Chapter 23 Harkan
Harkan
The moon rose blood-red over the ceremonial grounds.
I'd seen a hundred Mating Moons in my lifetime, but none like this.
The ceremony was ancient—older than the packs, older than the Divide itself.
Under the light of the full moon, mated pairs would stand before the altar and speak their vows, their bond witnessed by pack and gods alike.
There would be feasting afterward, dancing, the joyful howls of wolves celebrating new unions.
Pups would weave between legs, drunk on honeyed milk and the infectious happiness of their elders.
Tonight should have been our night. Sable's and mine.
I should have been standing at that altar, watching her walk toward me in whatever impractical dress Sera would probably try to force her into.
I should have been speaking vows that bound us not just in flesh and magic, but in the eyes of every pack in the Divide.
I should have been promising her forever and meaning it.
Instead, I was walking toward a duel that might leave her a widow before she was ever truly a wife.
We will have our ceremony, the wolf growled. After we paint the ground with his blood.
The air itself felt charged, heavy with magic and the weight of what was about to happen. Torches lined the path to the altar, their flames bending toward the ancient stone like supplicants before a god.
And between the torches, the packs had gathered.
Hundreds of wolves. Some I recognized—Sera's green and gold, Theron's battle-scarred veterans, Mira's young fighters with their hands on their weapons.
Others wore crimson and gray, my father's colors, their expressions ranging from eager anticipation to carefully neutral masks.
Through the sea of shifters, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face—Rafe—watching from the edges, his burn-scarred hands steady, his expression calculating.
They'd all come to watch a duel.
They were about to witness a war.
Sable walked beside me, her hand in mine, her chin lifted with a defiance that made my chest ache.
The hours between Varro's arrival and moonrise had been spent preparing.
Thea had healed what she could of the damage from the forced memory—the nosebleed, the tremors, the magical exhaustion.
Cara had produced armor from somewhere, lightweight leather spelled for protection, fitted to Sable's frame and concealed beneath a dark cloak.
At her hip hung a belt of vials—elixirs, Thea had explained, for strength, for speed, for staying conscious when her body wanted to quit.
Tucked into her boots, her sleeves, the small of her back: spell bombs, flash powders, a silver knife that hummed with enchantment.
My mate was walking into war, and she was dressed for it.
The shadows behind her eyes remained—nothing could erase what Varro's gift had forced her to relive. But the tremor in her fingers was gone, replaced by steady determination. And the rage... the rage had crystallized into something cold and sharp.
She's magnificent, the wolf rumbled. Our mate. Our queen. A warrior.
She was. And I would die before I let Varro touch her again.
"Harkan." Sable's voice was low, meant only for me. "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"Don't hold back." Her hazel eyes met mine, fierce and certain. "Whatever happens out there—don't hold back. Not for honor. Not for rules. Varro won't."
"I know."
"He'll cheat. He'll use magic. He'll do whatever it takes to win." Her grip tightened on my hand. "So you do whatever it takes to survive. Promise me."
I stopped walking, turning to face her fully. Around us, the packs watched and whispered, but I didn't care. Let them see. Let them all see.
"I promise," I said quietly. "But I need you to promise me something, too."
"What?"
"Stay near the altar. Whatever happens—if things go wrong—get to the altar. Your magic is stronger there. The wards will protect you."
Something flickered in her expression. Fear, maybe. Or the recognition that I was preparing for the possibility that I might not win.
"Not alone," she whispered.
"Never again."
I kissed her then—not soft, not gentle, but fierce and claiming. A promise sealed in breath and blood. When I pulled back, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"Now go stand with Sera," I said. "And if I fall—"
"You won't."
"If I fall," I repeated, "run. Don't look back. Don't try to save me. Just run."
"Harkan—"
"Promise me, Sable."
She stared at me for a long moment. Then she shook her head, a bitter smile twisting her lips.
"No."
Before I could argue, she pulled away and walked toward where Sera stood at the edge of the ceremonial circle. Trouble bounded after her, his foxfire already blazing brighter as they approached the altar's influence.
Stubborn, the wolf observed.
She learned it from us.
Varro was already waiting in the center of the circle.
He'd changed since arriving—gone was the traveling coat, replaced by fitted black leather that gleamed with spelled wards. Twin blades hung at his hips, their edges glinting with something that wasn't just steel. Enchanted weapons. Of course.
