“Let the Tafl begin.”
44
THE VOLKINS, THE NÝMPHÁ, AND THE LIES OF A PUPPET
“This pup will either save the world or scorch it to ash. And if he chooses wrong, no goddess, not even your love, will bring him back. Pray he never loses what tethers him.”
—Elder Aïna, to Vládan and Ánya when Theron was born
Theron
“Here!” Kaël leaps into the air, and his tail wags as his paw splashes into the water to grasp a glowing stone.
This is too easy. The nýmphí, who seemed ready to kill us mere hours ago, suddenly feel like less of a threat. So far, we’ve encountered seven teams, each boasting at least one item. It’s as if the trial’s true challenge has yet to reveal itself.
“That stone is ours,” a low voice growls from the shadows. Across the pond, a dark-furred vólkin, Orïon, emerges from the trees with his team. His eyes are fixed on Kaël’s find.
Kaël shakes off, the water from his soaked fur spraying in all directions as he climbs onto dry land. His paw remains tightlywrapped around the glowing stone, and his tail wags side to side. “The stone belongs to whoever holds it.”
Orïon steps forward, and I do the same. We meet at the edge of the water. Does he truly believe we’ll hand over the stone without a fight? Foolish. He bares his fangs, and his muscles ripple as he postures for dominance—a display that might cow a weaker creature, but not me. I wasn’t chosen to lead the vólkins by chance. I earned my place through strength, strategy, and sheer will. I am the best, and that will not change.
“Move, Orïon,” I growl, flexing my claws.
The trial means nothing to him. Revenge is all he cares about.
He drags a paw through the dirt as his eyes lock on mine. Then, with a burst of speed, he charges, closing the distance between us. I meet him head-on where we collide with a deafening crash, the force of which splashes water into the air. The pond ripples violently around us as we grapple, muscles straining, claws tearing.
Zephyr moves to approach us, but I fix him with a warning growl that freezes him in place. This is between me and Orïon. This is the moment to remind him—and every vólkin watching—who their leader is.
“Shall we sort this out?” Orïon’s grin is wide. The glow of his burgundy crystals reflects his bloodlust.
“Very well.”
My claws swipe upward, tearing into his face. The force of the blow sends him flying out of the pond. His body crashes into the earth with a thud that echoes through the forest. Water splashes around me as I stride forward, my focus locked on him. This isn’t over until he knows his place.
The scent of his blood fills my snout. It mingles with the dampness of forest air. Orïon is already on his paws, snarling through the blood pouring from the gashes across his face. Rage burns in his eyes as he charges.
He slams into me, and his weight crushes me into the ground. The cold mud clings to my fur. His claws dig into my shoulders as he roars so loudly he shakes the trees near us. With a savage snarl, he grips the back of my head and slams it into the jagged stone beneath me. Pain explodes through my skull, the edges of my vision darken.
Not like this.
I twist, throw my weight to the side, and roll him over. His claws scrape against my skin, but I’m stronger and faster. My paw clamps over his snout, and I press down hard enough to feel the bones strain beneath the pressure. His blood stains my fur. Its acrid scent replaces the sweetness of my mate’s that usually lingers there. The thought enrages me even more.
With my free paw, I strike. Aiming for his eye, my claws carve into his face. The soft pop of flesh and the wet sound of tearing are what I hear. Orïon’s howl of pain tears through the forest as his left eye spills from its socket and is left hanging by a thread of sinew.
“Yield!” I bark, my chest heaving, my voice raw with rage. I tighten my grip on his snout and force his head back.
But he doesn’t yield.
Orïon twists violently until he breaks free with a loud growl. Blood streams through his claws, where they clutch at his ruined eye, and soaks into the grass below.
I rise, tower over him as he stumbles to his paws, and then lunge, driving my shoulder into his chest and slamming him into the nearest tree. The bark splinters under his weight, shards of wood flying as his body crashes against it.
Before he can recover his balance, I lift him off the ground by his throat. His legs kick wildly, his claws scrape at my arm, and I press him harder into the broken bark. The scent of his blood saturates the air.
“This ends now.” My claws tighten around his mane, his gasps grow weaker. The forest is silent save for the ragged sound of his breath, until I tighten my grip even more and breathing becomes impossible.
He finally stops struggling, and his body goes limp in my grasp. When I drop him to the ground, he collapses in a heap. He lies still, his chest rising and falling weakly. Then, slowly, with his head bowed low, he raises his paw in submission.
