Chapter Nineteen
Among wolverians, it has long been custom that a new leader must be challenged before they may truly claim the throne.
When a king dies, the crown passes, as expected, to the eldest child.
Yet inheritance alone is never enough in the north.
Worth must be proven. The fiercest of their warriors are granted the right to step forward and challenge the heir, to test their strength.
And it is no rare occurrence for such trials to reshape everything, the throne passing into new hands, a new bloodline rising where another has fallen.
It is the way of wolverians; to ensure that their ruler is not merely born to lead, but forged for it.
The strongest of the pack must stand above the rest. To outsiders, it may seem brutal.
Senseless, even. But to them, it is tradition.
Honour bound in steel and blood. And there is something else, too.
When an heir rises and no challenge comes, it is seen as a bad omen.
A crown untested is a crown unwelcome. So more often than not, they hope for the challenge.
For in that proof of strength, they show their people that they are worthy of the throne.
Tabitha Wysteria
Bryn forced himself back onto his feet the moment he saw the axe in Caldwell’s grip. His fingers brushed instinctively towards the small dagger hidden at his hip beneath his heavy coat.
‘No need for that,’ Caldwell said calmly. ‘We’ll use our fists, Bryn Wynter.’
Bryn frowned.
‘What do ya mean?’ Caldwell stood only a few paces away, his men arrayed behind him while Bryn had nothing at his back but an open field and snow. Endless snow.
The wolf that had guided Bryn to his family now stood to one side, observing. Its blue eyes narrowed at Bryn, as if waiting for the prince to prove his worth. It would not help him. Bryn would have to prove himself.
‘I challenge ya for da throne,’ Caldwell declared. ‘We fight like wolves. With teeth and with fists, until only one of us stands. Do ya accept, Bryn Wynter?’
Bryn knew he had no choice. Caldwell had been careful in his selection, surrounding himself with only his most loyal followers.
Refusal was unthinkable. Among wolverians, a challenge to the throne could not be denied.
It was law older than memory: when a king was challenged, he fought to the death. One survivor. One ruler.
Bryn had to win.
He nodded and shrugged off his heavy coat, letting it fall into the snow so he could move freely. Caldwell was a massive brute of a man, all muscle and menace, but size was not everything. Bryn was swift, quick as a winter fox. He could outpace him, exhaust him, strike when the moment came.
He could do this.
And yet his throat tightened as he met Caldwell’s blue eyes, which had gone cold and sharp, stripped of all pretence.
Eyes set on only one thing.
Killing him.
Caldwell roared and lunged, his strength explosive.
One moment Bryn had been upright; the next, he was airborne, wrenched up and hurled over Caldwell’s head.
He hit the ground hard, the breath torn from his lungs, pain blooming white-hot across his back.
He swore and rolled just in time as Caldwell’s enormous fists smashed down where his skull had been moments before.
There was no time to think. He had to move. He had to wear the giant down.
Bryn sprang away with the speed he had been praised for all his life, limbs light despite the snow, instincts sharp as winter air.
A part of him wished Wren were there lending strength, lending fury, but another part was glad she wasn’t.
Not that she would fret. No. Wren would be howling for blood, screaming for him to finish it.
The thought cost him.
Caldwell clipped the side of his head with a brutal elbow. Bryn crashed to the ground, stars bursting behind his eyes. The cold snow bit into his skin, numbing what would surely bloom into a bruise if he survived. Which he would. He had to.
His gaze flicked to the fallen king.
And Bryn made a promise to his father.
He surged back to his feet and drove a kick into Caldwell’s knee, the one ruined long ago.
The brute dropped with a grunt, shock rippling through his bulk.
Bryn struck again, knocking him further down.
One of Caldwell’s men stepped forward, instinct screaming to intervene, but Caldwell barked a command and they froze.
Bryn twisted, fast and precise, and locked his arm around Caldwell’s neck, wrenching tight. His heart thundered as his muscles strained, forearm burning with effort. Caldwell thrashed beneath him, power waning as breath deserted his lungs.
Bryn held on.
And squeezed.
Bryn could scarcely believe it.
He was going to win.
Even though victory meant killing a man.
He never saw the dagger Caldwell had concealed in his boot, nor the way the brute’s hand had been inching towards it in those final, desperate seconds.
He did not see the blade flash free, only felt it, white-hot and vicious, as it drove into his calf.
Bryn roared in pain, stumbling back and releasing his hold.
He barely registered the agony as he moved.
Instinct took over. He dodged the slashing arcs of the knife, eyes locked on its glinting edge.
Any pretence of honour was gone now; Caldwell had abandoned the rules the moment steel entered the fight.
Bryn cursed the daggers he had left behind, too far away to reach.
But it did not matter. He would finish this properly.
He would not cheat. His father had raised him better than that.
If he was to be king, he would win by the laws of their people.
The blade nearly found his skull. Bryn ducked and shoved Caldwell’s arm aside, spotting a narrow opening. He lunged, driving his full weight into Caldwell’s centre. The impact sent them both crashing down, and the dagger flew from Caldwell’s grip, disappearing into the snow.
Bryn was on him in an instant.
His fist slammed into Caldwell’s face.
In those blue eyes, Bryn saw the rage, raw and feral. The fury of a man being outmatched. The terror of a man who knew he was losing.
Bryn struck again, this time into his stomach.
Caldwell coughed, blood spraying across Bryn’s face, warm against the cold air.
Bryn did not stop. He struck again, and again, each blow heavy with inevitability.
Even as he fought, he whispered a prayer to the gods that they might show Caldwell mercy when they took him.
Bryn had never wished death upon his own people.
But this was their way.
And in Caldwell’s eyes, beneath the anger, Bryn finally saw the truth settle in.
Caldwell knew.
He was going to lose.
Bryn lifted his fist once more, his heart tightening at the ruined, blood-smeared face beneath him. Just a little more and…
Pain exploded through him.
Sharp and piercing.
Bryn grunted as his arm fell uselessly to his side. He staggered forward, confusion knitting his brow. What…? Caldwell still lay on the ground, chuckling wetly, blood and spit bubbling from his lips.
Then another agony tore into Bryn, lower this time.
And another.
And another.
It did not stop.
He dropped to his knees, breath shattering in his chest as another blade found him. He twisted as he fell, crashing onto his back, the sky spinning above him. Only then did he see them.
Caldwell’s men stood over him.
Each of them held a dagger.
Each of those blades was slick with blood.
His blood.
Bryn’s blue eyes widened as they descended upon him, stabbing again and again and again, steel tearing into flesh with merciless rhythm. He could do nothing but watch as Caldwell slowly dragged himself to his feet grunting, battered, but very much alive.
Unbroken.
He had been pretending. Playing the part of the beaten man. Buying time. Lulling Bryn into belief, into hope, into certainty.
So his men could strike from behind.
That isn’t da way of wolves, Bryn thought dimly, the words drowning in the blood pooling in his mouth, choking him before he could speak them aloud.
Bryn’s blue eyes met those of the wolf, that sat in quiet serenity, watching. It did not move to save him. It did not growl to the men that had cheated Bryn from life. It simply observed. As if it knew something the rest did not.
Caldwell loomed over Bryn, shadow vast against the pale sky.
‘Long live da king,’ he said.
Then he lifted his axe and brought it down, once, with brutal finality.
Straight into Bryn Wynter’s heart.