“Wake the sleepers.” Luscia swallowed as the hairs on her arm lifted to another calling. “We leave within the hour.”

TWO

Zaethan

   A familiar blade landed inches from Zaethan’s left cheek and impaled the earth beneath him, still damp from the morning rain.

“As they say, ‘Every gain has a loss.’ Looks like the loss is yours, Ahoté!” Kumo Shá announced confidently as his massive weight pressed down on Zaethan’s chest. The white of his smile reflected the bright afternoon sun, shining boldly against the depth of his southern skin while he boasted to the few spectators currently sprawled across the surrounding terrain.

Always putting on a show, Zaethan critiqued.

Ignoring the mix of dew and sweat bathing his spine, Zaethan studied the other man. Showmanship continued to prove his cousin’s primary weakness, as much as it was his source of charisma.

“Uni. Yes, it does, my friend,” Zaethan promised under his breath, locking eyes with the proud victor. He permitted his cousin’s celebration a moment longer before slamming his forehead into Kumo’s.

His cousin roared with pain and surprise. Taking advantage of Kumo’s disorientation, Zaethan hooked his legs around the muscular torso that pinned him and rotated them both to the right. Before the maneuver was complete, he thrust the fingers of his dominant hand aside, stretching to find a hilt encased in worn leather. He freed the blade from the dirt and let it skim Kumo’s throat, just as his left knee hit the wet earth with force.

“A loss, indeed. But let us not forget an older saying, cousin,” Zaethan whispered into his second’s ear, just loud enough for the present members of his pryde to hear. “‘Boast in your victory, not before it,’” he quoted with a devious grin.

Zaethan’s head still pound from the impact, but upon assessing the pain clouding his beta’s face, he decided the drumming ache was completely worth it. He rolled and stood in one fluid motion. Flipping the blade to offer the hilt to its rightful owner, he extended a hand to the man on the ground. Kumo clasped Zaethan’s forearm with a grimace and climbed to his feet, gingerly taking back his favorite knife.

From behind, Zaethan overheard Takoda Muthwali snicker smugly. Their other comrade, Jabari Ulumb, swore as he dropped three dromas into Takoda’s hand, the clink of each silver coin emphasizing the mistake in doubting his alpha. Zaethan hid his amusement, lightly brushing off the blanket of dust and grime his outer tunic had collected. After binding back the woven locs that had been freed in the tussle, reforming the fall of rope-like braids between his shoulder blades, Zaethan strode to his remaining men, congregated near the horses.

A small segment of his personal militia—his pryde—had ridden to the outskirts of Bastiion to hunt in the openness between the provinces of Galina and Agoston. At least, that was the generic excuse he offered to any who questioned his absence. Bastiion had been his second home since late childhood, but it was irrefutably suffocating. Having inherited the title of al’Haidren, Zaethan Kasim was committed to serve the crown, but even after twenty-three years of partially living at court, his blood still ran Darakaian red. A blood that called to open spaces, like a hawk calls to its master.

His father—Nyack Kasim, Chief Warlord of Darakai, Commander of the Orynthian armies, and Darakai’s Haidren under King Korbin Thoarne—was scheduled to return to the palace that afternoon. While his father’s visits tended to inspire Zaethan’s need for a hunt, a half-day’s ride couldn’t prevent their eventual reunion. Zaethan shook out his clenched fists as the thought itched the back of his mind.

“Are you never still, Alpha Zà? Doru, just stop. Take this.” Zahra Hanovi, his third, tossed a canteen in his direction, shaking her shaved head. “After all that commotion, you still jostle about.”

She said it in jest, for both knew Zahra was his third for good reason. Her loyalty had proven to be as reliable as her ruthlessness in combat. Even so, being a few years older than he, Zahra’s maternal instinct awoke once in a while, though Zaethan rarely minded. Her spontaneous displays were even comical at times, at least when Kumo was victim to the harsher sides of her Darakaian mothering.

Zahra would be a truly terrifying mother one day, if any man was ever brave enough to suggest it.

“That is why I call him Ahoté,” his cousin hollered, pointing his fingers against his cheeks to resemble the whiskers of a bobcat.

Nepotism had nothing to do with Kumo’s position at Zaethan’s side, either. His cousin was bred for war. Even covered in mud, anyone could see the corded musculature hugging his bones. With a neck the width of a small tree and legs like horse haunches, the man looked like a fragment of the Andwele Mountains come to life. Truthfully, Zaethan held the upper hand in combat simply because Kumo moved first with his fists, second with his mouth, and lastly with his brain. The moment his cousin let the latter lead him, he’d evolve into an unbeatable opponent.

“When did you become so eloquent, Kumo?” Zahra snapped. “It’s good to see that brain is finally trying to fill your thick skull. Eh, maybe you can give us all pet names.”

Her voice always seemed to drip a preferred flavor of sarcasm when addressing his cousin. After their years of forced camaraderie, she still harbored bitterness over remaining third and never second. Despite Zahra’s vicious strategies and insatiable hunger to win, Kumo’s size always named him victor in formal challenges for his position.

“Uni, yeah, I give you plenty of names, Zahra. You just haven’t heard them all yet,” Kumo managed, mumbling a string of curses in Andwele. He tightened the saddle fastenings on his mount with fervor, exerting his frustration on the leatherwork instead of the svelte, aggressive woman to his side.

It was a delicate partnering of wills Zaethan worked hard to marry, but even with their squabbling, he needed them both. Ironically, their dissimilarity made him stronger. It was a fact each contender recognized, but refused to admit aloud.

“Quit your bickering,” Zaethan ordered, adding a pointed, “both of you,” when Kumo’s mouth dropped incredulously.

He didn’t have the energy to play the roles of both alpha and nanny today. Stepping into a stirrup, Zaethan swung his weight across the saddle, anxious to begin their trek back. He needed to meet with the crown prince before the evening was over, and he preferred to face his father in the morning, after a full night’s rest.

“What’s wrong?” Kumo waited, sensing Zaethan’s growing disquiet.

His beta could be impulsive and unpredictable, but Kumo had grown sensitive to Zaethan’s moods. Seeing the warning in his alpha’s eyes, Kumo altered his tone.

“Did one of the little nasties crawl up your behind during our tussle?” he teased mischievously. “Those bites can get ugly—not so good for charming court yancies.”