Chapter 4
The training ground of Dún Fianna was a storm of controlled chaos. Cian’s warrior’s blood roared in his veins like a wildfire at the chance to burn off some of the restless energy keeping him on edge.
Finding your Grá Croí was supposed to be the goal in life for both the wolf shifters and the Wolf Walkers. As a shifter, his time was running out. But as much as he craved the bond fate was offering, the need to do as his Grá Croí desired was stronger.
If I must die, then die I will.
The only problem was that he didn’t want his Grá Croí to die, too. If Reaper’s human blood was stronger than his other bloodline, he would, in a few years, become riddled with human diseases and also fade into death.
I do not wish him to die.
“Are ye coming to spar?”
Diarmuid’s yell made him jump. “I am here, am I not?” He tugged the sleeves of his léine down to cover the marks he didn’t want them to see and secured his leather bracers over the ends to keep them in place.
A hound with the beginnings of a Grá Croí mark should not fight until the bond was complete, unless his mate was in danger.
The forging of the bonding marks sapped the strength of the warrior.
Other than the devastation and pain that Reaper was not open to the bond, he didn’t feel anything.
Maybe someone will knock us out until this is over.
We will not suffer if we are unconscious.
It was unlike his wolf to be so morose.
Shut up, Failinis.
Our brotherhood has our rightful Rí back in the fold. We should be happy.
Our Grá Croí does not want us.
The air was thick with the metallic bite of steel on steel. “I’m thinking Cian do be afraid of us today,” Darragh yelled over the screech of blades.
“Your mother is a toothless Cailleach, and your da do be the toad she kissed under the oaks.” He yelled the insult and waited a couple of seconds for Darragh to think that was all that was coming his way, then drew both his swords from the dual scabbards across his back, and charged into the fray.
Grunts of effort, the occasional bark of laughter, and the rhythmic thud of boots slamming into the packed earth created a symphony of violence, each note as familiar as the beat of his own heart.
Dust kicked up with every movement, clung to sweat-slicked skin, and mingled with the scent of the crushed rosemary and thyme under their feet.
He slammed into Darragh and engaged with the precision that came from centuries of muscle memory; his twin swords, Claiomh Solais and Claiomh Dorchadas, cut through the air like they were extensions of his own limbs.
Besides fighting in wolf form, his Blade of Light and Blade of Shadow were the favorites of all his weapons.
To him, they were more than swords to fight with.
They were parts of his soul, forged in the same fires that had tempered his will, his fury, and his need.
Today, that need was a living thing. It was the restless and ravenous beast that gnawed at his soul from the inside out, demanding release, demanding his Grá Croí.
Darragh, ever the damned peacock, spun his massive two-handed sword with a flourish.
The blade whistled as it arced overhead, catching the morning sun and throwing a blinding flash of light across the training grounds before it came crashing down in a strike that could’ve cleaved a man from skull to sternum.
The force of it sent a shudder through the earth, the impact vibrated up Cian’s legs, settling into his bones like an old, familiar ache.
This we know, Failinis.
Give me the strength to put the warrior on his arse.
Cian parried on instinct, the collision of steel against steel sending a jolt up his arms that made his fingers tingle, as his wolf brother answered his call and pushed power down their bond and into his limbs.
He twisted, driving his elbow into Diarmuid’s ribs with just enough force to knock the wind out of him.
The warrior stumbled back with a wheezing laugh, clutching his side like it was the funniest damn thing he’d ever experienced.
“Still holding back, wolf boy of the Stag clan,” Darragh gasped, his grin wide enough to split his face. “Afraid you’ll hurt me? Or is it that you’re just getting soft in your old age?”
Cian didn’t bother with a response. Words were useless here.
Instead, he rolled his shoulders, the leather straps crisscrossing his chest groaning under the movement.
His focus should have been absolute. The drills were sacred, a dance as old as the Fianna themselves, a ritual passed down through generations of warriors who had bled and died on this very ground.
But today? Today, his mind was a traitor, his body a betrayer, and the mating mark on his fecking arm was a brand of fire, like storm clouds trapped beneath his skin that pulsed in time with his heartbeat, in a relentless, maddening reminder of the bond he couldn’t complete.
