“Should I press more to hear a growl?” I bare my fangs as I ask, setting the bowl before her.
She fixes me with a sharp look. “You owe me many explanations for someone who just stormed out of the house,” she counters, before adding, “Thank you.”
So polite. Polite and feisty. A combination that has me taking more calming breaths than ever.
Before I can respond, Váar approaches, his young pup cradled in his arms. “Your Majesty,” he begins, “would you bless my child?”
I glance at Noël, watching the change in her expression as she takes in the sight of the pup. Her gaze softens instantly, her hand reaching out to hold the youngling’s small paw in her own. The gentleness in her touch, the kindness in her eyes— I feel a lump form in my throat. Is this how she’ll look at our own cubs one day? Is this what our future holds?
Goddesses above.
Noël speaks, her voice warm and sweet. “May you grow strong and wise, and may the goddesses watch over you always.”
Váar’s expression mirrors my own, full of a profound, unspoken gratitude. He nods, his eyes brimming with emotion as he steps back with his pup held close.
My mate, my Noël, has just blessed the next generation of warriors. The vólkins who will one day carry our traditions, raise their own young in a world that we will restore to balance.
Noël hums as she takes a bite of the cooked meat. The sight fills me with pride, seeing her enjoy the results of my hunt is a satisfaction like no other. My mate, eating what I’ve provided, feels as natural and right as the rising sun.
I watch her quietly as I put a slice of raw meat into my mouth. After her spiritual awakening, I’ll take her with me on a hunt. She’ll see me in action, witness what I’m capable of firstpaw. She’ll know that I can provide, protect, and that I’m hers, as she is mine.
But first, the bonding ritual.
That sacred rite will tie our souls together completely. Noël will finally awaken to her true self, to what human females are meant to be—strong, free, and connected to the land, to the very soil and sky.
“After the ceremony, we will talk,” she says, breaking through my thoughts. She takes the strawberry I offer her, her fingers brushing my claws.
“I need to go to the border first, my little dove,” I say. “As much as I want to be with you, I must protect Ávera.”
“What’s at the border?”
How much should I burden her now? It’s only her second night here, and I’ve only just begun to see her smile more often. The thought of worrying her so soon feels wrong.
“Theron,” she presses.
I sigh. Her gaze pulls the truth from me. “My warriors and Elder Aïna have seen unusual things near the border. Right where the barrier once stood.”
Her expression shifts, eagerness flashing in her eyes. As though it’s the most natural conclusion in the world, she says, “I’m coming with you.”
“I can’t let you put yourself in danger,” I counter, trying to reason with her. “You’ve had a long day, walking, meeting everyone, you must be tired.”
“And yet,” she says, “I’m still coming with you.”
“Noël,” I begin, my tone firmer now.
“This is final, Theron.”
A heavy sigh escapes me. How can I deny her when she speaks like this? Her fire, her refusal to yield, it’s my greatest weakness.
“Fine,” I concede. “But you will have to listen to me. Always.”
Her lips twitch into a small smile, and I realize there’s no winning against her. And truthfully, I don’t mind losing.
After the feast, a large fire roars to life in the center of the clearing, its flames crackling and stretching toward the darkened sky. The glow falls across the gathered vólkins and bathes the clearing in golden light.
The females form a circle around the fire, paws linked as they prepare to begin the ceremonial dance. Around them, the males take up drums, and the deep, rhythmic beats resonate through the ground and into my chest. Leaf spirits flit through the air, in and out of the crowd like threads of light.
The dance begins. The females move with grace, synchronized as though the fire calls to them. The flowers woven into their manes catch the light, their colors gleaming and shifting as they twirl. It’s more than a dance—it’s a prayer.
