Mating.
Again.
His home is larger than most in the clan, befitting his status as Chieftain. The main room serves as both living space and informal council chamber, furnished with sturdy chairs and tables carved from canyon wood. Weapons line the walls—not decorative pieces, but working blades kept sharp and ready.
Dad gestures me toward a chair but remains standing himself, arms crossed in a posture that broadcasts authority.
"The neighboring clans have sent messengers," he begins without preamble. "The Stone Fang and Iron Ridge tribes bothwish to discuss political unions. They'll be sending daughters to the Harvest Goddess festival next month."
Of course they are. Because nothing says celebration like parading potential mates in front of unmated warriors like prized livestock.
"And you want me to entertain them." I keep my voice flat, emotionless. Safer that way.
"I want you to choose one." Dad's tone hardens. "You have to, Rakk. The son of a Chieftain. Your continued refusal to take a mate reflects poorly on our clan's stability and future leadership."
"I'm not refusing. I simply haven't found?—"
"You haven't looked." He cuts through my excuse like it's made of paper. "Every female we've brought here, you've ignored. Every ceremony, every feast, every opportunity—you sabotage through cold indifference. Explain why."
Because I can't touch them without feeling everything. Because proximity terrifies me. Because forming bonds means opening channels that could destroy me from the inside out.
But I can't say any of that. Dad knows about my magic—Zurkar had to tell him when I was young, when the incidents became impossible to hide—but he doesn't understand it. Doesn't want to understand it. To him, magic is a tool for shamans and healers, not warriors. Certainly not for his son.
"I won't choose a mate I don't want." The words come out harder than intended. "Not for politics. Not for appearances."
"Then what will you choose for?" Dad's voice drops into something dangerous. "Personal preference? Attraction? Love?" He spits the last word like it's obscene. "You're the Chieftain's son. Your choices affect the entire clan. Stop being selfish and think about duty for once."
Duty. Always duty. As if I haven't spent my entire life trying to balance what the clan needs against what I can actually survive.
"I'll attend the festival," I say carefully. "I'll meet whoever they send. But I won't promise anything beyond basic courtesy."
"Courtesy?" Dad's expression twists into something between frustration and disgust. "They're sending their best daughters. Warriors, healers, females who would strengthen our bloodlines and alliances. The least you can do is give them genuine consideration."
"I will consider them." The lie slides out smooth as polished stone. "But I won't force a bond that isn't there."
We stare at each other across the room, locked in a silent battle of wills that's played out dozens of times before. Eventually Dad breaks first, turning away with a sound that's half growl, half sigh.
"The Stone Fang daughters arrive in three days," he says to the wall. "They'll stay for a week, participate in the hunting feasts and fertility ceremonies. You will attend every event. You will interact with them like a potential mate instead of a stranger. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good." He doesn't turn back around. "Now get out. I have actual work to do."
I leave before he can see the relief on my face, before my carefully maintained mask can slip. The path back to the healing chambers calls to me like gravity, but I force myself toward the barracks instead. Kaelen will be there by now, probably sparring with younger warriors or checking weapon inventory.
I need to talk to someone who won't judge. Someone who might understand without requiring full explanations.
I find him in the armory, inspecting blade edges with the methodical focus he applies to everything. He glances up when I enter, reading my expression in a single look.
"That bad?"
"Worse." I drop onto a bench near the weapon racks. "More political unions. Stone Fang and Iron Ridge are sending daughters to the festival."
"And Thorne wants you to choose one."
"Wants me to at least pretend I'm considering it."
Kaelen sets down the blade he was examining and leans against the workbench, amber eyes studying me with uncomfortable perception. "What's really going on, Rakk? This isn't just about being picky or waiting for the right match."
