Page 56 of Blood Fist

The silence continued for a single heartbeat before the clan erupted. Chants ofchief chief chiefechoed around the plain. Not a single voice held back.

Osmond, Gustall, and Henroen stepped forward. They took a knee in front of Ridan, weapons drawn and presented to him. What they said was lost to the roar of the crowd, but their submission was easy to see in their bared necks.

As pack, Jonen wasn’t expected to join suit, but he did. His curls fell forward as he bowed his head to his childhood friend—his brother—and swore his fealty. Corric joined him, twin blades crossed over his knee as he tipped his neck.

Sehleh tried to kneel too, but Ridan caught her by the elbows, pulling her to her feet. He ducked his head, baring his neck to the beta who helped raise him. Her lips curled in a watery smile as he submitted to her, theactions of a child to a mother. She kissed his cheeks as the cheers grew louder

The clan feared they would be lost after Restrina’s death, but they forgot about their chief’s final gift to them. Ridan would be their guiding light.

Brune didn’t understand death. At least, not the mourning of it. Death was death. There was nothing to misunderstand. But grief? That was new to him.

As a child, Brune didn’t think about death. Not in the way that children should, young and aloof, far from the fear of a final breath. But in the way he was used to it. People died all the time. They laid down in the gutter, closed their eyes, and never opened them again. No one thought lesser of them—that they’d given up. It just simplywas.An irrefutable fact like that of the sun rising in the same way it always did.

Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, laid a few memories of his parents. Flimsy, hazy things. They reminded him of the morning mists that clung to the ground. There, but only in the way the dampness clings to your skin, a temporary feeling that disappears the moment the sun fully rises.

Perhaps if he did remember them, he would remember grieving their loss. Sometimes he gets the impression of dark hair sliding across his skin as he was held close, but it disappeared the moment he tried to grasp it.

There might be nothing to grieve. He had no idea if they lived or died. One day they were just gone, and it wasn’t that different from when they were there—Brune was still cold and hungry. Now he was just cold and hungry and alone.

So if asked, he didn’t understand grief. Not in theway the clan did. Some cried, some went about their day, and others just…talked. They found anyone close by and, like a bucket with a hole in it, they let their feelings run dry.

What they all had in common was acceptance. No one was shamed for their emotions, for the way they dealt with the pain of losing Chief Restrina. Not one word was spoken when Ridan and his pack carted off her body to privately mourn her. The clan seemed to hold their breath until they saw thick smoke coiling toward the sky, and then they let it out, succumbing to their grief. As if her death wasn’t real until they saw it.

Now they smiled. Gathered around fires, not a single clan member was hiding in their tents. They shared food and drink, some played music while others sang. They spoke of Restrina’s feats with small smiles and awe.

Clansmen didn’t bury their dead. They did nothing with the body.

Osmond explained it. “It’s like this—the parts of the person you loved cannot be seen. Their bodies are just a vessel. A map of their life. But the parts you will miss cannot be seen. We carry that with us. In our hearts and memories.”

And they celebrated. They lifted their voices so that tales of Chief Restrina’s valor, of her worthiness, would be carried to Artrax in his mountain. He would hear her people and welcome her with open wings.

Brune sat beside Niklas at Henroen’s hearth. Osmond was with them, face drawn. It was strange to see the alpha so withdrawn. Other than when he was throwing them into the dirt, he was generally affable.

His younger sister Tia was asleep between Niklas’ legs, head pillowed on his thigh. She wanted to stay up with the adults, telling her brother Chief Restrinaneeded her, and so they relented only for her to drop into sleep the moment the fires were lit. Niklas put his mead down so he could stroke her silky hair, eyes trained on the fire.

Across the camp, Brune caught glimpses of Ridan. His face was smudged with soot like he’d spent the day in the smithy. Clan members were approaching him, fists over their hearts as they swore themselves to him. As the night wore on, he seemed to deflate. With every clan member who approached, the darkness under his eyes grew.

Henroen’s mate noticed his attention wandering. “He will leave soon.”

Brune jerked back to her. “Where will he go?”

“He will take Chief Restrina’s ashes to the Shrieking Cliffs.”

He furrowed his brows, trying to remember if he’d ever heard of the Shrieking Cliffs before. It was possible—he’d learned so many new things since coming to the Stone Blade.

Henroen took mercy on him. “The cliffs are halfway up Artrax’s mountain, and the closest we can get to the peak. It is said the wind that whips through is from the last beat of Artrax’s wings. Ridan will spread her ashes and let it carry her the rest of the way.”

Brune looked back over at Ridan. He already looked so drained. How was he going to make it all the way to the mountain and back?

He swallowed. “Alone?”

Henroen shrugged. “He hasn’t asked anyone to come with him.

And he wouldn’t. Ridan would shoulder this burden like he did most things. There was no doubt in Brune’s mind that he would be successful. Ridan didn’t know how to fail.

Standing, Brune stretched his arms above his head. He could feel the pleasant warmth from the alcohol burning away in the face of his resolution. Reaching for his shield, he swung it onto his back and adjusted it until it sat right.

“Where are you going?” Niklas asked quietly so as not to wake Tia.