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Chapter 5 - #5 The Cost of defeat

The long tables stretch like battle lines under the flickering firelight, casting golden glows across faces I'd rather see swallowed by shadows. The air is thick with the rich aroma of roasted venison, warm bread, and spiced mead, but it can't mask the lingering scent of arena dust and sweat clinging to my skin. My muscles scream with every step, bruises blooming beneath my leathers from the trials, but I hold my head high as I slide onto a bench at the table's far end, where the light barely reaches. No one will see me falter. Not tonight.

A wooden mug thuds before me, sloshing amber liquid. "Drink," Tirian says, dropping onto the bench beside me, his grin wide and infuriating, like the day's humiliations were all a grand jest. "You look like you need it after… well, that."

I grip the mug, my knuckles whitening. "After winning two rounds?" I arch a brow, daring him to push.

He leans back, smirking, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. "Sure, Kael. Let's call it winning."

Before I can fire back, Liora leans across the table, her silhouette framed by the firelight. Her auburn hair cascades in waves, catching the flames' glow like molten copper—effortless beauty that makes the hall's chatter falter as eyes drift her way. "I must say, Kael," she begins, her voice smooth as honeyed wine, "you were… ferocious out there." She takes a delicate sip from her cup, her lips curving just enough to sting. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were enjoying yourself."

The words land like a blade, sharp and precise. My mug hits the table with a dull thunk, harder than I meant. "And that surprises you?" I ask, my voice low, edged with defiance. "What, you think I can't handle a fight?"

Liora's laugh is light, airy, a sound that dances above the din—but it's a performer's laugh, meant to charm. "Oh, not at all. It's just…" Her gaze flicks to my arms, where the muscles still bulge from the climb's strain, then back to my eyes. "You're so… intense. Not exactly the graceful type, are you?"

Tirian chokes on his mead, his cough a thinly veiled laugh. The heat in my chest flares, a mix of shame and fury. I open my mouth to retort, but the table shifts—wood creaking under new weight. The hall's noise dips, a heartbeat of silence rippling outward. Eryx has arrived.

He slides into the seat across from me, his presence like a storm cloud settling over the feast. His dark hair is still damp from the arena, his broad shoulders relaxed but commanding. "Well fought, Kaelen," he says, his tone polished to a fault, devoid of warmth. "I hope I didn't bruise you too badly."

My lip stings where it split during our match, the taste of blood still faint on my tongue. I meet his gaze, unblinking. "Just enough to keep you in my thoughts, Eryx."

A few nearby warriors chuckle, but the sound grates—laughter aimed at me, not with me. My cheeks burn, but I force my expression to stay steady, unyielding. From the corner of my eye, I catch Beta Darek—my father—watching from farther down the table. His nod is subtle, almost imperceptible, but it carries the weight of his constant refrain: We represent the pack in every breath, Kaelen. Even when it chokes you. I nod back, barely, and stab my knife into the venison with more force than necessary, the blade scraping bone.

The feast's hum resumes, but snippets of conversation slice through like arrows. "She's strong, I'll give her that—" "—no finesse, though, not like Liora—" "—too raw, too… unnatural—" Each word tightens the coil in my gut, a knot of anger and shame I can't swallow down, no matter how much I chew. I keep my eyes on my plate, but every bite tastes like dust.

Liora's voice cuts through again, bright and deliberate. "Oh, Eryx, that final move of yours—" She presses a hand to her chest, her fingers grazing the neckline of her tunic, drawing eyes like moths to flame. "Purely flawless. How do you make it look so easy?"

Eryx leans back, his smile easy but his eyes sharp, flicking toward me for a fraction of a second. "Practice," he says, his voice smooth as polished stone. "And a good opponent to keep things… interesting."

Our gazes lock, and for one searing moment, the hall fades—the clatter of mugs, the laughter, the fire's crackle—gone. It's just us, a silent challenge crackling like lightning. He knows he humiliated me. And he knows I'm not done yet.

Tirian claps Eryx on the shoulder, breaking the moment with a laugh that's too loud, too carefree. "Come on, don't be too hard on Kael. She's almost at your level."

