Page 22 of Blood Fist

Shadows darkened his eyes as he took in the group. General Bargrave snorted, stepping forward.

“We were promised a parley with the chief,” his voice carried over the flatlands.

The man raised his chin. “You were.” With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the darkness like he was embracing an old friend. He seemed to have no issues walking, expertly skirting roots and rocks.

Even with their light, the soldiers struggled to follow him, having to jog at some points to keep up.Eventually, he slowed, leading them to the outskirts of what appeared to be their home.

It was brighter here, civilization seeming to have sprouted from nothing. People crowded around campfires. Children looked out from tent flaps, their eyes wide with curiosity, only to be dragged back inside by concerned parents as the soldiers passed.

They looked…normal. Brune thought the Clansmen looked like anyone else he’d met. Two arms, two legs, a pair of ears, and eyes.

Truly, it was only their clothing that stood out to him. There was no cohesion—‌ the styles varied, perhaps to the owner’s taste. While some wore little, while others were bundled up. Even some of the women were shirtless, standing proud, as they met his wandering eye. Some of these people had to be betas, even omegas! But he couldn’t tell. They all looked the same, standing shoulder to shoulder with the same wary glances.

More alarmingly, they were all armed.

General Bargrave curled his lip in disgust at the display, not bothering to hide his animosity. Brune thought it was rude. And dangerous. They were intheirhome, after all.

The man led them to a large, round tent. The double flaps were pinned open, likely to prevent a suffocation of pheromones with so many present. Brune ducked as he entered, blinking in the dimness.

Without many furnishings, his eyes were drawn to the wide chair in the middle of the room. It was heaped high with furs he didn’t recognize—plush colors of all sorts converging upon one another. All manner of teeth, claws, and bone strung up around its high back. A large pair of what Brune had to assume were antlers reached up toward the sky, towering over them all,casting spindly shadows that shifted with the flames. But that wasn’t what held his attention.

It was the woman. Sitting deep in the throne, legs splayed, her fingers steepled under an angular chin. Heavily scarred, there didn’t seem to be an inch of skin untouched. She wore no furs, no heavy armor to make her petite frame seem more intimidating. She didn’t need it. Her fierce glare pinned him in place. He had to fight the urge to whine, bare his neck in submission.

Alpha.

She shifted in her seat, jewelry clinking—necklaces of bone and teeth, clay beads, even feathers. Unlike the cheap trinkets Brune had seen back home, they did nothing to accentuate her slender neck or fine bone structure. They were not for decoration. They were prizes. Proof of her prowess.

Across her lap rested a weapon Brune had no name for. It was long, perhaps nearly as tall as the woman. In the crudest sense, it looked like a pole with a wicked curved blade fitted into the end.

“On behalf of King Krait—” General Bargrave began, but the woman bared her teeth in an imitation of a smile.

“On behalf?” her voice was raspy. “Does your…kingnot fight his own battles?” The way she paused over the title made the group behind her chuckle.

General Bargrave ground his teeth so hard Brune could hear the squeak of his molars. “King Krait is a busy man. He sends his best.”

“Pity,” the chief said without a trace of it. “I would have enjoyed taking his head myself.”

Hand dropping to his sword, Bargrave stepped forward. “We have come here in good faith to avoid further bloodshed.”

“What you have done,” the chief said, slowly enunciating her words. She had no need to grab her weapon. The threat was clear without it. “Is attack our borders, kill our shepherds, destroy our crops, and invade with an army.”

The soldiers behind Brune shifted, eyes drifting to one another to see if they recognized the truth in her words.

“What you have done, is walk into my home baring fangs and weapons expecting us to give in to your demands.” She tapped a blunt nail on the staff, dragging her fingers along the lacquered wood. “Demands I will meet with nothing but steel. But for the sake of hospitality, I will allow you to spew your poison with your teeth still in your skull.”

Bargrave spluttered. “You cannot just?—”

“You’ll find there is not much I cannot do.”

General Bargrave’s eye twitched under the verbal assault. He swallowed twice, reaching for some way to come out on top of this conversation.

“Niceties aside,” he began, even though he was the only one in the tent pretending there were any. “King Tylock has sent me to liberate his son.”

To his left, Niklas gasped. His eyes impossibly round. Before Brune could lean in and ask him for more information, General Bargrave continued.

“We’ve had intelligence that his youngest son, Corric Tylock, was kidnapped by warriors working under your direction.” The man with gray hair snorted, shaking his head. “And is being held captive.”

Chief Restrina’s blonde brows twitched. She looked to be holding back a smile. Maintaining uncomfortable eye contact with General Bargrave, she spoke, “Captive? Osmond, wasn’t it just last week young Corric managed to disarm you in training?”