Chapter 4
Aldiat dipped his fingers into the golden vessel Brand held—his arm now very much healed thanks to a lot of begging and even more gold—and lifted the crimson paste to Frida’s face.
“In the way of Solyrian, I mark my mate and ask for the Sisters’ continued blessings.
” He drew a thick line from her forehead, over the slope of her nose, her lips, her chin, and down the column of her throat.
“I am hers as I am yours. Shine on us both, and grant us your power and protection as we move forward in this life as one.”
On the cusp of every Occurrence, Demons the realm over murmured a similar prayer.
Legend had it that a lucky few in their history had been especially blessed by the sunstar and granted real markings of favor by the Sisters—a perfect, permanent match to their fated mate, whether they’d found each other yet or not.
Most only received the deep red paint at their mating ritual. Made from ground stone and perfumed oil, it was drawn in matching patterns however the pair wished as a way to mimic the stories of their people. Since the bond was there regardless, it was more than enough.
Frida grinned, her teeth stark against the stain as she repeated Aldiat’s actions. Tears in both of their eyes, they pressed their heads together, and Brand’s chest twisted. The way they looked at each other, it was like the two of them were the only two creatures in all the world.
Lyriat’s voice was a distant muffle, the cheering of the crowd and fanning of their evergreen branches little more than a whisper in the face of his own overwhelm. His sheer fucking want.
Brand craved a mate and that safety in another so intensely he was practically choking on it. To have someone who understood him, without the need for cursed words…
Fuck. It would be everything.
He hardly noticed the hand-shaking and well-wishing, or the vibration of the wooden planks beneath his bare feet.
Barely acknowledged when Lyriat clapped him on the shoulder and sauntered away, taking the ceremonial bowl with him.
Didn’t register a single face as he chatted and hoped the smile he’d plastered on wasn’t nearly as fake-looking as it bloody felt.
Hundreds of shouts and whistles saved him.
Those nearest spun to watch as Aldiat and Frida devoured one another, smearing the paste across their mouths and cheeks amidst raucous laughter, and finally giving him the escape he needed.
It was the most natural thing in the world to slip away, silent and unnoticed, his shoulders sagging in time with his sigh of relief.
Hopping down off the back side of the platform, he wound behind the empty merchant tents and into the food pavilion, heading straight for Magnus.
“I’m so bloody hungry, I could die,” Brand said.
Frida had gone all out. Slabs and slices and legs of meat crowded each other on their platters, crusted with herbs and salt.
Smoked fish rested in beds of sliced lemons.
Roasted vegetables and crispy potatoes beckoned.
Clouds of steam danced over tureens of soups and stews.
Breads and cheeses, olives and pickles, bowls of fruit and fresh cream—anything he could ever want, laid out before him and begging to be tried.
Mag tipped a ladle of brown sauce over everything on his plate. “You and me both,” he grumbled. “Pet has been howling since I walked through the damned portal.”
Brand chuckled and popped a chunk of cheese into his mouth. “Don’t even try to pretend this is your first serving.”
Wolflords were hungry at the best of times, but he supposed that’s what happened when one was essentially eating for two.
Magnus winked and took a bite of what looked to be a roasted lamb chop, then gasped, his eyes widening as he examined the piece of meat.
Instantly alert, Brand darted his gaze around. It was uncommon for someone to target an Imperial, but not impossible. Sisters knew most of his uncles had met mysterious deaths. Poisoning was a real concern, no matter that they’d likely survive it. It still sent a message.
“Mag, are you well?”
“This smells like one of mine,” his brother finally said, leveling him with a penetrating glare as his nostrils flared. “For the love of the stars, tell me you did not cook my Ilsa.”
Brand blinked. “Ilsa?”
“My newest wee kid.”
“A… goat.”
“Aye.”
For a minute, Brand was worried—until he remembered Magnus was an absolute arsehole when he wanted to be.
Most of Straelon’s food came from Thodelebor, the Westrealm happy to trade their harvests in exchange for lumber and stone, and the use of Demon warriors when needed.
While the Wolflords were fiercely capable of protecting their fields and livestock from the creatures of the Ghostwood, they were simple farmers at heart.
Years ago, Magnus had strolled through the portal in the great hall during supper, claiming his favorite dairy cow had been sent by mistake.
He’d taken one look at the table, laden with beef, and clutched his chest. It was the whispered ‘Fiona?’ that had nearly made Brand empty his stomach right there.
