Ríndete ante míES

Gerald Redfang, Alpha of the Blood Rivers Pack, stood with his back to the flames. His eyes were fixed on the daughter who had always been a storm trapped in human skin.

Valta leaned against the carved door frame, her arms crossed beneath her breasts, the heel of one boot casually hooked into the wood, as if she hadn't murdered her own brother two nights before. She wore black leather. Her hair fell loose and wild to her waist. At twenty-five, she was already taller than most of the warriors in the pack.

Gerald's voice was raspy.

—You will speak of Thorne now, Valta. You will tell me why my firstborn lies cold in the crypt with his throat torn out by his own sister.

Valta's pale gray eyes did not blink.

—Because I was weak, Father. And weakness cannot lead this pack through what lies ahead.

Gerald took a step forward, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles cracked.

—He was your brother.

“He was a burden,” she replied without raising her voice. “He spent more time drunk on mead than training, slept with omegas from lower packs, and boasted about it. He thought the title of alpha was a crown to be worn, not a weight to be carried. I granted him the mercy of a quick death before our enemies gave him a slower one.”

—You didn't give him anything…

Gerald grunted:

—You took my son from me, you broke your mother's heart, you broke every oath this pack has ever made…

"I took what was mine by right of force," Valta interrupted.

—The Goddess doesn't give the pack to the eldest cub just because he was the first to emerge from the womb. She gives it to whoever can carry it. Thorne couldn't. So I carried it for him.

Gerald's breath came out in a shudder.

—And Maelor? Did the Goddess also tell you to break his spine and ribs until he urinated blood in the circle of challenge?

Valta's lips curled.

—Maelor challenged me as soon as the moon rose over Thorne's grave. He shouted that a female could never be alpha, that I had dishonored the name Redfang. I raised him.

He stepped away from the door frame and stood up to his full height.

—He's still breathing, Father. He appreciates my comfort.

"Restraint?" Gerald laughed; it was a broken sound. "Janet had to throw herself on top of him... My mate, your mother, had to beg her own daughter not to kill her last living son in front of half the pack."

Valta shrugged.

"Mother has always been lenient with her sons. Someone had to be tough."

Gerald looked at her as if she were a stranger, using his daughter's face.

He tried another approach, lowering his voice to the low growl he usually used to calm frightened puppies.

—Valta… little storm… you weren't always like this. When you were little, you followed Thorne everywhere. You slept curled up against his wolf form in the nursery. You cried the first time he changed and left you behind because you were too young. Don't you remember any of that?

Something flickered on Valta's face, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower.

—I remember the cold, Father… It’s always cold. Even in the middle of summer, even huddled between my brothers in front of this very fire. I remember watching the warriors train and knowing that I would be faster, crueler, better. I remember the elders stroking my head and saying, “What a beautiful Gamma you will be someday, to stand beside your brother.” I remember deciding that I would rather die than live in anyone’s shadow.

She advanced slowly until she was an arm's length away from him. Up close, Gerald could see the thin white scar across his left eyebrow: the mark of Thorne's claw from a fighting game when they were thirteen. He'd never let the healers close it properly. He wanted the reminder.

"I didn't kill Thorne because I hated him," she said. "I killed him because I loved this pack more than I loved being his sister. There's a difference."

Gerald's eyes filled with tears, though no tears fell.

—And what about the love for your father? For your mother? Or are we just more obstacles now?

Valta studied him for a long time. Then, to his surprise, he raised his hand and placed two fingers on the pulse in his throat, an alpha gesture to test loyalty or fear. His touch was as cold as a river in winter.

“You are my father,” he said simply. “When I take the oath under the blood moon, you will remain Alpha until the power passes to me. After that…”

He let the silence finish the sentence.

Gerald closed his eyes.

—The ceremony is in six nights.

-Yeah.

—Half the pack whispers that you're a bloodthirsty killer. That the Goddess will turn her face away when you try to claim the ancestral power.

Valta's fingers moved away from his throat.

—Let them whisper. The Goddess favors those who take, not those who wait to be given.

"And what if power rejects you?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "What if the Goddess finds your heart too black?"

"Then I will carve my own power from the bones of anyone who stands in my way," he replied. "With or without the Goddess, Rivers of Blood will have the alpha it needs. Not the alpha it deserves."

She turned to leave, but stopped at the door.

—One more thing, Father.

His voice was almost gentle now.

—Tell Mother to stop crying for Maelor. He will walk again. Slowly, painfully… but he will walk. And he will remember who forgave him. That memory will keep his tongue civilized when I sit in your chair.

Gerald found he was speechless. The daughter he once carried on his shoulders was gone, replaced by that pale, ruthless creature that smelled of blood.

Valta slowly opened the door. The pack was already preparing for the upcoming ceremony.

He did not look back as he ventured into the night.

He went to the alpha's private balcony, which overlooked the entire valley, watching his future being built.

The pack members were busy with preparations for the alpha ritual.

The great ring of standing stones was being cleaned of moss and ancient blood. Young women practiced the mournful chants that would become triumphant chants the instant their claim was accepted. Warriors who had once sworn to die for Thorne now trained in new formations.

He felt the fear and fascination of the pack brush against his skin.

Down below, near the river that gave the pack its name, she saw her mother. Janet Redfang was alone, shrouded in black.

Even from that distance, Valta could see her shoulders shaking in silent sobs.

"Let her cry," Valta thought.

Either way, the pack would remember his name.

He raised his face to the wind and howled once, low and defiant. Across the valley, torches flickered as wolves paused, ears pricked. Some responded. Others did not.

Soon, every throat in Rivers of Blood will sing for her, willingly or with their fangs in her jugular.