Chapter 3 : Court Selection

Vienna didn''t welcome visitors; it consumed them.

Alan stood at the Hofburg Palace gates, watching the city digest ambitious young nobles. The air smelled of ambition and decay—perfume over sewage, incense over rot, new money over old stone. Fifty candidates milled in the courtyard, each a carefully crafted weapon in their family''s arsenal.

Friedrich von Wittelsbach found him first. The Bavarian duke''s son moved with the casual cruelty of someone who''d never been denied anything.

"Look," Friedrich said to his companions, loud enough for everyone to hear. "The Wolf bastard. I heard they only let him in because they needed someone to clean the stables."

His friends laughed. The sound was sharp, practiced. A performance for an audience.

Alan kept his face neutral. He could smell Friedrich''s fear underneath the bravado—sour sweat, accelerated heartbeat. The boy was terrified of failing, of disappointing his father, of returning to Bavaria without the prize. His cruelty was armor.

"Your father''s duchy borders Ottoman territory, doesn''t it?" Alan said quietly. "Must be stressful, waiting for the next invasion. Wondering if this is the year the Turks finally break through."

Friedrich''s smile faltered. "We hold the line."

"With Bavarian troops," Alan continued. "Who haven''t seen real combat in a generation. While the Wolf family has fought in every major engagement since Charlemagne. But yes, do tell me more about stables."

He walked away, leaving Friedrich sputtering. A small victory, but dangerous. Drawing attention. The count''s warning echoed in his mind: *Be exceptional, but not too exceptional.*

The selection began with a trap.

They were led to a chapel, not a testing hall. Incense hung thick in the air. At the altar stood Elder Joachim, the Inquisition commissioner. He was younger than Alan expected—maybe forty, with intelligent eyes and hands that looked more accustomed to holding a quill than a sword.

"Kneel," Joachim said. His voice was soft, but it carried. "We begin with prayer. For guidance. For purity of purpose."

They knelt. Alan''s knees hit cold stone. He kept his head bowed, but his senses were alert. He could smell the incense—frankincense, myrrh, and something else. Wolfsbane. Subtle, but there. Mixed with the holy smoke.

*Another test,* he thought. *Breathe it in, get sick, reveal yourself.*

He held his breath as much as possible, taking shallow breaths through his mouth. His eyes watered. His throat tightened. But he didn''t cough. Didn''t show any reaction.

The prayer lasted twenty minutes. When it ended, two candidates were visibly ill—pale, sweating, one vomiting in a corner. Guards escorted them out. "Unfit for service," Joachim announced, as if commenting on the weather.

The academic tests came next. Latin translation of a passage from Augustine''s *City of God*. Greek philosophy—a debate on Aristotle''s ethics. Theology—explain the doctrine of transubstantiation.

Alan worked carefully. He knew the answers—his modern education gave him perspective these medieval scholars lacked. But he deliberately made small errors. Used an archaic translation for a Latin word. Misattributed a Greek quote. Offered a theologically sound but slightly unorthodox interpretation of transubstantiation.

Good, but not perfect. Competent, but not brilliant.

During a break, he caught Elder Joachim watching him. The priest''s expression was unreadable.

The physical tests were worse.

Archery first. Alan took his place, drew the bow. His werewolf eyesight made the target seem laughably close. He could see every fiber of the straw, every imperfection in the paint. He could hit the bullseye blindfolded.

So he didn''t.

First arrow: just outside the bullseye. Second: same. Third: he "overcorrected," hitting the outer ring. Fourth: back to near the center. A pattern of inconsistency. A talented archer having an off day.

Friedrich, shooting beside him, smirked. "Perhaps you should stick to cleaning."

Alan said nothing. He could smell Friedrich''s satisfaction. Good. Let him think he was winning.

Sword fighting was next. Blunted blades, but the impacts still hurt. Alan faced a Saxon noble—big, strong, but slow. Alan could have disarmed him in three moves. Instead, he let the fight drag on. Took a hit to the shoulder that would leave a bruise. "Accidentally" dropped his guard, allowing another hit to his ribs. Finally won with a clumsy but effective move that looked more like luck than skill.

The Saxon noble bowed, respect in his eyes. "Well fought."

Alan returned the bow. His ribs ached. The cost of deception: real pain.

The final test was the one he''d been dreading: strategy.

They were brought to the palace war room. A massive sand table dominated the center, depicting the Battle of Mohács in meticulous detail. Miniature Hungarian and Ottoman armies faced each other across a painted river.

Crown Prince Charles entered, followed by Dowager Empress Maria. Charles looked bored. His mother looked calculating.

"Your task," Charles said, his voice flat. "Command the Hungarians. Change the outcome."

One by one, candidates stepped forward. They proposed flanking maneuvers, cavalry charges, defensive lines. Most were competent. Some were clever. All were... conventional. The kind of strategies taught by the same tutors, from the same books.

Friedrich went just before Alan. He gave a confident performance, rearranging the Hungarian lines into a classic pincer formation. "Crush them between two wings," he declared.

Charles nodded politely. "Adequate."

Then it was Alan''s turn.

He walked to the table. Studied the pieces. Remembered not just the battle, but the context. The political situation. The personalities involved.

