I nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”
Something shifts between us, an unspoken truce. No matter what happens today, Dove will be there.
The heavy wooden doors of the entry creek open, flooding the foyer with the crisp night air. The time has come.
A collective shiver runs through us all. The air sharp with fear, thick with anticipation.
Every female straightens, every muscle pulled tight with readiness. Together we spill into the torchlit path, feet pounding as we march toward the valley.
Toward the chase.
Toward our fate.
The moon hangs high and merciless above us as we descend the hillside in silence. The air feels heavy, suffocating, like the gods themselves are holding their breath. Some wolves look resolute, jaws tight, eyes fixed on the horizon.
As females, we’re walking into either our future…or our demise. Whether it be with a mate that won’t last or literal death, because male wolves can be merciless when it comes to getting what they want during mating season.
Each step echoes louder in my skull than the last, and I can’t stop scanning the crowd. I’m searching for him — the ice-blue eyes that always seem to find me. Thorn. My heart kicks at my ribs when I don’t see him in the group of males who line up behind the priest.
Could he have left? Could what Olcan say be true and he walked away from a female years before during the Chase?
The thought carves me open in a way I don’t expect, disappointment slicing sharper than fear. Why should it matter? Hadn’t I been thinking the same thing earlier? Maybe I didn’t want to be caught at all? But still the emptiness gnaws. My heart, my head, and body are feuding in a brutal war I can’t hope to win.
And then, like a curse, I remember: I smell of fresh blood.
The faint sting at my arm reminds me, the scent too sharp to ignore. I can smell it myself, bitter and coppery, laced with something that makes my stomach churn. The males start to catch it on the wind too. I see it in the way they shift into wolf form impatiently, sniffing the air, shoulders rolling as if they’re already gearing up for a fight. Some growl low in their throats, others stomp their feet into the dirt, claws scraping, tails twitching. They’re restless, hungry.
Dove had said it, but the realization slams into me — I am a target.
The priest raises his hands, his voice smooth and steady over the restless pack. “Welcome to the final trial — the Chase. This is the culmination of the Mating Trials and will decide your mate by officially claiming them under the full moon. This is how it will work: at the horn, the females are given a five-minute head start. At the second horn, the males will follow. Once caught, mating and claiming may occur. The first to arrive at the Sacred Tree and cross the holy circle may choose freely among all mates. Any who arrive to the tree without a mate may return next year to try again.”
His words should sound ceremonial, divine. Instead, they feel like the opening of a brutal war.
The crowd bursts into a fury of movement. The males howl and slap each other on the back. Claws gouging the earthand paws stomping the ground. The sound is feral, wild, vibrating through my bones.
Hunt.
I’m not walking toward a trial anymore. I’m walking into the woods as prey. The males here tonight will treat females as though they are vermin to be hunted and mounted.
I shiver, my skin itching with the need to run. My wolf pushes at the surface, begging for release. Around me, females drop into their wolf forms, fur bristling in the moonlight. My own body tears and reshapes as I shift, my paws digging into the dirt, instincts flooding me in a desperate rush.
My heart pounds, the smell of my own blood dizzying in my nose. The wolf will make me faster. It has to.
The first horn blares.
My heart stops and then suddenly, the world erupts into motion. The female wolves surge forward, pelts flashing past me. I sprint, every muscle burning, every sense sharpened. Branches whip past my muzzle, the ground flying beneath my paws.
For a few breaths, Dove keeps stride with me. Our eyes meet through the trees flying between us, and she dips her head in a quick nod — an acknowledgement, maybe even a promise — before she veers left and disappears into the trees.
Alone now, I drive myself harder. The forest is a blur, shadows and moonlight streaking past. My blood roars in my ears louder than the pounding of my paws.
I can do this.
Ihaveto do this.
I can make it to the Sacred Tree. I can try again next year.
The second horn blares.
