Page 11 of Blood Fist

If Chief Restrina was home, she would scent them, too. A little rougher, she usually followed up by mussing their hair or shooing them out the door with a haughty eyebrow raise. Still, Corric couldn’t help but notice as the alpha’s eagle eyes softened as she watched them scurry out the door.

Mornings were usually spent on chores or helping Sehleh with whatever she needed. If she didn’t need help, they’d find themselves wrangled into helping someone else. Sometimes it was helping the potters collect thick clay from the riverbanks for their pottery or assisting Iylah loading her cart. He even learned how to patch the tents and help in the gardens. It didn’t matter who was asking, if they needed help, Ridan and Jonen would stop to help them.

At first, it was puzzling to Corric. He couldn’t understand the dynamic. Helping bring fish or firewood to Sehleh made sense. They shared her hearth. Butto help their neighbors? Even the able-bodied ones? It made little sense. Until he spoke to Oosa.

It was a sweltering afternoon after their lessons—which usually took place in the heat of the day after chores were done—he found himself outside of the training field. Jonen and Ridan were fanatical about their training, buzzing in their seats during tutoring just to get out so they could wrestle. Or practice weaponry.

He was sitting in the shade, cooling down after he’d failed at wrestling.

Jonen was trying to teach him, but he’d barely balanced his weight before Ridan had hurled him into the dirt. Again.

Licking his wounds, he’d retreated to the shade where Oosa insisted on combing and braiding his hair. She enjoyed doing it, and it felt good. He leaned into her strong hands as she tried new plaiting methods.

“My family came to the clan when I was young,” she’d told him when he asked if she was born there. “We had a small farm by the coast. One year, the drought was so bad my father lost everything. I don’t think he had a particular destination in mind, but he knew we couldn’t stay there. We stumbled here by accident.”

Her fingers were light, blunt nails scraping the strands from his scalp. He was purring, the soft vibration resonating low in his throat. They would get stronger when he presented, but for now they were gentle like a kitten.

“We had nothing. Just the clothes on our back but Chief Restrina took us in. Gave us a roof, a plot to garden, and supplies to get started. Sehleh brought food from her own stores.” She paused, lost in thought. “Once I was old enough, one of the grannies taught me to weave. Eventually, I was good enough to begin paying people back.”

Corric knew of Oosa’s weaving skills firsthand. The smiley girl had gifted the very shirt him was wearing to him. He’d tried to tell her no, that he had nothing of value to give her back, but she seemed surprised.That’s why it’s a gift, silly,she’d told him as she stuffed the well-made garment in his arms.

It was blue and light, perfect for the weather. The long sleeves protected his fair skin from the sun, and the color brought out his eyes. Or at least that’s what she said when she saw him in it. He figured she would know.

Corric hadn’t been in the clan for very long, but he’d heard variations of Oosa’s tale told over and over. Many of the Clansmen were not born here. They’d come—some out of desperation and others just searching for a place to belong—but if they found a home in the plain, then they were welcomed. Supported until they found a calling. A way to provide for themselves and give back to the community.

His mind drifted back towards the soft nest and his belly full of warm food. He had nothing to give back, no trade he could use to earn his place. Corric had assisted Gustall in some of the tutoring—he’d already learned his letters and numbers so he could help with some of the young pups, but that wasn’t enough.

“I’m not good at anything,” he mumbled, looking down at his cracked and bleeding hands. They were soft, unused to a life of work. His skin was fair, too. He’d learned the hard way when he tried to go shirtless, like Ridan and Jonen. Even the morning sun blistered, and it itched something fierce while it healed. Sehleh had tutted at him as she rubbed a soothing balm into his skin, telling him he’d have to stay in the shade if he wanted to keep his skin pretty.

But Corric didn’t want to keep his skin pretty. Hewanted to wrestle and learn the sword. To wanted to ride and be useful. He wanted to walk with his head high, knowing he was just as much a part of the clan as anyone else.

“It takes time to find what you like,” the beta girl said behind him, squeezing his shoulders as she tied off his braid with a ribbon. It hung low and heavy on his back. His hair was always tangled, and it made his neck sweat under the weight. Braiding helped, though he found himself incapable of braiding it himself.

“I don’t know what I like,” he groused, refusing to be mollified.

Oosa laughed, throwing her arms around his shoulders. “Finding out is the fun part! Imagine how boring life would be if we never got to experience anything new.”

Corric froze at her words. He knew what that was like, didn’t he? He’d lived that life. Born as an omega, deemed useless, he was married off for connections. Without a say. Without a chance to try new things.

So he did.

Corric tried everything. He helped Sehleh patch clothes so he could learn to sew. He fetched water for the Smithe’s and they taught him what made a good pair of boots. He helped Oosa spin wool so he could find out just how terrible he was at weaving. He collected herbs for Iylah so she would instruct him on medicines and basic healing. She taught him which frogs could be safely handled and which ones had poison he could dip his blades in.

Eventually, his hands toughened. His skin stopped burning so quickly. He learned to braid his own hair.

Jonen taught him how to ride. He spent hours helping him find his balance on the saintly Brownie. Ridan never pulled his punches when they wrestled,and it hurt, limbs constantly black and blue. But then one day he managed to pin the blonde and he couldn’t stop smiling.

Osmond brought him a practice sword. Corric barely had his feet under him when the big alpha knocked it out of his hand. The vibrations up the wood hurt and made his hand cramp. He winced, looking up at Osmond.

“It’s heavy,” he admitted, wriggling his fingers.

Osmond laughed, picking up the sword and handing it back to him hilt first. “It’ll never get any lighter. You’ll just get stronger.”

Corric did. One day, he picked up the wooden sword and his arm didn’t shake. One day, he got on Brownie and felt at ease on his broad back.

On the morning of his 12th name day, he woke to find a large breakfast with all his favorites. Sehleh must have been up all night candying fruit and making the dumplings he couldn’t get enough of. He blushed when she gifted him with a knitted scarf so he wouldn’t get cold in winter.

Jonen and Ridan presented him with a belt. They’d tanned the leather themselves, painstakingly cutting, dying, and suppling the leather so it fit like an old friend. There were pouches and room for weapons. Corric knew such a fine piece must have taken them ages to make, and they’d done it in secret.