On my flanks, at the edge of the raging river, are nobles and mighty warriors, some of them traveled for days to be here. And on my right is my cousin Lucan. He puts a hand on my shoulder as the great torch is lit.
The high priest carries it over to me and offers it.
My whole body aches as I take it from him, wrapping my hand around the wooden torch, the fire warming the side of my face.
Every eye is on me, assessing their new king as I walk down to the raft where my father’s body lies amongst the dry kindling.
I take a deep breath as I see his familiar form wrapped in his royal cloak. Those big broad shoulders that carried me as a child, those strong arms that hugged me and made everything feel better, those powerful legs that made him stand so tall and made him seem so formidable. I never thought anything could take this giant of a wolf shifter down.
But like the great Wolf Kings of the past, he has fallen, and it’s my turn to step up and take his place.
“I love you, Dad,” I whisper as I lower the torch, touching the flame to the dry brush. “I’ll see you in Ulissa.”
The brush is coated in oil, which erupts into hungry flames, consuming my father instantly. Hundreds of sad howls fill the air as I push the raft with my foot, sending it down the river. It will travel to the large waterfall that empties out into the ocean. Wolf King Axton will disappear over the waterfall and his soul will be sent to Ulissa.
We all watch in silence as the burning raft is taken away by the current, traveling down the river. The wolves among us aren’t so silent. They howl and whimper and cry at the sad sight.
My wolf whimpers inside me, wanting to answer. He wants to say his final goodbye. It was his father too.
I’ll come back later,I tell him.You can say your goodbye then.
The high priest raises his arms and says a final prayer.
“By moon and blood you lived,” he hollers in a deep, booming voice. “By bite and bond you led. Now the realm releases you and Ulissa calls you home. Go now, where the great wolves run beneath a moon that never sets. Your pack endures in your name. Run free, Wolf King, run free.”
“Run free,” we all repeat as one.
The burning raft is but a fiery speck in the distance, blurred by the rain and mist. In between the beats of my aching heart, it disappears.
“Goodbye, Dad,” I whisper. “I miss you already.”
A Wolf King’s funeral is quite the affair.
After a day of profound sadness, the night is filled with song and dance and drinking. So much drinking.
Wolves from all over the realm mingle and flirt and scheme and plan. I don’t have the energy to keep up with any of it.
I just sit at the table drinking from my tankard that never seems to empty, no matter how hard I try. The great hall is packed, these wolves doing their best to empty the castle’s stock of food and mead. There’s a tension in the air I haven’t felt before. It feels… off. It feels… dangerous. The kind of restless energy of a pack without an alpha. I felt it the moment I walked through the doors, unsettling, humming perilously beneath the surface of all the polite conversation and raised cups.
It’s a species thing. Wolf shifters are pack creatures. We need a leader as much as we need the air in our lungs. Without one, the whole kingdom can fracture. Noble houses can split off, creating their own packs. Ambitious lone wolves shift and calculate, creating opportunity from chaos. Old rivalries bubble up and burst into violence.
It’s a treacherous time for the kingdom and for any king waiting to be crowned. A lucky kingdom will see its Wolf King fall days from the next full moon, because no replacement can be crowned without a full moon shining in the sky.
But not us. Not this time.
Three weeks.
We must wait three whole weeks until the full moon rises and the crown is laid onto my head.
My watchful gaze slides across the room, looking for danger, looking for any sign of revolt. But my grief and the mead numbs my senses. I can’t see anything but the image of my father standing tall with the crown on his head, the cloak on his shoulders, and I keep wondering if I can ever stand as proudly as him.
It would be easier if I had my mate with me. To help share this burden. To help ease my pain and give me hope for the future.
But my loneliness is complete. No more family. No sign of my mate. No one but myself to keep me going.
Morrick, my father’s oldest, most trusted advisor, shuffles over, looking wrinklier than a rotting prunder seed. How can this old grump be alive and my powerful father is not?
“Perhaps a toast will help ease some of the unrest,” Morrick says, grunting and wincing as he eases himself into the chair beside me.