He hadn’t been able to eat red meat for…
Well, about the same amount of time it had taken Mag to confess the entire thing had been an elaborate prank, weeks later.
“No way. Not again,” Brand said, laughing. “You’ll have to think of something else.”
“I’m fucking serious,” Mag growled. “She was meant to be a gift! Did you not see my note?”
Brand narrowed his eyes. “Why would you send a goat as a gift if not to eat it?”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? You don’t eat a baby goat! They’re fucking pets.”
“I…” he swallowed, suddenly unsure. “If it… Magnus…”
Brand’s stomach churned, every piece of meat on his plate suddenly having a name.
Faldir and Hedda chose that moment to arrive, never far from each other’s side.
The rare sight of her in a dress stunned him even further.
It was strange, and oddly unsettling, and stole any possibility of words from his mouth.
Even Faldir had cleaned up, his hair combed neatly around his horns, the rosy hue of drink infusing his cheeks and making him look something akin to happy.
“Your Highness,” Hedda said with a nod. Her voice dipped lower when she turned to Magnus, though not at all flirtatious. “Your other Highness.”
“Ach, Hedda. When will your bonny arse accept we’re meant to be?”
“Hmm.” She tapped her chin, pretending to think about it. “Nope, still never, cousin.”
Mag tsk’ed, completely irreverent of their distant relation.
“Let me guess,” Faldir said, leaning in. “You’ve convinced Brand, again, that he’s eaten a beloved companion.”
“Aye, he has!” Mag cried out. “My poor, wee Ilsa!”
Hedda punched him in the arm, and his brother’s entire demeanor changed, eyes shining and face going red.
Magnus tried to keep it together, pinching his lips between his teeth, but the laugh exploded out of him anyway.
“Damn you, Faldir. I almost had him. You should have seen his face. He was this close to swearing off meat forever.”
Brand opened his mouth to tear into Mag, but was stopped by the sight of a striking female approaching the opposite side of the table, teeth sunk into her plump bottom lip.
Hazel eyes peeked at him from behind a curtain of ebony hair, her tawny horns catching the lantern light as she grabbed this and that.
He didn’t recognize her, but she was beyond beautiful—which inevitably meant that all Brand could manage was to stare at her while he tried to think of anything to say.
She gave him a lingering look and sauntered off, glancing once over her shoulder with a soft smile, and Brand watched her disappear into the crowd, heart pounding.
Sisters, he was such a fool.
“Right,” Magnus said. “I’ll, uh… go and find us a seat.”
Faldir cleared his throat. “I’ll join you. Hedda?”
“Coming!”
Brand knew what they were trying to do, but he had no desire to stand there alone, marinating in the grime of his own idiotic solitude.
He wanted the distraction, the jokes and camaraderie.
He wanted to bloody relax with his family and friends and forget how long it had been since he’d found himself tangled in another’s breath and body.
Everyone was already at one end of a long table contentedly devouring their meals, two foaming tankards of ale resting in front of Magnus.
Just what he needed.
“I sincerely hope one of those is for me,” he said, setting his plate down.
“One of many this evening. I plan to get you rip-roaring drunk so you forget all your troubles.” Magnus swiped up his drink and gulped half of it down.
Grabbing his own cup, Brand chugged the cool ale. He slammed it down when he finished and scrubbed a hand over his face, the short stubble of his beard scraping against his calloused palm as he breathed a sigh of relief.
Troubles forgotten, indeed.
“I still can’t believe Baldrir missed Aldiat’s mating ceremony for a damned female,” Hedda grumbled.
“You can’t believe a male thought with his dick instead of his head?” Faldir snorted, ducking beneath his twin’s half-hearted swipe. “And here I thought you were supposed to be the sharper of the two of us.”
“Ach, away with you two!” Mag chided. “True love was happening in the Westrealm behind that door, and if tonight’s happy couple don’t mind his absence, then neither should you.
Besides, Nyri was there in his stead, and did a lovely job of Frida’s hair.
Joy and blessings abound, thank the Sisters for it. ”
Faldir stabbed a piece of meat with his fork. “I’m more surprised Bal managed to keep his mouth closed long enough to do anything other than talk the poor maid to death.”
“If he knows what he’s about, he won’t have closed his mouth for the last couple of days, but not because of anything so mundane as talking.” Hedda tossed a long wave of hair over her shoulder, sniffing. “Or have you forgotten how to please a bed partner, little brother?”