering them."
Before either of them could investigate further, Grandmother Elsa emerged from her bedroom, already dressed and alert despite the early hour. Her keen eyes took in the scene outside immediately.
"Foxes," she said with certainty. "Or possibly a small bear, though it's early in the season for that. Something's been prowling around the coop during the night."
Captain Fenris appeared in the doorway, still adjusting his guard uniform. "How can you be sure?"
"Look at the way they're grouped," Grandmother Elsa explained, pointing toward the frightened birds. "They're not just startled—they're positioning themselves as far as possible from whatever threatened them. And see how Henrietta keeps looking toward those bushes? She's the smartest of the lot. If she's worried about that area, there's good reason."
Bete studied the scene more carefully, applying the tracking skills Viktor had taught him during their hunt. Even from inside the house, he could see subtle signs that supported his grandmother's assessment—a few feathers scattered near the fence where none had been the day before, and what might have been disturbed earth near the shrub line.
"I could set some traps," Captain Fenris offered, but Grandmother Elsa shook her head.
"You have guard duties today, and the village needs you there. Besides, I doubt whatever it is will return during daylight hours. Most predators that go after chickens are smart enough to avoid humans when they're awake and alert."
"So we just wait for it to come back tonight?" Mira asked, her voice revealing how much she loved the chickens. She had named each one and often spent afternoons sitting in the coop, reading to them from her favorite storybooks.
"Not necessarily," Bete said slowly, an idea beginning to form. "What if we didn't wait for it to come to us?"
The family turned to look at him, and he found himself the center of attention in a way that was both exciting and nerve-wracking.
"Go on," Captain Fenris encouraged.
"Viktor taught me that most predators follow patterns. They scout potential targets, find the easiest approach, and then return using the same route until something disrupts their success." Bete moved to the window, pointing toward the area where the chickens kept looking. "If something was here last night, there will be tracks and sign. I could follow the trail and see where it's coming from."
"Absolutely not," Captain Fenris said immediately. "You're not tracking potentially dangerous animals by yourself."
"I wouldn't be hunting it," Bete clarified quickly. "Just learning its pattern. Viktor says that understanding your opponent is half the battle won. If I can figure out how it's approaching the coop, we can be ready for it."
Grandmother Elsa studied her grandson thoughtfully. "What exactly are you proposing?"
Bete's plan tumbled out in an excited rush. "I spend the day tracking whatever it was, learning its route and its habits. Then tonight, instead of waiting inside and hoping for the best, I keep watch over the coop. When it comes back—and predators almost always come back—I'll be ready for it."
"That's too dangerous," Gareth said, speaking up from the doorway where he had been listening. "What if it's a bear? Or a pack of wolves? You're not strong enough to fight something like that."
"I'm not planning to fight anything," Bete replied, his voice taking on the patient tone he used when explaining something to Mira. "The goal isn't to defeat whatever it is in combat. The goal is to protect the chickens by making the predator understand that this isn't easy prey anymore."
Captain Fenris exchanged a look with Grandmother Elsa, and some unspoken communication passed between them.
"How would you accomplish that?" the old woman asked.
"Noise, mostly. Light. Making it clear that humans are aware and watching. Most predators won't press an attack if they think the risk outweighs the reward."
"And if your deterrent efforts don't work?"
Bete had already considered this possibility. "Then I retreat to the house and wake everyone up. Better to lose one night's sleep than lose the chickens."
Another silent exchange between the adults, this one lasting longer than the first.
"The boy's reasoning is sound," Grandmother Elsa said finally. "And it would be good experience for him. But," she held up a hand as Bete started to smile, "there will be conditions."
"Name them," Bete said eagerly.
"First, you track during daylight hours only, and you take Gareth with you. Two sets of eyes are better than one, and your brother has more experience in the forest."
Gareth looked as if he was about to protest, but their grandmother's stern gaze silenced him.
"Second, you check in with me every two hours during your watch tonight. If you miss a check-in, I'm sending your father out with half the village guard."
"Agreed," Bete said quickly.
"And third," Captain Fenris added, "you carry this." He disappeared briefly and returned with a small horn that Bete recognized as one of the emergency signals used by the village watch. "Three short blasts if you need help, two long ones if you're successfully driving off whatever it is. One long blast means immediate danger and everyone comes running."
Bete accepted the horn with the seriousness such trust deserved. "I understand."
The tracking expedition began after breakfast, with Bete and Gareth making their way to the backyard to examine the chicken coop area more closely. In the full light of day, the signs of nocturnal visitation were much clearer.
"Definitely fox," Gareth said, kneeling beside a clear paw print in the soft earth near the fence. "But a big one. Look at the size of this track."
Bete crouched beside his brother, studying the print carefully. It was indeed large for a fox, and the depth suggested an animal of considerable weight. "Probably an older male. They get bolder as they age, more willing to risk approaching human settlements."