He moved one piece: the Hungarian king, Louis II, from the front lines to the rear.

Silence.

Elder Joachim leaned forward. "Explain."

"The problem wasn''t tactics," Alan said. "It was leadership. King Louis was twenty years old. Inexperienced. Impulsive. He led from the front because he wanted to be a hero. He died in the first hour, and the army collapsed."

He moved more pieces. "Put experienced commanders at the front. Put the king here—safe, but visible. Let him inspire from a distance, not die in the mud. Then..." He rearranged the artillery. "Use these not against infantry, but against the Ottoman command tent. Kill their generals. Create chaos in their leadership."

Charles stood. He walked to the table, studying Alan''s arrangement. "Risky. If you fail to kill their commanders, you''ve wasted your artillery."

"Then don''t fail," Alan said. "Use scouts—not just to find the army, but to identify the command tent. Watch their movements. Learn their patterns. Then strike at the right moment."

He looked up, meeting Charles''s eyes. "Wars aren''t won by killing the most soldiers. They''re won by breaking the enemy''s will. And nothing breaks will faster than losing your leaders."

Dowager Empress Maria spoke for the first time. "An... interesting approach. Unorthodox. Some might say cowardly—hiding the king while targeting commanders from a distance."

"War isn''t about courage, Your Majesty," Alan said, turning to face her. "It''s about winning. My grandfather taught me that. He also taught me that dead heroes make poor defenders of empires."

The room went still. He''d gone too far. Shown too much.

Elder Joachim''s eyes narrowed. "Your grandfather. Count Heinrich von Wolf. He fought at Belgrade, yes? Against the Turks?"

"Yes," Alan said, keeping his voice steady.

"Interesting," Joachim murmured. "I''ve been studying the records of that battle. The count''s company held a gate against three hundred Turks. They shouldn''t have survived. But they did. Witnesses reported... unusual strength. Endurance. Almost supernatural."

Alan''s blood ran cold. "My grandfather is an excellent soldier. As were his men."

"Of course," Joachim said, smiling thinly. "Just excellent soldiers. Nothing more."

The testing ended. Candidates were dismissed to await results.

As Alan left, a servant approached. Not the one from before. This one was older, with eyes that missed nothing. "Elder Joachim requests your presence. In the confessional. Now."

Not a request. A command.

The confessional was a small, dark room off the main chapel. The air smelled of old wood and guilt. Joachim sat on one side of the lattice screen. Alan took the other.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Alan began the ritual.

"Save the formalities," Joachim said. His voice was different now—sharper, more direct. "I know what you are."

Alan''s heart stopped. "I don''t—"

"Don''t lie. It''s insulting." A pause. "I don''t mean the werewolf blood. Though that''s interesting too. I mean the other thing. The mind behind those eyes. You''re not fifteen. Not really."

Alan said nothing. What could he say?

"I''ve studied your family for years," Joachim continued. "The Wolf family''s... peculiarities. The unusual survivals. The strategic insights generations ahead of their time. Your grandfather should have died at Belgrade. Your great-grandfather should have died at Constantinople. But they didn''t. They always find a way to survive. To win."

He leaned closer. Alan could see his silhouette through the lattice. "I think it''s not just physical gifts. I think there''s something in the blood. A... clarity. A way of seeing the world differently. Am I wrong?"

Alan remained silent.

"I''m not your enemy," Joachim said. "Not yet. The Church needs men who can think. Who can see patterns. Who can win wars. Your family has served the empire for centuries. That service could continue. Under the right... guidance."

"What kind of guidance?" Alan asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Report to me. On the court. On the prince. On anything... unusual. In return, I protect you. From the dowager empress. From your enemies. From the less understanding members of my own order."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I continue my investigation. And I have many questions. About your mother, for instance. A woman with no family, no history, who appeared one day and disappeared the next. A woman who, according to certain records, showed abilities that even your family found... disturbing."

Alan''s hands clenched. "My mother is dead."

"Is she?" Joachim''s voice was gentle now. Almost kind. "The Church has records too, Alan. Older records. About women who could speak to animals. Who could heal with a touch. Who could see the future in water. We call them witches. We burn them. Unless... they serve a higher purpose."

He stood. "Think about my offer. You have three days. The selection results will be announced then. Regardless of the outcome, my offer stands."

He left. Alan sat in the dark, his mind racing.

Two offers now. The count''s: serve the family, protect the secret. Charles''s: serve the prince, gain protection. And now Joachim''s: serve the Church, in exchange for... what? Survival? Or a different kind of damnation?

He left the confessional. As he walked through the palace corridors, he passed an open window. The moon was visible—a waxing crescent, growing larger every night.

In two weeks, it would be full.

In two weeks, he would be here, in this palace, surrounded by enemies who wanted to use him, control him, or destroy him.

And the wolf in his blood was stirring, waking, hungry.

He touched the silver dagger at his belt. Cold comfort.

The negotiation wasn''t just with the count, or Charles, or Joachim.

It was with the moon. With the wolf. With the woman he''d been and the boy he was supposed to be.

And all of them wanted something different.

All of them would demand a price.