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Even grief loosened its grip on Maxen in her presence, retreating just enough to let warmth and recklessness show.

Fae watched from the edges of the firelight, smiling because she loved her sister, because Lisna deserved that kind of devotion. But she envied her, too, in a way that sat heavy and silent in her chest. When would she find her one?

Some bonds announced themselves with thunder.

Others waited, patient and merciless, for the right moment to wake.

Fae did not yet know which kind awaited her.

Lisna had a male who saw only her.

Maxen spoke openly of the challenge. The alpha could no longer fulfil his duties. The title had to be won—always fought for, never inherited, unlike the beta title, which was passed down from father to son. Blaidd had discussed it with him long into the night before Maxen had left on the deputation. He knew that the challenge would happen when he went back.

Fae remembered feeling sorry for him then. He obviously loved his cousin and was loathe to fight him. But he was newly mated and stronger for it while his cousin had just lost his lifemate. This was going to be slaughter.

After the handfasting—after Maxen had carried Lisna off to his pack with laughter and possessive delight—Fae and her brother, Sion, were chosen as part of the return delegation a week after. Fae had been giddy with excitement. She had never travelled beyond her own pack borders.

They arrived to blood.

The challenge was already underway.

It was a vicious knot of violence—claws, teeth, half-turned bodies crashing into one another, the ground slick and torn. She watched in horror as the fight unfolded, until at last, one great silver wolf lay broken on the earth and Maxen stood victorious. It had never been a true contest, more a handing over. Within seconds, her wolf rose within her instinctively, to protect the fallen. And it was at that moment, while one body still lay defeated and mangled on the ground, that she sensed him. Before she knew it, she was standing over the fallen alpha, showing teeth to the victor.

The alpha title had been fulfilled as law demanded, fought for and claimed in blood. But the lesser titles—the beta, the keeper of secrets, the heathwarden—were inherited, passed down through lineage and trust.

The old beta had died a year back with no cubs. Her brother had hoped to be considered for the title since there were no other contenders of equal strength.

Then, he sensed her.

She looked down at him then. Hers!

Bruised. Blooded. Barely holding the line between man and beast.

Blaidd stood apart from the others, massive even in defeat, his presence dragging the air tight around him. He was thinner than the man in the portrait that hung in the living hall of his home—his face sharper, cheekbones carved hollow by grief and hunger, eyes sunk deep into shadow. Blood streaked his skin in dark, drying paths, some his own, some not. It clung to his overlong hair, matted it at the nape, marked the brutal lines of his throat and collarbones.

Yet even diminished, he commanded attention. Shoulders broad as a doorway, arms roped with muscle, scarred and trembling with the aftermath of violence. Power coiled in him like a held breath: lethal, restrained only by habit and exhaustion. He looked like a weapon forged for war and then left to rust in the rain.

When his gaze lifted and found her, something in him stirred.

His eyes were red.

The colour of loss.

The colour of a male who had lost his mate to a violent death.

It was not the glow of rage, but the burn of loss. The mark of a wolf whose mate had died a terrible death, and whose soul had not yet learned how to exist in halves. And when those eyes locked onto hers, they flared brighter still, catching the light like embers disturbed, as if coming to life again.

His wolf came alive.

She felt it as surely as if his claws had brushed her spine.

The markings on his body caught her attention next—tattoos etched deep into his skin, sweeping over shoulder and chest in ancient patterns of bond and protection. They had been dark once, rich with magic, carved into him after every battle, after every victory, when he had been bound to Isolde and when she bore him strong cubs.

Now they were fading.

Not gone, but dimmed, as though the magic was dying with her passing. The lines were still beautiful, still fierce, but worn thin by grief, like ink fading beneath the sun.

He looked at her then, not with hope but with resignation and anger.