Page 1 of A Mate for the King
Chapter One
Zehr hated clan gatherings. Always had, always would, no matter what changed.
Which made his coronation as the Fireheart’s alpha laughable.
Zehr hadn’t laughed since the old alpha’s murder. Guess things went that way when the old alpha was his father. He shifted, hands clasped in front of him, eyes darting to his sister, who glared at him. They were, after all, being read to from the most sacred of all shifter lore. And hewasthe incoming alpha of the Fireheart clan, a pack which had kept the old ways even when the rest of the clans picked, disregarded, and twisted the lore to suit their needs.
Zehr should be soaking up every last word the cleric, a grizzled bear shifter from the north, read to him. It was just impossible to care about words when his heart felt cold. There was no joy in him. He knew Zara wanted him to be happy. But old habits died hard, and the most Zehr could manage was to dial his scowl back to a 15 on a 1 to 10 scale, because he knew this was not how his coronation should have happened. His father should have been here, by his side, guiding him forward. Instead, he was dead and in a hole, probably fertilizing a tree that housed pixie nests.
He frowned at the thought. He fucking hated pixies.
As if summoned by the thought, a small pixie flitted by, earning Zehr’s attention and his scowl. A neon glittery trail of light followed the tiny winged figure. Even if he hated the flying pests, Zehr’s eyes followed it in earnest. The mischievous creatures were still considerably more interesting than the cleric’s droning.
Noticing his audience’s shift in attention, the cleric gave Zehr a sidelong look and then snapped the book closed with a long-suffering sigh. Startled, the pixie shot off with a titter into the forest.
“Shall we continue this when you…” He tilted his head to the side and pinned Zehr with a cold stare. “When you are in a more social mood?”
Zehr watched as the last of the neon trail left by the pixie sputtered out into nothing, and he grunted but stayed silent. He was glad to be free from the reading and didn’t dare risk the cleric deciding to continue.
He could hate himself in two days when the actual event of his coronation took place. But that wasn’t now, and Zehr had little patience to care about the particulars of texts, reciting history and pedigrees from memory, or being drilled on which families he needed to pay his respects to after the ceremony.
The alpha shifted, looking down at the ring on his finger. He lifted up his left hand and stared at the work of silver. It was a thickly-wrought ring with a single raw ruby embedded in the band’s center. Intricate scrollwork and etchings surrounded the stone, lending a delicate beauty to an otherwise clunky piece of jewelry.
The ring had been wrought countless years ago in a forge by the fae folk, who found humor in the rumors that silver guarded against or wounded them, for it was a favorite material of the fae. The ring was a work of art, made specifically for the Fireheart alpha, for a hand accustomed to battle, blood, and getting dirty in defense of the good of the pack and the whole shifter nation.
It had been his father’s ring, and his grandfather’s and his great-grandfather’s, and so on for as long as anyone could remember, and now the heavy, glinting circle of metal and its oddly delicate details sat on the pointer finger of his left hand. The fae had built the ring to endure, to last.
He frowned at the thought. His father hadn’t been able to last.
Zehr swallowed hard and lowered his hand, already walking out of the circle after giving the cleric a perfunctory nod of thanks. His thoughts were too dark for even an attempt at niceties. Likewise, the bear shifter grunted at him, but nodded back. Zehr knew the old-timer thought he should be more focused on his coronation ceremony rites, but he wasn’t of the same opinion.
There had been a time that all Zehr had dreamed of was ascending as the Fireheart alpha. The singular event had consumed his thoughts like an incessant tune that played on repeat and eventually drove everyone mad—well, everyone but Zehr. He was just a cub then, a wet-behind-the-ears child who couldn’t fathom that life could be anything but full of magic and adventure.
Now he knew better.
Grief worked that way. It was a sobering thing.
There was precious little that could elicit a feeling of wonder for Zehr anymore, a feat considering the array of shifters, vampires, sprites, fae, witches, warlocks, and their assorted magical possessions and entourages. Hell, Zehr even knew of some giants out west, though he had never seen them up close.
Wonder permeated every hour of Zehr’s day, but all of it seemed hollow now without his father filling up the space. He could still hear his father’s booming voice and his warm laughter, feel his hand on his shoulder as they walked.
It hurt.
Death was an accepted part of shifter life. Everything had a season, all of it occurring within the cycles of life. All shifters were taught to not only accept but to embrace death. It was the normal progression of things. Zehr supposed he may have been more inclined to accept his father’s absence if it had been his time, but there was nothing natural about a murder. There was nothing cyclical or reasonable about it.
Zehr struggled with his grief because he felt the loss at a deeper level than just that of other pack members; they were distraught over losing their alpha, but it was a different sadness. The Fireheart pack members were comforted by the knowledge that Zehr would lead them, that he would become alpha and put their worries to bed.
Who would offer comfort to Zehr? Give him the strength to stand tall and strong against whatever awaited the pack?
Zara’s small hand slipping into his grounded him and he spared his sister a soft-eyed look as they left the clearing. She shared his grief, and for that she was more patient with Zehr’s tendency to withdraw into himself despite the excitement of his coronation.
All of the significant clans from all over the northern hemisphere had come together for the event: the lionesses of Proudheart, the Stoneclaw bears, the Moonwater wolves, and even the Goldfeather eagles from the Dakotas were in attendance, along with various other minor clans and families.
It was a feat as the First of all Clans barely deigned to consort with the rest of them on a daily basis. But the coronation of the Fireheart alpha demanded an audience, and that was what happened when their alpha was, without challenge, the shifter world’s most dominant alpha.
The Fireheart family bloodline was strong, able to be traced straight back to the All-Mother, an omega and the first shifter, and the touchstone of their society. Zehr’s coronation as alpha was as good and as holy to shifters as a bonafide visit from the All-Mother, which meant that the wooded encampment they had chosen for their week of fellowship and ceremony was packed with shifters of all stripes, spots, and sizes.
It wasn’t often that Zehr associated with shifters who didn’t hail from the major clans, and even with his grief gnawing at him he could admit that seeing such a gathering from all corners of the shifter world was refreshing.
