Rafet's eyes narrowed, carefully assessing the situation. These men were clearly part of the local werewolf pack, but they seemed unaware of his true nature. He kept his voice level, trying to defuse the situation.

"I mean no trouble," Rafet said, his accent thick. "Just passing through."

The leader scoffed, circling Rafet like a predator. "Passing through? With that coin purse? I don't think so. You've been fighting in our territory, taking money that should be ours."

Another pack member chimed in, "Yeah, we've heard about you. The Ghost of Anatolia, they call you in the pits. Undefeated, they say."

Rafet remained silent. He could smell the aggression rolling off these men, mixed with something else—fear, perhaps? Clearly, his reputation preceded him, which could be either good or bad. He wasn’t sure, quite yet. 

A third wolf, a wiry man with a jagged scar across his cheek, spat on the ground. "Bet he wouldn’t last a minute in a real Blood Rite."

Rafet's brow furrowed at the unfamiliar term, but he remained silent. 

The leader noticed his confusion and grinned maliciously. "What's the matter, foreigner? Never heard of the Blood Rite? It's how real London wolves settle disputes. No holds barred, tooth and claw."

Rafet simply nodded, not rising to the bait, which seemed to irritate the wolves. 

The scarred wolf pressed on, "Aye, and the loser’s corpse is fed to the Hound of Highgate. Right proper way to settle things, innit? Or are you too scared to try?"

Still, Rafet held his tongue, his eyes never leaving the mismatched gaze of the hulking man before him.

The leader stepped closer, his breath hot on Rafet's face. "Listen here, outsider. We don't care about your little refugee pack. But this is our turf now. You want to fight? You pay us a cut. Otherwise, find somewhere else to bleed."

Rafet's eye twitched at the mention of his pack. These wolves knew they were here but hadn't connected him directly to them. It was a small mercy, but one he needed to capitalize on. 

"What's the matter?" the scarred wolf taunted. "Cat got your tongue? Or are you just too stupid to understand English?"

The leader's eyes glinted dangerously. "Oh, he understands. Don't you, Ghost? So what's it going to be? You going to play nice, or do we need to teach you a lesson?"

"I understand," Rafet said simply.

The leader's jaw clenched, clearly annoyed by Rafet's composure. "Do you now? And what about our pack's guardian spirit? Been watching over London's wolves since the time of the Romans. You foreigners wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Rafet took a deep breath. "I respect your traditions," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully, "as I hope you would respect mine."

The scarred wolf snarled, taking a step forward. "Respect? You come here, taking our coin, and talk about respect?” 

"No disrespect intended. I'll find... other arrangements."

The leader grinned, a cruel twist of lips that didn't reach his eyes. "Smart man. And just so we're clear—stay out of our territory, or we start thinning your numbers. And we'll start with the pups."

Rage boiled in Rafet's veins at the threat to his packmates, especially the children. His fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. It took every ounce of self-control not to tear the man's throat out where he stood. But he forced it down, acutely aware that he was outnumbered and that his pack needed him in one piece. 

"I hear you," Rafet said, his voice steady, despite the anger hidden beneath the surface. 

"Now run along back to your den," the leader smirked, clearly enjoying his perceived victory. "And remember—we'll be watching."

Rafet turned and walked away, every instinct screaming at him to turn back and fight. But he kept moving, his thoughts focused on Ayşe and the others who depended on him. Getting locked up or worse for brawling in the streets would not be in his best interest. 

As he made his way back to the warehouse, Rafet's mind raced. The loss of access to these streets would make things harder, force them to take longer routes for supplies and information. But they would adapt. They always did.

He pushed open the heavy door, the familiar scents of his pack washing over him once more. Ayşe slept peacefully, her breathing easier now. The other pack members looked to him, sensing his tension.

"What is it, Rafet?" Fatma asked, concern marking her features.

