Page 25 of The Alpha's Arranged Mate

Lyrie took the biggest bite she could of the fruit, barely tasting it as she mechanically chewed and swallowed. Her wolf was whimpering with mounting frustration, and she knew her intuition was telling her they had to go. She’d done everything she could, she told herself, taking a steadying breath as she looked back at the towers of books. Nothing left now but to hope that it would be enough.

They were well into the hottest part of the late afternoon, the sun on its way to the horizon but the air still full and thick with the heat it had brought. The humidity was stifling, and Lyrie felt the sweat sticking her hair to her forehead and her neck, wincing at the very thought of conducting any kind of endurance activity in this heat—let alone sparring with someone over and over. In her training, they’d occasionally performed mock-duels in short bursts alternating between wolf and human forms, a little like the way the Blood Rite was structured. Even a dozen short rounds was grueling in a way she’d rarely encountered. She couldn’t imagine how Darion and Reeve could still be on their feet after nearly an entire day of it.

And when she reached the training ring, she saw that they barely were.

There was a smaller crowd than she’d expected, that was one of her first observations. Holed up in the library as she had been, she’d pictured the entire settlement gathered around the battling brothers, their eyes trained on every move. But if that had been true earlier, it certainly wasn’t any more. Barely a dozen wolves were assembled, and the looks on their faces were drawn and mournful. Everything about their body language told her that they weren’t here to spectate for enjoyment—these were wolves who were bearing witness to a tragedy. She felt a strange rush of love for them in that moment, for the way they had drawn close together, the way they winced just a little each time the combatants moved.

The combatants. She’d been bracing herself for the sight of them on the walk down from the library, but she still felt the bottom of her stomach drop out when she saw what remained of the brothers. At the chime of a bell, two great shaggy wolves limped towards each other from opposite ends of the training ring. They were following two identical ruts that had been churned deeply into the sand—both of which were marked heavily with blood—and when they met in the center, they looked at one another with so much weariness and pain that she felt a shudder move through her.

This was barbaric, she thought faintly. Brother against brother, fighting to the death under the watchful gaze of a man who she knew for a fact loved both of them like his own children… she could see Trinn’s ramrod-straight posture from here, though she couldn’t make out the expression on his face. The books in her arms felt heavy, but at the same time inconsequential, intangible. How could some meaningless markings on paper stand in the way of this monstrous unfolding of violence? These two wolves, pelts matted against their bodies by blood in a dozen places each, their bodies visibly shaking with the effort of continuing to fight? It was barely a fight any longer, she realized, her heart thudding sickly in her chest. Watching them circle, she saw a dozen openings that would have allowed either wolf to deliver a fatal blow. But it was clear that neither of the combatants had the energy left to capitalize on those openings. It was all either of them could do to remain on their feet. There was a brief scuffle, a dull snap of jaws, but even from this distance she could tell that the bite had struck nothing but fur. The brothers leaned against each other for a lingering moment before pulling themselves apart, one of the wolves staggering a little as he returned his weight to a wounded limb that threatened to buckle beneath him.

Lyrie realized that she couldn’t tell, from this distance, who was who—which bleeding, battered wolf was Darion, and which was Reeve. Somehow, that was the part that hurt the most. And Lyrie realized, standing there on that futile, bloodstained battlefield, that she’d been wrong about the Blood Rite ever since she’d learned of it as a child. This dreadful spectacle, so cruelly designed, so barbaric to witness… it wasn’t about ending a war by force, it wasn’t about brute strength and endurance endorsing the leadership of the victor. It wasn’t about the combatants at all, at the end of the day. The Blood Rite was a warning. The horror that it struck into the hearts of its witnesses, that was its true lesson. No wolf watching this bleak spectacle play out would ever think about an inter-pack dispute the same way again. No wolf here today would ever be fooled again into thinking of this kind of bloodshed as glorious or noble.

For a moment, as she finally understood the true form of this ancient rite, Lyrie was shocked into stillness. The realization was almost enough to halt her mission. Some part of her wanted to fall back into line with her packmates, to stand in horrified silence, to bear witness to what this ancient tradition was teaching her and to carry the grief and the knowledge with her for the rest of her life. But then she felt it, clear as day… a flutter low in her belly, a movement that simultaneously belonged to her and didn’t.

She felt the future. She felt her child… and Reeve’s.

And without a second thought, she stormed across the battlefield, bellowing the brothers’ names at the top of her voice.

Trinn had been holding the bell aloft to call an end to this bout, but the sight of her advance stilled his hand and widened his eyes. She waited for her teacher’s face to furrow in its habitual expression of immense disapproval, already bracing herself against her kneejerk reaction of shame… but there was something else in his eyes as he struck the bell to pause the fight, and she realized that it was relief. Of course it was, she thought faintly, her heart suddenly aching with pity for him. What teacher wanted to watch two of his students destroy one another? What battlemaster would enjoy seeing his wisdom used for such an awful purpose?

“We must stop the Rite,” she said, lifting her voice so it would carry to the crowd gathered behind her. She could already hear them murmuring, but she didn’t look back. If a spectator tried to stop her from doing what she’d come here to do, Syrra was there to intervene. She had to focus on the Rite. And up this close, she knew she’d come just in time. Both wolves were barely holding onto consciousness, their heads held low and their forelegs stiff as they braced themselves against the bloodied sand beneath their paws. In a standard duel, the winner was obvious—whoever was wounded had lost. But both of these wolves were so badly hurt that the thought of either of them being the victor was laughable. Looking at the state of them, part of her was frightened that she was already too late.