Almost.

The word is a splinter under my skin, sharp and persistent. I force a smile, but it feels like a grimace. "Keep talking, Tirian," I say, my voice low, "and I'll show you almost in the next round."

The table laughs again, but this time, it's softer, less mocking. Eryx's smirk twitches, and Liora's eyes narrow slightly, her perfect composure flickering. My heart pounds, not with shame now, but with something fiercer—a hunger, a promise. They can laugh, they can whisper, they can call me almost. But I'll carve my place among them, even if I have to claw it out with my bare hands.

_______

——————

The hall starts to empty once the mead runs low and the laughter turns into that sloppy, lingering murmur of tired wolves.

Most of the pack has staggered out, their laughter echoing into the night, leaving only the scent of roasted venison and the faint crackle of dying embers. My legs ache, stiff from the trials' punishment, but I linger on the bench, waiting until the hall feels less like a stage. Only then do I rise, my boots scuffing the worn stone floor, each step a quiet rebellion against the bruises blooming beneath my skin.

By the far hearth, my father stands like a sentinel, arms crossed, his broad frame haloed by the fire's glow. He's speaking in low tones with Alpha Theron, their words too soft to catch but weighted with purpose. When his eyes find me, they're unreadable—storm-gray and steady, like the cliffs that guard our valley. He murmurs something to the Alpha, who nods curtly, then beckons me with a single tilt of his head.

I approach, my pulse quickening despite myself. The hearth's heat licks at my skin, but it can't thaw the chill settling in my chest. "You fought well today," he says, his voice deep and resonant, the kind that could hush a charging bear. But there's no warmth in it tonight, only a measured calm that feels like judgment.

"Two out of three rounds," I reply, searching his face for a crack in his composure. "Not terrible."

"Not terrible," he echoes, his lips twitching but stopping short of a smile. "But you let Eryx take you too easily in the final match."

The words sting like a lash. "I didn't let him—" I start, my voice sharper than I mean it to be.

"You wanted to win," he cuts in, his tone unyielding, slicing through my protest. "That much was clear, Kaelen. But wanting and winning are worlds apart."

My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. The memory of Eryx's boot on my chest, the crowd's mocking cheers, flares hot in my mind. "So what should I have done?" I snap, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "Bowed to him? Let the whole pack watch their Alpha's son step over me like I'm nothing?"

His gaze sharpens, a glint of warning that I know too well—the look that says I'm teetering on the edge of reckless. "You're Beta's blood," he says, each word deliberate, heavy as stone. "We serve the Alpha, not challenge him. Remember your place."

The air between us thickens, charged with unspoken rules and the weight of his expectations. But there's a question burning on my tongue, one I've held back for years, and tonight it refuses to stay buried. "Did Mother ever…" I hesitate, my voice softer now, almost a plea. "Did she ever want more than that?"

His eyes flicker—just once, a crack in the stone—and then it's gone, sealed away behind that unyielding mask. "Your mother wanted peace," he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, as if the words are too heavy to speak aloud. "For herself. For the pack. And she knew the cost of keeping it."

The answer feels like a half-truth, a door half-opened. "That sounds like she gave something up," I press, my heart pounding. "What was it?"

He studies me for a long moment, the firelight carving deep shadows across his face. "She gave up plenty," he says finally, his voice so quiet it barely reaches me. "You have her stubbornness, Kaelen. And her eyes. Don't waste them chasing things that can't be yours."

The words hit like a blow, cryptic and final, stirring a restless ache in my chest. I open my mouth to ask what he means—what she wanted, what I'm not supposed to want—but he steps back toward the hearth, his posture closing off like a gate slamming shut. "Get some rest," he says, already turning away. "The training yard will be less forgiving tomorrow than the trial was today."

Dismissed. Just like that.

I stand there a moment longer, the hearth's warmth fading against the cold knot in my gut. As I turn toward the door, the hall's shadows seem to press closer, heavy with secrets. His warning wasn't about losing matches—I'm sure of it now. It was about something bigger, something buried in the past, something I'm not supposed to know.

But I will find out.

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