Rafet sighed, running a hand through his white-streaked hair. "We've got trouble. The local pack is claiming this area as their territory now. They've threatened us if we don't stay away."

A murmur of fear rippled through the gathered werewolves. "What are we going to do?" someone asked.

"For now, we adapt," Rafet said, his voice firm. "We'll find new routes, be more cautious. But we will not be driven out. This is our home now, and we will defend it."

He looked around at the faces of his pack—the old, the young, the sick and the strong. They had already lost so much, endured so much. He would not let them lose this fragile sanctuary they had built.

"Rest now," he told them. "Tomorrow, we plan. We'll find a way to survive, to thrive, in this city. We always have."

One person was missing from the gathering—Amca Emre. Rafet saw him sitting cross-legged on a worn prayer rug, his gnarled fingers tracing the faded patterns. The old man's eyes, still sharp despite his years, fixed on Rafet with a knowing look.

"There has been trouble in the streets," Amca Emre said, his voice low and gravelly. "Come, sit with me."

Rafet lowered himself onto the rug, the familiar scent of Anatolian herbs wafting from Amca's clothes. 

"The local pack," Rafet began, but Amca held up a hand.

"I know. These English wolves, they were never taught the old ways." He reached for a small pouch, withdrawing a handful of smooth stones. "Do you remember the game we played in the mountains, Rafet?"

Rafet nodded, a faint smile crossing his mouth. "Mangala. You taught us strategy with those stones."

Amca Emre began arranging the stones in small pits on the rug. "Life is much like Mangala, my boy. Each move affects not just your next turn, but your opponent's as well." His weathered hands moved swiftly, distributing the stones. "Tell me, how did you respond to these wolves?"

"I... walked away," Rafet admitted, grinding his teeth at the memory. "They threatened our pups, Amca. I wanted to tear them apart."

Amca Emre nodded, his eyes never leaving the stone arrangement. "And yet you didn't. Good. You've learned to play the long game." He gestured to the stones. "In Mangala, the hasty player often loses all. But the patient one? He sees the whole board."

Rafet watched as Amca's fingers danced over the stones, demonstrating a complex series of moves. "These English wolves only know aggression. They lack foresight. That is what separates them from us."

"But Amca," Rafet protested, "how can we protect our pack if we don't stand our ground?"

Amca Emre's eyes twinkled. "Did I ever tell you about the Battle of Manzikert, Rafet? No? Ah, it was before my time, but the tales... Sultan Alp Arslan faced an army far greater than his own. Do you know how he won?"

Rafet shook his head, intrigued.

"Patience. Strategy. He lured the Byzantine emperor into a trap, turning the enemy's strength against them." Amca swept his hand over the stones, rearranging them. "These local wolves may have numbers, but we have something far greater. We have centuries of survival in our blood."

He leaned forward. "Remember, Rafet. We are the children of Asena, blessed by the spirit of the wolf. Our strength isn't just in our claws or fangs. It's in our minds, our unity, our ability to adapt."

Rafet felt a surge of pride at Amca's words. "What would you have me do, Amca?"

"Watch. Learn. Find their weaknesses." Amca Emre's fingers moved swiftly, capturing stone after stone in the game. "And when the time is right, we'll show them what true strength looks like."

A renewed sense of purpose surged through Rafet. Amca Emre's wisdom, steeped in the rich history of their people, had once again illuminated the path forward.

"Thank you, Amca," Rafet said quietly, rising to his feet. "I won't forget your words."

Amca Emre smiled, gathering the stones back into their pouch. "Go now, rest. Tomorrow, we begin our own game of Mangala. And trust me, my boy, these English wolves won't know what hit them."

As the pack settled in for the night, Rafet's gaze fell on Ayşe, peaceful in her sleep. His resolve only grew stronger. 

The Ghost of Anatolia may walk in shadows, but he would never abandon his people to the darkness. And if those arrogant local wolves thought they could intimidate him with their threats, they were sorely mistaken.