He smiled when he saw me approaching.
"I was beginning to think you'd run," he called, his voice carrying across the silent gathering. "Wouldn't that have been disappointing?"
I stepped into the circle, rolling my shoulders, feeling the wolf surge beneath my skin. Not yet. Control. I had to maintain control.
"I don't run from vermin," I said.
Varro's smile flickered. Good. Let him be angry. Angry men made mistakes.
"Such confidence." He drew his blades, and I saw the runes etched into the steel—pain wards, paralysis sigils, things designed to cripple rather than kill. He wanted me alive. Wanted me to suffer. "Let's see how long it lasts."
The moon climbed higher, its crimson light spilling across the ceremonial grounds like blood on snow.
"Moonrise," Aldric called, stepping to the edge of the circle, his voice carrying the formal weight of witness. The crowd fell silent. "A challenge has been issued and accepted. The old ways demand honor."
He turned, addressing the gathered packs.
"The rules are thus: combat until death or yield.
No outside interference—any who break the circle forfeit their life.
No magic from those who watch. No weapons thrown from the crowd.
" His gaze swept from Varro's wolves to ours, cold and warning.
"The gods witness. The packs witness. Let none say this victory was not earned. "
A murmur rippled through the crowd. This was sacred. Ancient. A rite that predated the High Alpha's reign, that even my father couldn't corrupt without losing the respect of every pack in the Divide.
Aldric raised his hand. "Let the challenge begin."
Varro moved first.
He was fast—faster than a man should be, his body enhanced by whatever dark magic he'd woven into his bones. His blades sang through the air in a pattern designed to overwhelm, to drive me back, to make me react instead of think.
I let the wolf rise.
Not fully—I couldn't risk that, couldn't risk losing myself the way I had after Helene died.
But enough. Claws erupted from my fingertips, fangs lengthened in my mouth.
My senses sharpened until I could smell Varro's excitement, taste his anticipation on the air.
My muscles coiled with power that no ordinary wolf could match.
I caught his first blade on my forearm, the enchanted steel biting deep—and felt nothing. The pain wards slid off my skin like water, unable to find purchase against the dire wolf's blood singing in my veins.
Varro's eyes widened, shock stealing through him enough to give him pause. "What—"
Then I slammed my fist into his face.
He staggered back, blood spraying from his nose, and I pressed the advantage. Claws raking across his chest, opening his pretty leather armor like paper. A kick to his knee that made something crack. Another blow that sent him sprawling.
Finish him, the wolf snarled. RIP OUT HIS THROAT.
I wanted to. Gods, I wanted to. But I needed him to yield first. Needed every pack here to witness his defeat, his surrender, his acknowledgment that Sable was mine and would never belong to him again.
"Yield," I growled, standing over him, my claws dripping with his blood.
Varro looked up at me through a mask of crimson. And smiled.
"Did you really think," he wheezed, "that I came here alone?"
The hooded figure moved.
I'd forgotten about it—lost in the blood-haze of combat, focused entirely on Varro. A mistake. A fatal fucking mistake.
The Devourer didn't run. Didn't walk. It simply... arrived. One moment, it was at the edge of the circle, half-hidden among Varro's wolves. The next, it was in the center of the grounds, its cloak billowing in a wind that touched nothing else.
It turned toward the nearest living thing—one of Varro's own wolves, a man who'd been standing too close, too curious.
He died screaming.
The Devourer didn't care whose side he was on.
It fed because feeding was what it did. I watched the wolf's magic tear itself out of his body in ribbons of light that the creature inhaled like smoke.
He collapsed, his eyes empty, his skin gone gray and papery.
Dead. Drained. Hollowed out like a husk.
Varro didn't even flinch. He'd known. He'd known what this thing would do, and he'd brought it anyway.
Then chaos erupted.
Wolves scattered, some running, some charging toward the monster, some frozen in terror.
Theron shifted mid-stride, his massive gray wolf form launching itself at the Devourer—and being swatted aside like a toy, crashing into a torch post with a sickening crunch.
The Devourer's hood fell back.
I'd expected a monster. Expected something inhuman, twisted, obviously wrong.
I wasn't prepared for a face.