They spent the morning following the trail, which led from the chicken coop through the garden, past the well, and into the forest that bordered the village. The fox had been methodical in its approach, using natural cover and avoiding the open areas where it might be spotted by early-rising villagers.
"Smart," Gareth admitted grudgingly as they tracked the path. "It knows exactly how to stay hidden."
The trail led them nearly half a mile into the woods before they found the fox's den—a cleverly concealed burrow beneath the roots of a massive oak tree. The area around the den showed signs of recent occupation: scattered bones from previous meals, worn paths leading to water sources, and the distinctive musky scent that marked the territory.
"Now we know where it lives," Bete said with satisfaction. "And we know the route it takes to reach our coop. Tonight, I'll be ready for it."
They returned home for lunch and spent the afternoon preparing for the evening watch. Bete gathered supplies: a warm cloak, a small lantern with plenty of oil, some food and water for a long vigil, and the emergency horn his father had given him.
As the sun began to set, the family gathered for an early dinner. The mood was serious but supportive, with even Mira contributing suggestions for how to make the night watch more effective.
"Remember," Grandmother Elsa said as Bete prepared to take up his position, "the goal is protection, not heroics. Be smart, be patient, and trust your instincts."
Bete settled himself in a concealed spot near the chicken coop with a clear view of the approach route they had identified. The chickens had already settled for the night, their soft clucking gradually fading to silence as darkness fell.
The hours passed slowly. Bete found himself hyperaware of every sound—the rustle of wind through leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the soft scratch of small creatures moving through the underbrush. His senses felt sharper than usual, perhaps influenced by the previous night's stories about werewolf heritage, and he found himself noticing details that normally escaped his attention.
It was nearly midnight when he finally spotted movement at the edge of the forest. A shadow detached itself from the tree line and began making its way toward the village with the fluid grace of a natural predator.
The fox was indeed large, its red coat gleaming in the moonlight as it followed exactly the route Bete and Gareth had mapped during the day. It moved with complete confidence, clearly expecting no resistance to its raid on the chicken coop.
Bete waited until the fox was halfway across the open ground before acting. He lit his lantern and stood up, holding the light high enough to illuminate himself clearly while keeping his movements slow and non-threatening.
"That's far enough," he said in a normal speaking voice.
The fox froze, its head swiveling toward this unexpected obstacle. For a long moment, predator and boy regarded each other across the moonlit yard.
Bete could see intelligence in the fox's eyes, a quick calculation of risk versus reward. The animal had clearly not expected to encounter a human, especially not one who seemed calm and prepared rather than frightened or aggressive.
"The chickens are under protection now," Bete continued, maintaining eye contact with the fox. "You'll have to find easier prey elsewhere."
The standoff lasted perhaps thirty seconds before the fox made its decision. With a sound that might have been frustration or acknowledgment, it turned and trotted back toward the forest, disappearing into the shadows as silently as it had come.
Bete waited several more minutes before giving two long blasts on the horn—the signal for successful deterrence. Almost immediately, lights appeared in the windows of the house, and he could hear the relieved voices of his family.
By the time they reached him, Bete was grinning widely, adrenaline and satisfaction combining to make him feel ten feet tall.
"It worked perfectly," he reported. "The fox came exactly where we predicted, and when it realized the coop was being guarded, it decided to look for easier targets."
"And how do you feel?" Grandmother Elsa asked, studying his face in the lantern light.
Bete considered the question seriously. The night's events had been exactly what he had hoped for—a chance to protect something important using intelligence and preparation rather than force.
"Like I actually accomplished something meaningful," he said finally. "Not just practice or training, but real protection of something that matters."
Captain Fenris clapped him on the shoulder. "That's exactly the feeling you should remember, son. That sense of satisfaction from using your abilities to protect rather than simply to prove yourself."
As they walked back to the house together, Mira slipped her hand into Bete's. "You saved the chickens," she said simply. "That makes you a hero."
Bete squeezed his sister's hand gently. "Not a hero. Just someone who cared enough to try."
But even as he spoke the words, he felt a warm glow of pride in his chest. Tonight, he had faced a real challenge and succeeded not through strength or size, but through careful planning, patience, and determination. It was a small victory in the grand scheme of things, but it was his first real taste of what it meant to be a protector.
Looking up at the night sky, Bete noticed that tomorrow's Blood Moon was already beginning to rise, larger and redder than any moon he had ever seen. Its crimson light seemed to approve of the night's work, promising greater challenges and greater victories to come.
He had no way of knowing that this would be one of the last purely happy moments of his childhood, or that the lessons learned during his small victory over a single fox would one day help him face enemies beyond his current imagination.
For now, surrounded by his proud and loving family, eight-year-old Bete Loga was simply content to be the smallest wolf who had successfully protected his pack.