“Well?” I say, my voice low and laced with threat. “Does anyoneobjectto how my mate conducts herself?”
Most avert their gazes. Even the boldest among them pretend sudden interest in their datapads or rations. But then?—
Rhok.
Young, brash, still stinking of fresh blood and testosterone. He stands, jaw clenched, bone spurs flaring like a territorial beast.
“This isn’t the way of the Bloody Talon,” he spits. “You’ve gone soft, Kallus. Since you took her, your judgment’s clouded.We followed you because you were brutal. Fearless. But now? You parade her like some prize. You’re distracted.”
The room is instantly charged, every warrior tensing like lightning about to strike. Ayla doesn’t move. She just breathes, slow and steady, like sheknewthis was coming.
I rise slowly, lifting her with one hand and setting her gently aside. My eyes never leave Rhok’s.
“You think you’re fit to lead?” I ask, voice low and steady. “To take what’s mine?”
Rhok snarls. “If she weremine, she’d be in chains. Not curled up like a pet in the war room.”
“She’s not a pet,” I growl. “She is a storm in skin. And onlyIcan hold her.”
A low murmur ripples through the others. Rhok flexes his claws.
“I challenge,” he says, the old words heavy with meaning. “Leadership. Dominion.Mate.”
Ayla gasps softly, but she doesn’t beg. She doesn’t plead. Shewatchesme. Not with fear.
Withfaith.
I tilt my head, cracking my neck. “Then prepare your funeral pyre, pup.”
We step into the ceremonial circle as a weapons rack raises from the floor. Flames ignite at the border of the circle, startling Ayla. I regret making her worry, but this is our way.
The circle of fire crackles and roars, its orange and blue tongues licking the air as the clan chants in a deep, unified rhythm, the bone-song pulsing through the floor beneath our boots. Sparks leap and spiral into the blood-red sky of Tyrannus, and inside the ring, the scent of scorched ash and anticipation thickens like smoke.
Rhok stands across from me, young and unscarred, trembling with rage and something he hasn’t yet named—fear.His fists clench around the haft of a two-handed battle axe, forged from obsidian and alloyed bone, etched with sigils he barely understands. He wants glory. Wants to taste my title. My mate. My command.
He will taste his own humiliation instead.
At the Elder’s signal—an ancient horn made from the rib of a Sky Leviathan—I step forward and draw my weapon.
A stick.
Just a stick. Long, smooth, carved from the deepheart wood of the bloodthorn tree. It’s the sort we use to discipline disobedient thralls. Not even sharpened.
Gasps ripple through the gathered Reapers. Laughter stutters, uncertain. Rhok’s face turns the color of oxidized fury.
“Arod?” he spits, voice thick with scorn. “Are you mocking me?”
I flex the wood between my fingers, letting it bend and creak with promise. “No, Rhok. I’m educating you.”
The boy charges, roaring like he thinks volume will turn him into something greater than he is. The axe glints in the firelight, heavy and brutish. I sidestep the first arc, barely moving, and flick the rod across the back of his knee.
A snap of pain. A stumble. Laughter now, real and raucous.
He pivots, swings high—clumsy. I duck, drive the rod into the soft space beneath his ribs. His grunt is almost satisfying.
“You rely on strength,” I murmur, circling him as he pants. “But strength without wisdom is just violence.”
He lunges again, and I catch his forearm with a precise, cracking blow. His grip falters.