Every time his swords clashed, every time he twisted or lunged, the skin pulled taut, the ink-like tendrils burned like they were a living, breathing beast determined to consume him.
The Fates are angry.
The Fates are judging us because our Grá Croí thinks us unworthy.
His frustration fed from his longing and his fury. It throbbed with every breath, a mocking echo of what he and Failinis couldn’t have.
Reaper.
The human’s name was a growl in his mind, a distraction he couldn’t afford.
Not here. Not now. Not when the High King himself stood at the edge of the training grounds, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression unreadable.
Fionn didn’t need to say a word for his disapproval of him joining the warriors on the training field, to press down on Cian like a physical weight, heavy enough to almost bow his shoulders.
The man’s presence alone was a storm front that promised lightning and destruction if you weren’t careful.
When you pissed him off, rocks and shit got thrown.
If he tosses a rock at our head, he will have to deal with our father’s wrath.
While he agreed with Failinis that a battle between his father and Fionn would be an epic sight to see, there had been peace between those two men for generations. He, his wolf, and his Grá Croí should not be the ones to break it.
Only because Fionn was not in Tír na nóg to piss off father.
Oisín, golden hair tied back in a warrior’s knot, his blades gleaming like they’d been forged in the heart of the sun, stepped into the ring next.
His gaze flicked over Cian, then one eyebrow arched in that infuriating way of his.
“You’re distracted,” he stated, the bleeding obvious. “What is bothering you?”
Fionn has not told his son of the bond that Reaper was refusing.
Cian bared his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tightening until he was surprised his molars didn’t crack and break. “I’m fine.”
Oisín’s lips quirked in a half-smile that made Cian want to put his fist through the man’s perfect face.
“You’re lying.” He didn’t wait for a response.
Instead, he struck in a rapid succession of slashes aimed at Cian’s ribs, fast as a viper’s strike, and precise as a healer’s blade.
Each cut was calculated, designed to test, to provoke, and to punish.
Nobody calls us a liar.
With Failinis’s snarl echoing in his head, Cian blocked and countered with a sweep of Claiomh Dorchadas that forced Oisín to leap back.
But not fast enough, and the tip of the blade grazed his thigh, drawing a thin line of red that welled up like a ruby thread, bright against the golden hue of his skin.
The warriors around them paused mid-motion, their breaths catching in their throats. A collective inhale rippled through the crowd like a gust of wind through tall grass.
Oisín hissed, more in surprise than pain, pressing a hand to the wound.
He looked down at the blood on his fingers, then back at Cian, and laughed, shaking his head like this was the most amusing thing that had happened in at least a century or two.
“By the gods, you are in a mood. Did someone piss in your porridge this morning, or is this just your charming way of saying you wish to challenge me for my position as heir to the Fianna?”
Fuck no, I don’t want to be anyone’s heir.
Cian exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to stay still and not drive forward to capitalize on the drawing of first blood.
The last thing he needed was Oisín’s mouth running wild with speculation, spreading rumors like wildfire through the ranks.
“My apologies,” he ground out, the words tasting like shit on his tongue.
Brother warrior, if you are tasting shit. Failinis rumbled, don’t do it when I am close enough to the surface to taste it.
“Apologies?” Caílte’s massive war hammer slung over one shoulder as if it were made of feathers, pushed through the gathered warriors.
He clapped Cian on the back hard enough to make his teeth rattle.
“Since when do you apologize for drawing blood, Hound?” His dark eyes scanned him, then locked onto the swirling blue creeping up Cian’s forearm, exposed when his sleeve slipped from where his leather bracer had secured it. “Ah. That explains it.”
The mark was a living thing, writhing under his skin like a serpent, and Cian neither wanted nor needed their pity. Didn’t they understand how he needed to move, to fight…to forget?
Diarmuid, younger than most of them but no less deadly, tossed his bow aside and drew his dagger.
The blade caught the light as he twirled it between his fingers, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
“You should sit this one out, brother. No shame in it.” It was unusually sage advice from the often-flighty warrior.
“Even the mightiest oak has learned to bend in a storm because it knows standing strong against a warrior stronger than yourself will break you in the end.”