Fated To The Alpha, Stolen By His Brother

The flame was batting a thousand. The elders were watching a section of the draft that should have been ninety percent darkness go undefeated, and their faces were cycling through confusion, suspicion, awe, and right back to the nose pinch.

Every single one. Women who had been standing in that line convinced they were walking home in tears were instead walking away from the pit glowing, smiling, some of them crying, but the good kind, the kind that comes with a yes instead of a silence.

All of them looked at Nova as they stepped away. Some with nods. Some with eyes that said everything. Some with smiles that cost them nothing and gave Nova something she couldn’t name.

Around the five hundred and sixtieth draftee, they started saluting.

THUM. Fist to chest. Quick. Controlled. Unmistakable. Each woman who received her flame struck her chest once as she stepped away from the fire, aiming the gesture squarely at Nova before returning to formation.

This was absolutely, categorically, without question, making the elders’ case for them. Every salute was another piece of evidence that Nova was orchestrating the Moonfire like a puppeteer pulling strings from between two princess bodyguards. She wasn’t.

The elder pinched his nose again. At this rate, he was going to leave permanent marks.

Six hundred stepped forward. The last draftee. Ruby. Salute and a wink.

The priestess lifted her hands and the fire shifted from white to a deep, pulsing gold that painted the clearing in amber.

”The fated are rare. They are the Goddess’s confirmation that a matebond transcended death and found its way home. When the flame calls two forward, it is because their souls have already chosen. The Goddess is returning what was always theirs.”

The fire cycled through colors as she spoke. Gold to green to ruby to sapphire, slow and deliberate, each transition smooth enough to look intentional and beautiful enough to make Nova forget for a moment that this woman had been screaming about desecration forty-five minutes ago.

Maria leaned in close enough that her whisper landed directly in Nova’s ear. ”There are usually one or two fated pairs every Moonfire. Sometimes none.”

Nova gave Maria’s arm a squeeze. She could hear something in Maria’s voice underneath the information, something that sounded like hope wearing a disguise, and she squeezed because Maria deserved to know that someone had noticed.

The priestess straightened. Her voice dropped into something older, formal, stripped of performance.

”By the covenant of the First Flame and the authority vested in this ground by the Goddess herself, I call forward the fated souls bound to the decorated warriors present. Let the flame of honor speak.”

WHOOOOM.

The flame erupted emerald. Bright. Violent. Green fire climbed thirty feet and the heat pushed outward like a wall.

A single green wolf made of light peeled away from the base of the flame and ran low across the clearing. It moved with purpose, weaving between the remaining draftees, passing woman after woman without slowing, until it reached the one who went after Nova. The girl who had been whispering about what would happen if the flame went dark. The girl who had flinched at every rejection. The girl Nova had been hoping for.

The wolf pressed its muzzle against the girl’s hand and she let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a laugh and entirely too small for what was happening to her.

A second green wolf split from the flame and ran in the opposite direction. It crossed the clearing at full sprint, cutting through the crowd of males, passing pack after pack until it reached a Wavecrest warrior standing near the back. Young. Broad-shouldered. His face went from confused to stunned to something else entirely in the span of two seconds. The wolf bumped his leg, then circled back, nudging him forward like a sheepdog who had been given one job and was executing it with zero patience for hesitation.

The girl’s wolf was doing the same thing, pressing against her hip, herding her towards him.

The Wavecrest warrior followed the green wolf. His steps were slow at first, uncertain, the steps of a man whose brain was processing information his body had already accepted.

Then his own wolf surged so hard his eyes flickered gold, glowing in the dark. His nostrils flared once and his entire posture changed from walking to hunting.

He reached her in under two seconds. Then he bent down, grabbed her, and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The green wolves circled them both once, then ran back into the flame.

”ALL DRAFTEES MUST REMAIN ON THEIR OWN FEET DURING THE CEREMONY,” another elder announced from the panel.

He kept walking.

”CARRYING OF DRAFTEES IS PROHIBITED—”

He was already halfway back to the Wavecrest section.

He stood there. In his spot. Looking straight ahead. Perfectly content with the girl over his shoulder.

The elder squinted across the clearing.

”You. Yes, you.”

The warrior frowned. Looked to his left. The girl’s legs swept the space and two packmates hit the floor. Looked to his right. His packmates ducked preemptively.

”The one with the woman on his shoulder. Put her down, son. It is policy that all draftees remain on the ground.”

The warrior did another half circle to face the elder speaking. The rotation took the girl with him.

”Me?”

”YES.”

He blinked. Looked at his shoulder. Found the problem.

”Ah.”

He lowered her. Set her feet on the ground. Let go. Looked at her standing there. He frowned. Three entire seconds of the girl standing independently before his arm came up, hooked around her, and pulled her back against his chest.

”Son,” the elder said.

”She’s on her feet, Elder,” the warrior said, lowering her down as he said it because he had, in fact, pulled her off the ground again.

The elder looked at the girl pressed against the warrior’s chest. Looked at the warrior. Decided this was not the hill he was dying on tonight.

The girl met Nova’s eyes across the fire. Her face was wet and her smile was so big it looked like it hurt and Nova could see, even from this distance, that the woman who had been terrified of darkness had just been handed more light than she knew what to do with.

Nova clapped. She couldn’t help it. The princesses holding her arms hostage both lost the battle. The clap was loud and enthusiastic and completely undignified for a girl who had spent the entire evening perfecting a blank face, and she did not care.

Maria broke immediately. Her clapping was louder, more aggressive.

Then every draftee in the clearing joined in and the sound swelled into something that felt less like applause and more like a room full of women who had just collectively decided that joy was allowed tonight. That is, every draftee except for one. Celeste stared into the flame like it had showed up skinnier and married.

The men stood in the applause like cattle in a thunderstorm. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Just endure it and hope it stopped.