“First blood has been drawn, Lyrie,” Trinn replied in the booming tone he’d honed over his long years shouting over noisy training grounds and battlefields, but she could hear the exhaustion in his voice. “There is no stopping a Blood Rite. As overseer of this battle, sacred tradition compels me to protect it.”

Here goes nothing, Lyrie thought faintly. “With all the respect owed to your wisdom and your years of service to our people, Blademaster, I disagree with your interpretation of the Rite.”

Now she could really hear the crowd. Where confusion had been the dominant note in the low murmuring, now she could hear shock and outrage taking over. Trinn’s silver eyes narrowed and he straightened his back a little. But Lyrie had spent her whole life being loomed over by intimidating wolves, and she held his gaze without fear.

“Explain,” Trinn said finally. His face was a mask of cold anger, but she reminded herself that there was a man behind that exterior who loved these wolves like children. He wanted this to stop as much as she did. She just needed to give him a reason to let her.

“With Senior Lorekeeper Syrra, I have spent this week in deep contemplation and study,” she said, the formal, archaic language heavy and strange on her tongue. She knew the wolves from Earth would be struggling to understand her, but if she was going to defeat tradition on its own terms, she needed to do so in its own language. “We have dedicated ourselves to a full appreciation of the Blood Rite, and I am compelled by myownresponsibility to the traditions to call for an immediate halt to this battle.”

She felt Syrra move adroitly to her side, taking her armful of books so that she could leaf more freely through each one. Acutely aware of the sun beating down on them, of the blood dripping from the exhausted wolves who sagged and swayed where they stood, Lyrie showed the Lorekeeper what she’d found. Three tomes, some of the oldest on Kurivon, which contained tales of some of the earliest wolf packs in history. They were long, elaborate tales, mostly revolving around battles against demons—but one in particular contained a curious passage in which the hero of the tale traveled across the world to consult with wise old men and women who’d been great Alphas in their youth.

“A tale about respect for the elders and for the traditions,” Trinn said, his lips pressed together in a thin, furious line. “I trust you can see the irony.”

“Forgive me, Blademaster. I draw your attention to these names. And then…” Syrra handed her another book, already open to the marked page, and she flashed her a grateful smile before turning back to Trinn. “This passage is one of the earliest references to the Blood Rite in question, is it not?”

Trinn stared down at the page for a long moment. She waited, holding her breath, for him to speak, knowing that her conclusion would be stronger if it was Trinn who said it. “These appear to be the names,” he said slowly, “of two of the ancient Alphas in the previous tale.”

“Which indicates that both of them survived the Blood Rite.”

One of the brothers’ heads jerked up at that, and she saw the wolf blinking blood from his exhausted silver eyes. She pressed on, buoyed by the sudden stillness on Trinn’s face. “There are multiple references to both Alphas—Senior Lorekeeper Syrra will confirm that we can be confident the records refer to the same wolves who took part in the Rite.”

“If we are to accept that this truly is the case,” Trinn said slowly, “we must know the cause of the ritual’s interruption.”

“As you know, Blademaster, these records—valuable as they may be—are incomplete. No complete retelling of the Blood Rite in question survives. But we do have this.”

This was it, she thought faintly. The most precarious part of her argument, and the most absolutely crucial. Trinn frowned at the book Syrra was holding open. “A book for children?” he said, that familiar look of disapproval on his face. But Lyrie could feel both brothers looking up at her now. She knew that both of their lives depended on this moment. And she felt utterly, completely calm at the eye of that hurricane.

“It’s long been known that songs survive much longer than written records,” she said calmly. “They’re closer to our shared ancestral memories than they are to written text, in some ways. And this love song tells us why that particular Blood Rite was called off.” She held the page up for Trinn to see, his eyes narrowing as he squinted at the page. “And it’s not just this old song. I refer you to the very name of the rite, Blademaster. The Blood Rite. I’ve had cause to study a brand new tongue over these last few months, as have we all,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to the gathered crowd—which, to her surprise, seemed larger than it had been when she’d first arrived. “In doing so, I’ve become more aware of the meaning my own language carries. And to translate the name of this ritual, I would need to explain that blood doesn’t just mean the substance staining Kurivon’s sand right now. Blood is what all wolves have in common—what carries our magic, what sets us apart from the demons we fight. It’s our unity, our strength, our kinship. It meansfamily, Blademaster. It means life, not death. That was what justified the cancellation of the Blood Rite all those generations ago. Midway through the battle, one of the battling Alphas learned that he was to become a father… and his opponent lay down her sword and refused to continue.”

There was a shiver of magic in the air, and Reeve was standing before her, blinking blood from his silver eyes. The sight of him took her breath away—his hair was matted to his head with blood, the stained ruins of a shirt hung from his bruised torso, and he was swaying where he stood so alarmingly that something told her only sheer willpower was keeping him upright. But the light in his eyes was as bright as she’d ever seen it when he spoke in a dry, rasping, wondering voice.

“Lyrie? What are you saying?”

She felt a smile spread across her lips, and she nodded quietly. Beside her, she heard Syrra clear her throat.

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