Page 65 of Wolf's Reckoning
I didn’t blame him. This wasn’t a moment for words.
The druid circled the stone altar between us, an iron bowl filled with ash in one hand and a polished antler blade in the other. The blade had been carved with runes so old I couldn’t read them—but my blood knew them. My wolf stirred as the wind shifted, as the scent of old magic tickled the back of my throat. The Heartwood tree loomed over us as we stood in the most ancient, most sacred part of our territory.
“Tonight,” the druid intoned, “we mark the bond between you—as protectors of a shared people.”
My skin crawled. This wasn’t just theater. This was legacy. The druid dipped the blade in the ash and approached me first.
“Do you accept the burden of this bond?” they asked. “Do you swear to this union not for power, but for the good of the Hollow?”
I swallowed, the weight of it pressing down. My pulse thrummed in my jaw. “Always.”
The druid stepped close, pressed the edge of the blade against my skin—just under my collarbone—and drew the mark. It stung. Sharp. Hot. The ash burned into the shallow cut, a sigil drawn in blood and soil and vow. I could shift one hundred times or more, and this mark would never change.
Then they turned to him.
“Do you accept the burden of this bond? Do you swear to protect this land as your own; does the Hollow have your heart?”
Silence.
For one tense breath, I thought he might say no. That he’d laugh. Walk away. Burn it all down.
Wolfe looked past the druid, blue eyes dark in the night. I dared not speak, but I felt he was waiting for something.
“Wolfe?” the druid probed.
Wolfe looked past me, to the trees, to the sky above. He waited for a long moment. “Yes,” he said.
The druid moved forward to mark him the same way—his throat tensed, but he didn’t move.
“Not there,” Wolfe said gruffly. He quickly unbuttoned his shirt, dropping it to the ground, and half-turned, giving the druid his shoulder. “Mark me there.”
The druid hesitated for just a moment and then did as commanded. I watched as the ash pulsed faintly on Wolfe’s skin. I wondered if it burned less than mine.
“Luna sees you,” the druid whispered to him. “She accepts your bond…whether you accept it, remains to be seen.”
They stepped back and raised the empty bowl to the stars.
Just like that, it was done. No fanfare. No magic explosion. Just a scar that would burn for a full moon cycle and a promise neither of us had wanted to make. We would not carve our names into the Heartwood as others did; we weren’t paired for that, and I doubted that the druid would allow a false marking on such an ancient rite.
I turned to leave. Wolfe grabbed my wrist. The touch was light. But it stopped me cold.
“We’re bound now,” he said, voice low.
“We are, by blood and politics,” I shot back, seeing the druid had already left.
A flicker of something—amusement? anger?—twisted his mouth. “You don’t think the Goddess knows what she’s doing?”
I stepped closer, chin high. “I don’t think she cares what I want.”
“Then we’ve finally got something in common.” He gave the Heartwood a wary glance. “Try to stop fighting me,” he said quietly, his gaze still on the tree.
I almost said something clever, hurtful, but this was so much more than us. “I’ll try.”
Wolfe looked back at me and shook his head. He knew I didn’t mean it. He’d never been a fool. The resentment fell back into place between us—familiar, comforting, dangerous. We turned away from each other in the same breath.
The trees swallowed us again as we made our way back to the pack. Somewhere, above the clouds, I swore I heard the wind laugh. As we stepped out of the trees, both of us slowed at the sight in front of us.
“Goddess, they are bringing outallthe old traditions tonight,” I grumbled, and I heard Wolfe’s snort of agreement as he surveyed the scene in front of us.
