Chapter 151
(Raiden’s POV)
The sky above Windhowl dawns blood–red, as if even the heavens condemn my foolish pride.
I stand alone at the edge of the ceremonial grounds, where ancient trees tower solemnly, their branches stretched out like silent judges over today’s proceedings.
The clearing we chose for the duel lies quiet and still, the early morning mist drifting between the trees like ghostly specters.
My pulse pounds heavily in my ears, each heartbeat resonating with dread.
How did it come to this—facing Zion, my closest friend, in combat over a woman whose heart I so carelessly discarded?
My fingers tremble slightly as I kneel at the edge of the river, dipping my hands into the icy water as tradition demands.
The chill shocks my senses awake, reminding me of the gravity of what I’m about to do. I splash water across my face, feeling the frigid drops slide down my skin like tears I refuse to shed.
Horace shifts restlessly beneath the surface, conflicted and unsettled.
“Is this not what you wanted, wolf? To bar teeth against a friend, a brother?”
“There is no choice. He cannot have her. He cannot take your Luna Raiden!” Horace snarls, having now made up
his mind.
I close my eyes, whispering quietly the old words taught to me by my father, words meant to honor ancestors and bless the battle ahead.
“Blood of my blood, spirit of my spirit,” I close my eyes, my voice barely audible. “Hear me now in this moment of trial.”
The words flow from memory, each syllable warming on my tongue like embers stirring to life.
“I stand where you once stood, facing what you once faced. Your strength flows through me, your wisdom guides my blade. For honor earned, not given. For victory with meaning, not glory. For the path that continues beyond me.”
I draw a slow breath, steadying myself.
Each syllable tastes bitter on my tongue. The ritual should grant me clarity, strength, and resolve, but instead, memories rush unbidden through my mind, tangled and painful.
It only gives grief, served cold, icy, and bitter on the tongue.
I see Zion, ten years old, laughing beside me as we race through these same woods, sunlight flashing bright through the leaves above.
We were inseparable then–brothers not by blood, but by the bonds we forged in childhood adventures and whispered secrets. Zion had always been steadfast by my side, loyal through every storm and victory alike.
1/3
96045
425 Bonus
I remember him at seventeen, standing tall beside me at my parents‘ funeral, kus hand firm on my trembling shoulder, quietly reassuring me I wasn’t alone. The grad had nearly broken me then, ye Zou’s wavering support had silently held my stuttered places together
Now, as I rise from the riverbank, those memories pierce my chest, sharp and clear
My heart clenches painfully, gull mixing violently with stubborn pride. The thought of destroying that bond over petty jealousy feels suddenly wheadle,
Footsteps interrupt my restless thoughts.
Turning, I spot Rarity approaching quickly, worry etched clearly across her usually composed features.
“Raiden,” she calls, breathless as she halts before me. “Siena intends to depart tomorrow, earlier than planned.”
The words strike me like a physical blow, and panic floods sharply through my chest. Siena is leaving–again The idea terrifies me in ways I never anticipated. The world feels like it’s falling underneath me.
“Tomorrow?” My voice sounds strained, unfamiliar even to my ears.
Rarity nods gravely, eyes filled with quiet sympathy. “She’s packing now, I thought you should know.”
Thank you,” I murmur numbly, turning away, my heart hammering furiously. The urgency to seek Siena out immediately wars with the weight of today’s duel. But pride still holds me stubbornly captive–my obligation to ancient tradition painfully binding
“Rainity,” I clear my throat, “you should flee this place,”
Minutes later, the pack gathers silently around the clearing, forming a solemn circle beneath the pale morning
Zion steps forward, meeting my gaze steadily, determination and sadness mingling in his eyes. Neither of us speaks, the silence heavy with unspoken regret. Instead, we shift quietly into our wolf forms, allowing ancient
qual to guide us into our roles,
Brother why?
My midnight–Vlack wolf emerges smoothly, powerful muscles rippling beneath sleek fur.
Don’s silver–gray wolf mirrors my movements, calm and steady, his eyes unwavering as we circle each other slowly, cautiously. We know each other’s fighting styles intimately–every strength, every subtle weakness.
Our bond, forged over decades, now makes combat feel like betrayal.
The dal begins with sudden intensity, our wolves colliding in a flurry of teeth and claws.
