Page 250 of A Warrior's Fate

A forfeit from an alpha warranted not just the stripping of a title, but the losing of one’s honor and a sentence of—

She shuddered at the thought. Only one wolf who’d just stepped onto that stone was living to see another day off it. There were no loopholes. No exceptions.

The killer had taken a path she hadn’t gone at all with Kai in their aimlessness. Inclines and descents. Darker and deeper into the unknown. The roar of the crowd—that had become a wave of cheers and boos—faded farther away.

Isla dug within herself, forcing her human legs to pump faster, but she was losing ground, and her wolf was barking at her to let it out. But just as she was about to damn all to hell and power into a shift on her next step, the killer stopped. They stood before a weather-worn statue, which they hurriedly pushed out of the way to reveal a small fissure in the rock wall. They squeezed through it just as Isla reached for them.

She cursed, and Renoir’s protest fell on prideful and deaf ears as Isla followed into the small space.

She didn’t let up to marvel at the crystals that illuminated the cavern. Instead, she went right to the killer and with a cry that could’ve shaken the surrounding mountains, gripped their bony shoulders and hurled them against the rock wall. Their cloak, its hood, jostled as their back met the hard surface. They drew a blade and met hers with it.

Steel on steel, their weapons reflected the blue-white gems and the hardened look in both sets of eyes. With the movement, the killer’s hood had fallen a little off their face, revealing gaunt features that Isla could see more clearly now. Their eyes were dark and sunk into their sockets. They didn’t bear the bright red flare they had when Isla had lunged at them, and their skin was peppered with scars. One particularly gruesome one slashed from their temple down into the scarf they were using to cover the lower part of their face.

Isla lifted her gaze to the top of their hood, pushed back enough to reveal their hairline and the smallest wisp of dirty hair. Maybe a burnished gold if it weren’t for the mud caked on it. She didn’t harp on it long, and instead, brought her eyes back to theirs.

Renoir was catching up, claws and teeth drawn, eyes shining. His power radiated through the tunnel walls. Before Isla could even press the killer with any question, they spoke in a rasped tone, “I’m sorry.”

Isla tensed, and her claws tore through her skin. She wanted to look around to see if she’d stupidly fallen into a trap, but she didn’t want to remove her eyes, in case that was the diversion.

Thankfully, Renoir had taken to the canvassing.

“What?” Isla pressed, mentally assessing the next move she could make. Drive her claws in their side, sweep their legs, let up on her dagger’s hold just enough to catch them off-balance?

More rasped breathing and sounds, as if they were trying to work out the words, struggling for each syllable. “I am sorry.”

They brought down their weapon. Isla didn’t drop hers.

She barely let up as she processed the words, the grief and remorse behind them. Not for right now, but—

Isla blinked. “Kyran and Jaden,” she said, and the killer winced. Isla lowered her weapon, and her voice softened. “You didn’t want to do it.”

As the killer shook their head, a confirmation of an action, Renoir growled. “What?”

The killer tightened their hold on their blade as the guard lunged with no thought. Isla wedged herself between them, stopping him with a hand on his chest. His wild gaze fell on hers, and she drew her wolf just enough that her eyes and lumerosi glowed. “Stand down.”

Renoir, albeit hesitantly, obeyed, ducking his head and stepping back.

Isla turned to the killer, who hadn’t moved. Hadn’t run away. “Was she controlling you with magic? Were you cursed like Lukas?”

“Yes—and no,” they rasped before letting out a hard breath. “Would’ve been mercy.”

Mercy?

“Were you threatened?”

“No.”

Isla’s brows drew together. She asked next, “Why did she want them dead?”

“Don’t know.”

It had only been four months—but this wasn’t a case of not remembering. This was not knowing at all. They hadn’t wanted to do it, but they hadn’t done it to prevent anything. There was no threat.

Isla looked them over, putting the pieces together quickly. The broken hands, the scars, how skittish they seemed.

Nausea bubbled in her stomach. “She tortured you.”

They visibly recoiled, and the words settled between them. They festered and thickened, unanswered, before the killer finally answered, “Very…very long time.” Their voice cracked, and for a moment, Isla wondered if it had a feminine quality beneath the grating, fractured tone. She’d never heard them speak so much. Never used so many words.

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