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"She is a woman of the Oru-ka today," Toren corrected, his smirk widening and growing more dangerous. He slapped me on the shoulder, his touch a brief, grounding weight before he stepped toward the edge. "Don't wait too long in the shadows, Huntmaster. During the Alignment, the forest doesn't wait for those who are too proud to admit they are hungry. If you don't claim your prize, someone with less pride and more blood-heat certainly will."

He turned and leapt toward the central bridges, a blur of teal and red disappearing into the festive chaos. I stayed behind, alone in the flickering shade, my heart hammering a frantic, possessive rhythm against my ribs that drowned out the sounds of the village.

I looked down at my hands. The silver scars from my own claws the other night were nearly gone, but the memory of her skin stayed burned into my palms. If she was wearing the braid... if she was truly standing there for the tribe to see as an available mate...

I didn't realise I had snapped the practice spear until the wood splintered with a sickening crack in my grip. I dropped the broken pieces, my jaw set in a hard, lethal line. I would lead the trials. I would perform my duty to Alu'un. But if any male so much as looked at that braid with the intent to follow her into the dark, they would find out exactly why I was the Huntmaster of this clan—and they would not like the lesson.

The suns had reached their zenith, hanging like twin eyes of fire above the canopy, and the village had transformed into a theatre of blood and skill. The Trial of the Sun-Cross was in full swing.

The central arena—a massive, tiered platform reinforced with iron-wood and ringed by the thickest branches of the Home Tree—was packed. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, fermented nectar, and the sharp, electric tang of over five hundred Oru-ka markings flaring in unison. Even the Elders had descended from their lofts, their ancient, darkened skin draped in heavy ceremonial furs, watching the display with unblinking judgment.

I stood on the elevated Master’s perch, my arms folded across my chest, my own spear planted firmly beside me. I was a statue of red stone, forced to witness the very thing Toren had warned me about.

Below, the unmated were putting on a spectacle. Males leapt from staggering heights, catching swinging vines with one hand while pinning targets with throwing knives with the other. Females moved like blurs of crimson lightning, demonstrating the grace and lethality that kept our Nest safe. It was a dance of power, a calculated display of genetic worth intended to draw the eye of a potential mate before the Hunt began at twilight.

Toren was in the thick of it, of course. He was a teal-and-red streak of arrogance, laughing as he performed a mid-air twist that should have snapped his spine, landing perfectly on the rim of the arena to a roar of approval from the crowd. He caught my eye for a fraction of a second, his markings flashing a cheeky, vibrant yellow before he dived back into the fray.

Then, the shift happened.

It wasn't a sound. It wasn't even a movement. It was an overwhelming scent.

Through the musk of the hunters, the smoke of the cook-fires, and the heavy perfume of the Lumia-flowers, a single note cut through the air like a silver blade. Jasmine. Woodsmoke. Her.

My head snapped toward the eastern bridge. My Pulse, already erratic from the lunar tide, gave a violent, painful thud against my ribs.

My Pulse stuttered⁠—

then slammed.

Lyra was there.

She stood at the edge of the crowd with Sora, and the sight of her nearly stole the air from my lungs. The silver-fox fur shimmered with a ghostly light against her pale skin, and the high slit of that skirt... it was a provocation. The living vines pulsed against her limbs, mirroring the frantic beat of my own heart. And there it was—the braid. The golden strands of her hair woven into the pattern of the unowned.

I saw the males near her shift. I saw their markings flare to a deep, hungry orange as they caught her scent. A low, territorial snarl vibrated in my throat, so quiet only the wood could hear it.

"Focus, Huntmaster," a nearby Elder murmured, his voice like dry bark. "The beast is released."

I forced my eyes away from her, dragging my focus back to the arena floor. This was the final stage of the trial: the Culling Mock. A trio of young initiates—barely more than fledglings—were tasked with subduing a Ghar-beast using only blunt training spears and coordinated tactics.

The creature was a nightmare of scales and muscle, a forest predator we had captured and starved for two days to ensure its temper was lethal. Usually, the beast was kept under the influence of dulling herbs, but as it surged into the arena, I realised something was wrong.

The Ghar-beast didn't just snarl; it screamed. Its eyes weren't the usual muddy brown of its species—they were a blown-out, frantic red, leaking a dark fluid. Its markings, the small bioluminescent ridges along its spine, were pulsing in an erratic rhythm that matched the frantic frequency of the Alignment.

"It's too high," I muttered, my hand gripping my spear. "The moons have driven it into a frenzy."

The initiates moved in, trying to circle the beast as they had been taught, but the creature didn't follow the rules of the game. It didn't feint. It exploded.

With a roar that shook the very platform, the Ghar-beast swiped aside the lead initiate's spear as if it were a twig. The boy stumbled, his markings flashing a terrified, stark white. The beast lunged, its massive, gore-stained jaws opening wide, its primal hunger amplified ten-fold by the lunar madness.

It wasn't a trial anymore. It was a slaughter.

The beast reared back, its claws dripping with a sudden, ravaged hunger as it pinned the initiate to the wood, aiming straight for the boy’s throat.

"Kaelen!" Toren shouted from the sidelines, already reaching for his real blades.

I didn't wait. I leapt from the perch, but my eyes flickered one last time to the crowd—to Lyra—as the screams of the village began to drown out the festival music..

Chapter 42