A Warrior’s Fate (Wolves of Morai #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

A s Isla listened to the man standing beside her droning on about the natural dangers that lay on the outskirts of their homeland , the only thought running through her mind was how in the world, Goddess forgive her, could she possibly have almost let this imbecile become her mate?

One could claim the citizens of their home, the Kingdom or Pack of Io, had a superiority complex. Callan, however, took the notion to a whole other level.

The humanoid form of egocentrism had come out of nowhere, butting his way into Isla’s conversation with a fellow trainee from the Pack of Tethys. The trainee, whose name she hadn't gotten to, was decently attractive and, as their conversation flowed, showed promise of being intriguing as he could talk about things other than fighting. And the bonus—besides the fact he’d gazed down at her breasts just once —he was also unmated as she was.

Though she may have given up seeking her forever, that did not mean she was opposed to the temporary.

Isla knew Callan’s interruption was for no reason other than to make her aware of his presence at this exclusive Hunter’s Feast. That and so she could bear witness to his newly acquired mark: a symbol of his recent bond with his chosen mate.

As if that would make her regret ending things with him.

Callan, the master story-stringer, kept the trainee hanging on his every word, discussing Io’s “City of Fallen Embers”, otherwise known formally as the Imperial City. What was surely one of their continent’s most glorious landmarks, the city had taken on the moniker following the momentous volcanic eruption—that Callan was nowhere near involved in—centuries ago.

While he continued with his grandstanding, Isla let her narrowed, ice-blue eyes scan his features, from his coppery hair to his amber eyes and nose tweaked from battle. Over his lips that had long ago caressed her skin and the stubble that had accompanied it.

When one caught him at the right moment, Callan was easy on the eyes, though a little generic and plain, and aside from a few selfish rendezvous, he wasn’t too bad when the season rolled around. But what he had in mediocre looks and being the occasional decent lover, he destroyed with his undeservedly garish personality.

“May I step in?”

Isla jolted when she felt a hand on the bare skin of her back that was exposed by her sweeping, crimson gown. Instinctually, she swung her arm in the assailant’s direction before she realized she recognized the voice. She dropped her limb to her side, for this was not the ideal time to be descended upon by the Imperial Guard—not on the eve of one of the biggest nights of her life.

“I hate when you do that,” she muttered, just loud enough for Adrien to hear, and with a glower, she turned to meet the golden-green stare of her longest friend. Whether the bond was formed by default or choice was too hard to judge now.

As Callan, to Isla’s bliss, fell silent, Adrien took another step, his detectable scent and aura of power no longer masked as an element of surprise. His hands were behind his back as he stood at Isla’s side, and though his posture was tall and regal, his grin held a reckless charm.

Callisto, the kingdom where the Gate to the Wilds lay, had a tempered climate. Nothing compared to the heat Io had been experiencing following the recent summer solstice. So, instead of his customary home attire, the Heir donned more modest cloths, crafted richly and finely, cut in a way that made it hard to miss the magnificence of his form beneath the fabric. The sash across the front of his intricately stitched tunic bared the blood-red jewels and gold mined long before his time from the land of the ancient packs. It was the appearance expected of royalty despite Adrien’s occasional indifference to it.

“Goddess…”

Isla spun to find the trainee’s eyes blown wider than they had been while tuned into the stories of catastrophic death and molten rock. He nearly snapped his neck, bowing his head to the ground. “Alpha…Heir…Your Imperialness…Highness…sir.”

With every fumbled word, Isla's attraction to the man dwindled, likely visible in the gradual frowning of her face.

Amusement flashed in Adrien’s eyes as he nodded in recognition of the paid respect. “At ease.”

The trainee lifted his head, still in awe, like a child meeting their hero, though Adrien was not much his senior. And although he claimed he wasn’t always for the grandeur of being at the top of the wolves' hierarchy, being the future Alpha of all Alphas , the King of Kings, Isla knew the Heir relished the fanfare. His hubris—which typically drove her mad—was enough to quell even the biggest of egos, even one as big as Callan’s.

Isla watched as Adrien turned his head slowly and expectantly to the grimacing man beside him. Her best friend’s mirth, coupled with a touch of smugness, mirrored her own.

“Warrior,” Adrien greeted his former training mate.

Callan begrudged a bow of his head, envy laced with defeat in his eyes. Despite lacking a notable bloodline, he was a formidable fighter, deemed a warrior through a victory in the Hunt a few years ago, and was a worthy sparring partner for Adrien in their early days, training and learning the strength they possessed as shifters. That was until the alpha-blooded wolf rocketed to his own seemingly limitless potential. “Your Highness.”

“I never had a chance to extend my congratulations formally.” Adrien, still in the business of being a cordial leader, gestured to the mark visible on Callan’s neck beneath his collar.

Callan stiffened, as did they all, and his eyes flicked briefly to Isla. But it wasn’t to gloat. No, it was a cry for help. It was the most unsure she’d seen him in a while, maybe ever.

