carried across 64

 

64 Symbol of My Failure 

Fenris 

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The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The air in the ravine suddenly felt too thin. The sheer wrongness of it settled heavily in my gut before I even saw the rider Yvara snapped upright, her blades back in her hands instantly. My warriors formed a tight, defensive ring around the burning camp, spears angled aggressively toward the tree line. 

A black horse burst through the thick pines. 

It was completely covered in freezing white foam, its eyes rolling in blind, terrified panic. The beast had been run to the absolute point of destruction. It staggered into the clearing, its chest heaving with violent, wet gasps. It managed three more steps before its front legs completely buckled. The horse slammed into a snowbank and died right there, its heart bursting from the strain. 

The rider was thrown clear, rolling hard across the ice. 

It was a young Ironmaw scout. He looked like a child, maybe sixteen, his armor fitting too loose on his frame. He scrambled to his knees, ignoring the dead horse. He looked at the armed warriors surrounding him, his face completely bloodless. He was shaking so badly his leather straps rattled. 

I closed the distance. The snow crunched heavily under my boots. 

“Report,” I commanded. 

The boy looked up at me. He couldn’t meet my eyes. He stared at the fresh rogue blood soaking the chest of my tunic. “You need to return to the fortress. Now.” 

“Why?” I asked, looking down at him. “The rogues are dead. The perimeter is secure. What is happening?” 

The boy swallowed hard. His throat clicked. “It’s not the rogues, sir.” A tear spilled over his eyelid, instantly freezing to his cheek. “It’s Alpha Dimitri.” 

The world just stopped. 

The crackling of the burning tents, the howling wind, the shifting of my warriors’ armor-it all vanished. A heavy, suffocating silence dropped over the ravine like a lead blanket. 

I reached down, grabbed the boy by the thick leather collar of his armor, and hauled him up to his feet. I lifted him completely off the snow. 

“What about my brother?”. 

“We were ambushed,” the boy choked out, his teeth chattering violently. “On the southern ridge. A raiding party crossed the border. He… he’s dead.” 

I stared at him. I waited for the punchline. I waited for him to tell me he was wrong, that the scouts had made a mistake. Dimitri didn’t die. Dimitri was the golden son. He was untouchable. He was the future of the entire pack. 

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The boy just stared back, dangling from my fist, sobbing quietly into the freezing air. 

I let go. He crumpled back into the snow. 

I looked down at my hands. They were covered in enemy blood. I had done my job perfectly. I was the perfect weapon, playing executioner hundreds of miles away in the dirt, while the only person I ever truly loved was slaughtered on a frozen ridge. 

I was supposed to be his shield, and I wasn’t there. 

The fundamental tether in my chest-the bond I shared with my brother since the day I was born- snapped. The cord was cut, leaving a massive, freezing void behind. 

I blinked. 

The white snow of the ravine bled back into the dark wooden walls of my den. 

I released my grip on the chair. The thick oak armrest was completely splintered. Small, sharp shards of 

wood fell to the floorboards. 

I looked back at the bed. 

Sera shifted under the furs. She let out a soft, pained whimper, her face twisting as the movement pulled 

at her battered ribs. 

She fought for me today. She stepped into a dirt ring, let her face get crushed, and broke another woman’s arm just to prove she belonged in my pack. She bled to survive in the brutal world I dragged her 

into. 

But she wasn’t mine to keep. 

The Valdris treaty was Dimitri’s masterpiece. He spent two years negotiating those border lines with King Aldric. He drafted the marriage contract. Sera was supposed to be Dimitri’s Luna. She was supposed to be sharing this exact bed with him. She was supposed to bear his children, rule by his side, and live the clean, diplomatic life he was building. 

I was just the spare. The blunt instrument left behind in the armory. 

I inherited his title only because he died. I inherited his fortress because it was the law. And I inherited 

his bride because of a contract left behind. 

Sitting here in the dark, watching her sleep, I felt like a grave robber. 

The mate bond didn’t give a shit about logic. It didn’t care about honor, or ghosts, or the fact that I was walking around wearing a dead man’s life. It hummed in my chest, a violent, possessive drumbeat, demanding I take what was in front of me. Every time I looked at the curve of her split lip, every time I caught the heavy, sweet scent of her skin, I wanted her with a desperation that made my teeth ache. 

And I hated myself for it. 

I failed to protect him. I let him die alone on a frozen ridge. And now, I was sitting in the dark, actively 

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My Failun 

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wanting the woman who was meant to be his wife. It felt exactly like looting his corpse. I was taking the only piece of his legacy he had left. 

The first thin, grey light of dawn started to bleed through the high, narrow window of the den. The pale light crept slowly across the floorboards, illuminating the edge of the dark bear pelt covering her. 

My boots shifted on the floorboards. My body wanted to go to her. My hands wanted to soothe the pain I had allowed her to endure. I wanted to touch her bare shoulder, pull her against my chest, and promise her that no one would ever hurt her again. 

It made me sick to my stomach. 

I locked my knees. I dug my heels into the floor. 

I stood up. The heavy chair scraped loudly against the stone, a harsh, ugly sound in the quiet room. 

Sera didn’t wake. She was too deep in the exhaustion, her body fighting to put itself back together. 

I walked to the heavy oak door. I put my hand on the cold iron latch. 

I stopped. 

I turned my head and took one last look at her. The bruised, beautiful, fiercely stubborn southern girl sleeping in my bed. She was the most magnificent thing I had ever seen. 

But she was the absolute symbol of my failure. 

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