Marcus Thornwood wanted the packs to stop killing each other, and no one would come to his door. He stood outside his den, a squat log cabin with his name carved above the door, and read the message his runner had brought back. Three feuding packs had refused his summons. The River pack would not sit under his roof. The Ridge pack called his den enemy ground. The Hollow pack simply spat and walked away. Marcus crumpled the bark note in his fist. His old wolf pressed against his leg. The beast was gray at the muzzle now, its coat crossed with pink scars from fights long past. Marcus scratched the ragged ears. "They won't meet here," he said. "They think my walls belong to me alone." The scarred wolf huffed. Marcus knew the truth in it. A den was a lair. A lair was a claim. No enemy would step inside another's claim and bare his throat. He needed ground that belonged to no one. Ground above all their fights. Marcus lifted his eyes past the cabin roof, into the great oak that spread over the clearing. High in the branches sat a treehouse, weathered and empty, built by hands long dead. No pack claimed the sky. No scent marked those planks. A wolf who climbed the rope ladder left his territory below. Marcus tested the plan against every reason it might fail. The packs feared ambush. In the tree, all sides could see each other clearly. The packs feared traps. A ladder let any wolf flee fast. The packs feared favoring one host. The treehouse belonged to a dead builder, not to Marcus. It was neutral by nature. He climbed the ladder that afternoon. The perch groaned but held his weight. From the wooden railing he could see the whole clearing, every path a wolf might take. He swept out the old leaves. He set a ring of flat stones for wolves to sit. Then he sent his runner again, with new words. Come to the high perch. Come where no one owns the floor. Come and be seen by all. By dusk the answer came. The River pack agreed. The Ridge pack agreed. The Hollow pack, last and slowest, agreed. Three alphas would climb the same ladder at the next full moon. Marcus stood on the perch and let out a slow breath. He had made a place they could not refuse. The scarred wolf climbed up beside him and growled low toward the tree line. Marcus followed its stare. He had a meeting ground now. But the alphas were coming with their teeth, their grudges, and their old blood between them. Neutral ground did not make them friends. It only put them all within reach of each other. Marcus looked at the empty stones and understood the harder problem. He could gather them. Now he had to keep them from tearing each other apart.