Would he say just the right “wrong” thing to piss off one of the most powerful wolves within the ten kingdoms? Would an incorrect slip of his tongue serve as a reminder to his future Alpha of the sacrifice he’d made at his own expense for the she-wolf he’d once loved? That Isla wondered sometimes if Adrien still loved.

The Heir’s tribulations of the mate variety had been the hottest pack news and gossip for the past year. Even this gathering was one of the earliest events Adrien had been to since the unbinding and his own personal hell that followed. It was one of the rare times Isla had seen him as of late.

Callan coughed. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

There was the slightest downturn of Adrien’s lips—a flicker of words that would remain unspoken in his eyes. “Well, may the Goddess bless you both with a bountiful future,” he said with sincerity but also a finality in his tone.

And following the words, he turned his attention to Isla.

No longer morose, he put his uniform grin back on and cleared his throat, knowing what had to come next. Isla glared at him but, having been drilled in etiquette since she was a pup, knew her place and dipped her head.

Adrien was all too happy about it. “Milady.”

Isla wrinkled her nose. What the ever-loving-fuck was that address?

Adrien, with his own look of distaste, spun back to Callan and the trainee. “May I steal her a moment?”

Isla grabbed Adrien’s arm with a huff, sick of his act and being amongst this group of males. “Yes, you may.”

She could hear her friend chuckling as she dragged him away, likely the only person in the room who’d get away with the manhandling of high royalty.

As the two dove into the depths of the gathering, past the attendees and the bustling staff setting the grand table up in the middle of the room for the feast, Adrien’s laughter quieted. “Do I sound like as much of a pompous ass as I think I do?”

“More so than usual.” Isla dropped his arm.

Adrien scoffed. “I never want to address you—or anyone—as milady again. I’m burning Winsy’s Pack Relations Code Encyclopedia and leaving the ashes in his front yard. I don’t need to sound like I have a stick up my ass to be a good Alpha.” He veered in a different direction, and Isla followed. “You’re welcome, by the way. You looked like you were ready to kill him. ”

“No, not murder. Maim him, maybe. I’m surprised you both fit in this hall with your giant heads,” she jeered, trailing her gaze around the party’s patrons. “And speaking of a disproportionate number of inflated egos, where’s my brother?”

Adrien left her in suspense as they approached the open bar. He called the tender for a spiced gin while Isla ordered herself a glass of wine before situating himself behind the counter’s decorative willow, shielding himself from the eyes of the room.

“I don’t think I even need to answer that,” he finally said.

Isla retched, regretting the inquiry, very aware of her sibling’s lack of self-control and favor with women. “We haven’t even eaten yet.”A mischievous look lit up Adrien’s face, an innuendo most likely on the tip of his tongue. Isla lifted a finger. “Don’t.”

As he chuckled, she leaned back against the bar and looked out at the floor. There weren’t many unmated wolves at this gathering, from what she could see and sense, but enough for a few to pair off had the desire risen. She wasn’t that desperate tonight, though it had been quite a while, thanks to training.

“I’m surprised you’re not off screwing someone,” she said to Adrien. “That waitress seems just your type.”

The Heir peered around his plant-formed shelter to follow Isla’s gaze to the woman setting up the centerpieces on the table. Stunning, if not for a nauseating fact, Isla realized too late.

She looks so much like Corinne…

Adrien’s eyes drew lengths up and down the waitress’s lithe body, considering and, thankfully, not frowning. Instead, he settled back in his spot. “If it was easy for me to sneak away, I’d consider it, but my father would rescind my title and probably have my head if I do anything off the book to make the Imperial Council question me. Even baseless rumors by pack gossips are enough for Winslow to pop by my house to ‘have a chat’.”

The last of his words came out mockingly, a perfect impersonation of Io’s Head of Pack Relations and Interpack Liaison. The poor official had been the butt of all their jokes and receiving end of their mischief since they were kids.

Isla sighed. “Have to keep the Hierarchy looking polished.”

Adrien grunted. “Goddess, help me.”

As they lost themselves in another conversation, Adrien giving Isla more crucial tips for finding the safest routes through the Wilds and achieving the fastest kill in the Hunt, the bartender brought over their drinks. They were gone quickly, both realizing they were just about ready for the night to end—or at least blur—before it had truly started.

“I think they’ve placed me next to the new Alpha of Deimos,” Adrien said after Isla had asked him about the feast’s seating arrangements.

“Deimos?” Her voice went high. The kingdom’s name was enough to send a shudder down her spine.

She glanced around, the discussion feeling taboo this soon. The next person at the bar was a few feet away, although for wolves, that barely meant inches. But as they weren’t mates, it wasn’t possible for Isla and Adrien to share thoughts or exchange unspoken communication through a bond—not unless they shifted and conversed as only their wolves could.

