Page 31 of Blood Fist

Restrina flinched, looking at the bloodied sword hanging at his side. “But you almost didn’t,” her voice was small. “Do you know why I asked you to lead them?”

“To keep me safe?—”

“No,” she snapped. “I asked you to lead the non-fighters to keepthemsafe. You were supposed to protect them, lead them to safety if I could not.”

Ridan swallowed, feeling the first tinge of shame. “I left Jonen and Corric…”

“They are not my son!” her voice wavered as it raised. “They are not a future chief! They will not be tasked with the safety of every single man, woman, and child who calls the Stone Blade home. You will be.”

He felt his lip wobble and bit it until it bled.

“Ridan, warriors can only be successful in battle if they know their loved ones are safe. Do you think Henroen could wield his ax if he thought his mate wasin danger? Or Osmond could fight effectively if he was worried about his sister?”

Her peppery scent was beginning to seep through the smell of sickness. “Being a chief isn’t about glory. Or power. It’s about doing therightthing, even when it’s not what you want.”

His omega wanted to whine, to drop his head and nuzzle into her neck like he used to. Beg for his sire’s approval and love. He looked down at the sword on his hip, sticky with blood.

“I just wanted to be like him.”

The iron grip on his hand softened, and she stroked the back of his hand with her fingers. “I know, and that’s what scares me.”

When he met her gaze again, her eyes were wet. “Your father was the greatest man I’ve ever known, and great men are often taken too soon.” She let a tear fall through the grime on her cheek. “And you will be even greater than him.”

Ridan had only ever seen his mother cry once, right after his father’s death, after she’d bundled them up to the mountains to grieve in private. She allowed herself to cry once, and then never again.

But she was crying now.

“Greatness takes time, pup. It needs years and experience to flourish.” She brought his wrist up to her neck and scented him. Scenting was intimate. It said things words could not, and when his wrist touched her neck, he felt a rush of love and pride.

“Try not to be in too much of a hurry.”

Ridan dropped his forehead to his mothers, eyes closed as they scented each other. He had never actively sought kind words from his mother—he didn’t need them. Not when words could be so feeble and fickle. No, Ridan heard everything he needed to in the way her eyesflashed in satisfaction when he hit his first bullseye. Or when she spent hours teaching him how to sharpen his blade and then took him on hunts to show him the best way to stalk and kill prey.

Iylah stormed back into the tent. Her eyes narrowed at the two and she sucked her teeth. “Barely this side of death and you’re wasting breath. Stubborn Oldsuns.” She shooed Ridan out, telling him to tend to his wounds.

He stepped outside and took a deep breath, looking at the dusky sky. Exhaustion clung to him like dew, but he didn’t go for a rest.

Ridan returned to the battlefield to help treat the wounded and care for the dead.

He had greatness to chase.

Brune had a standard by which he measured himself. He couldn’t remember when he came up with it. Perhaps he was born with it, or perhaps it was something all Guttersnipe kids knew. But whenever he found himself overwhelmed, or scared, he would take stock of himself and knew if he could be sure of three things, he would be all right.

He was fed.

He was warm.

He was dry.

Closing his eyes, Brune repeated those three things. Despite finding himself laying his head in a foreign land, surrounded by people who were trying to kill him only a day ago, he reminded himself over and over again—he was fed; he was warm; he was dry.

Niklas lay beside him, curled up on the opposite side of a small unlit hearth. It wasn’t terribly coldwithout it, the hide of the tent keeping out the night. Neither had bothered to undress, laying down in their armor despite the discomfort. They even wore their boots.

After the battle, he found himself swept up, grabbed around the arm by the large mustached alpha he’d seen near Chief Restrina. The man made Brune feel small as he effortlessly towed him and Niklas away from the battle, depositing them in this tent. He didn’t say not to leave. He didn’t say anything.

And so they lay here, waiting for…something. Death? He could hardly blame the Clansmen if they greeted him with a morning kiss of steel. Brune had been born their enemy. He marched on their lands, killed their people.

Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they would let them go home to another death. One he was far more certain of. Kaledonea would see them hung for betrayal.