Page 42 of Blood Marked

It devoured.

EIGHTEEN

KAEL

Kael needed to hit something.

Hard.

Preferably something with teeth and a death wish.

He vaulted onto his warhorse before dawn, armor half-buckled, his cloak flaring in the wind like a banner of fury. His mind wouldn’t shut up. Not about the ceremony. Not about Selene. Not about the letter Nyra had found, or the fucking smugness in Varyn’s eyes every time they crossed paths in court.

And Ruarc, his father, his king, his cage—had the gall to ask if Kael was “emotionally prepared” for the rite.

Emotionally prepared.

As if Kael were some simpering noble child learning to dance for court, not a bonded heir being forced to parade his mate before a council that wanted her dead or worse.

He gritted his teeth and spurred his horse faster.

The patrol post near the southern Veilmouth had sent word of rogues circling too close to the forest's edge—strays, maybe. Outcasts with the stench of shadow on their breath. Usually too disorganized to risk real damage.

But Kael didn’t care.

He wanted a fight.

He reached the outpost at mid-morning.

The sentries straightened when they saw him. His reputation preceded him here. Wordless nods. Weapons checked. No pleasantries.

“Where?” he snapped.

“North slope,” said a scout. “Three. Maybe four. We caught their scent yesterday. Haven’t breached, but they’re close.”

Kael didn’t wait.

He ran.

Through underbrush, over frozen ground, cloak discarded mid-stride.

He could feel his wolf clawing beneath his skin, agitated, ready. For weeks he’d held it back, controlled it like the obedient son they’d trained him to be. But now?

Now it wantedblood.

He found them in the ruins of an old sentry watch—three rogues, half-shifted and snarling, their eyes gold-rimmed with madness. One had an iron-spiked club. Another, claws blackened by poison.

No words were exchanged.

Just the kind of violence that spoke for itself.

Kael didn’t wait. He launched himself forward with a growl that barely passed as human anymore. His blade arced through the air, a whisper of silver catching the first rogue square across the chest. Bone crunched. The man flew backward into a tree with a strangled gurgle, his body a limp sack of shattered ribs and regret.

The second rogue was faster. Leaner. Half-shifted already, fangs out, claws blackened with old poison. He lunged from the side and slashed across Kael’s shoulder—deep, burning.

Kael didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even register the pain.

---