Not in the mood to tear up her dress, Isla kept her voice quiet. “He really came?”

Adrien matched her volume. “He is an alpha, and this is the Hunt.”

“But his father and brother just died like a month ago. An—and his mother, she…”

“Probably doesn’t have much time either. Not that she’d want it.”

Horrible. Isla looked towards the ground, reminded of the realities and weaknesses of their kind. Having a soulmate, one’s perfect “other half” or, as some felt, an extension of themselves, was considered one of the greatest gifts from the goddesses. It was a bond so sacred, so special, and yet—fragile.

It made them fragile.

The soul-splitting, crushing pain that came with losing a mate was one Isla never wished upon anyone—or ever wanted to deal with herself. At least, not any time in the near future. The thought of grief, of heartbreak, so magnanimous it could kill …

The bartender brought over their next round, and she and Adrien fell silent, mulling over the recent tragedy with alcohol on their tongues.

Isla tried to picture the new Alpha of Deimos . The boy or man who’d just lost everything and gained a throne. She’d never met him before, she realized. She couldn’t even remember ever learning his name. All she knew was of his existence and that he was the former alpha’s second son.

Second .

He was never meant to take control. The eldest child inherited alpha.

Isla thought back to all the training, all the lessons, lectures, and talks Adrien had endured in their youth. Goddess, that Adrien continued to endure now after they’d grown. He was prepped to become the Imperial Alpha since he was a child, so young that he barely knew how to shift. Every move he made, every step he took was down the path of what everyone knew was his future. Or thought it was—because, apparently, Fate was a fickle bitch.

The new Alpha of Deimos likely had none of that.

Isla scoffed. How could it have even happened? People, wolves, they didn’t just…die.

“Has your father heard anything about it? Any reports?” she asked Adrien, who had his gin to his mouth.

“No.” Adrien finished the drink, put his empty glass on the counter, and waved for another in what seemed like one fluid motion. “No one’s claiming a kill. No one’s come to the Council requesting a challenge. No one’s trying to take over that pack. It doesn’t make sense.”

“So, he’s just alpha now? His father and brother die, and he’s alpha.”

“That’s the Code. It’s a birthright until someone steals it for their own bloodline.”

“But it wasn’t his birthright.” Isla echoed her previous thought and chose her following words carefully. “Do you think he’s…dangerous?”

“Do I think he’s responsible?” Adrien asked plainly, receiving his third glass. Isla’s silence was enough of an affirmation. “We don’t have the grounds to think so. I hope not.” He drained the drink once again and rose with a whispered curse. The Beta of Charon, the pack’s second in command, had spotted and called him over.

“Deimos already has enough to deal with being next to the Wall,” he offered, taking a few steps away. “They don’t need a family-slaying alpha as their leader, too. ”

And with those inspiring words, her dear friend was off.Isla followed his confident stride with a deadpan stare. Maybe Winslow needed to give him some more lectures on sensitivity.

With a purse of her lips, Isla swirled the wine in her glass and settled against the bar. Her mind, the curious spirit and unyielding inquisitor that it was, ran wild with possibilities, trying to find an answer no one had…except maybe the Alpha of Deimos.

Now alone, Isla scoped the crowd, spotting the trainee and Callan, who’d returned to their state of being complete strangers. She didn’t necessarily want to converse with either of them again. Truly, she didn’t feel like talking to anyone.

Sighing, she lifted her glass to sip her wine and let her mind wander.

A carnal desire suddenly reared its head in her tedium.

Warmth spread through her body, and there was a tugging at her gut. A stirring that made it a bit harder to breathe, impossible to stand still. Like a strange kind of drunkenness.

What the hell?

She inspected her wine with furrowed brows.

Though the sense had eventually faded, and her mind cleared, she felt the strong urge to just…get away.

Isla set her glass down on the counter with a hollow clank, and against the grain of the party, she traveled away from the congregating bodies until she found a dimly lit, empty hallway with a long stretch of statues and art pieces showcasing Callisto’s history and the three sisters all wolves worshipped—the Goddess, Fate, and Eternity.

The corridor ended at a glass door leading to a terrace. She pushed it open, its old metal creaking as it gave way.Her steps echoed off the platform’s stones as she walked out into the tepid night air. The only source of light was the full moon; it was all she needed.

Isla approached the terrace’s stone railing and placed her hands on it as she drank in the lunar aura, breathing deeply and absorbing its glow. The lumerosi markings etched into the skin of her shoulder throbbed. The intricate swirls and symbols of black ink, bestowed upon her once she’d mastered her shift, took on their signature iridescence as she teetered on the edge of the mundane and mythical. For a moment, she considered ripping off her gown, shifting, and hauling through the trees.

No one would know she was gone, right?

“Beautiful.”

Isla’s markings flared, her eyes following in their glow as she spun around to face who had snuck up on her.

But then the furious light dwindled to nothing as she froze, disarmed by one of the most striking men she’d ever seen.