But this felt less like an alliance and more like the Alphas were a spectacle in the sovereign’s show.
Enzo downed the rest of his mead and left Ronan once the drums rolled. Ronan's mother filled Enzo’s seat at his left side, the right remaining empty, as only a Luna could sit there. The beating of the drums vibrated through his feet, echoing in his chest.
Twilight darkened the sky, the hour of the wolf arriving.
A moving wave of torches appeared as Ronan understood that the sovereigns were being walked in. The sky deepened in color, the nearly full moon already high in the sky.
Most around him sat up straight for the sovereigns, but Ronan leaned back in his seat, mindlessly caressing his chalice as he watched.
The two most important shifters of the western United States sat upon wargs, which were giant wolf-like beasts with block heads and stocky bodies. The wargs bared their fangs as they walked, one shaking its head, the thick fur around its neck rippling with the momentum.
Legends hailed that shifters were created in the warg's image, long before man made steel. The beasts were not known for their beauty, only holding reverence for their savagery.
Ronan's blood boiled to see the sovereigns riding on the giant beasts. No doubt they were raised as pups, as no true warg would ever allow someone to ride them.
The king and queen got off their beasts, their crystal crowns noticeable even from where Ronan sat. Black crystal sat in the king’s crown, while the queen wore maroon. Their culture had an affinity for crystals, as there was power in the rock only accessible to offspring of the moon.
He eyed the queen who was not on good terms with Ronan. Enola had supported his mating with Jemma and never looked at him the same when he refused his former lover. Enola’s black hair blended into the night, straight like a sheet of glass. Her skin was the color of deep honey, contrasting the pale king who was a distant cousin of Marcus.
Calder Scarlet and Enola Scarlet—the mated shifters the goddess chose as the sovereigns for Scarlet Howl. They took their seat at their designated area, their close family sitting with them as well.
The tent next to them remained unfilled.
Behind the royal members was another procession of aging women dressed in dark red, their fine robes thrown about their body with their left shoulder exposed.
The Elders escorted the Silvers, who walked in two uniform lines behind them. Ronan's interest piqued, as they were dressed in curious outfits, their midriffs, legs, and shoulders exposed. Over their white fabric had to be silver mail, based on the lightness of the color.
And he could smell it in the wind.
The Elders evenly aligned the Silvers around the pyre, each going to her knees. He eyed the other females, taking in their postures. When his gaze landed on Rem, immediate thoughts of seeing her in only that silver flooded his mind.Probably what the Elders want from all the hot-blooded shifters…
The longer he stared, the more his eyes wandered over the Silver that had come to his pack, taking in the shape of her, considering her…
His eyes halted at the healing wound on her back. He clamped his fist on the metal cup, ceasing the caressing of the chalice.
The thought that her back was going to permanently scar, especially with him having no understanding of the wound or why Jackson did it in the first place, did not sit well with him. And yet she didn’t press it. She didn’t ask for vengeance or demand to be moved from them—to which Ronan moved her anyway. How could she comply with receiving such a wound?
He even asked her, back in the forest, to speak up on any hidden truths.
Something is going on with her and the Callons…And yet Deacon had behaved normally since being here. So, what made her hesitant to speak?
Perhaps I am being too lenient. Maybe I need to demand that she speak the truth.
Rem shifted, the curve in her back stressing, and he took a slow drink of his mead as blood coursed southward. He knew his kind. Once they caught interest in another, it tended to exasperate until something was done about it.
Ronan pulled on his face with his free hand, taking in a deep breath and relaxing his shoulders. If the goddess didn't want him enjoying thoughts of soft skin or breathing inallof her scent, then why was he given the desires that he was given?
He had the answer right away—the Elders were full of wolf shit. And they only continue because no one stops them.
A person walking towards the pyre stole his attention, dressed in white robes, her bone-white hair and aged, dark brown skin indicating who she was.
The Arch Elder.
A warm breeze carried fallen leaves over the grass, the white hair on the Arch Elder gently blowing as well. Her hardened face was as stern as ever, and her white robe was like a beacon among the holy women.
He would have preferred for her to become the sovereign over Enola and Calder.Sheactually fought in battles, and her holy power was renown.
The Arch Elder, Tania, spoke, and through her magic, her voice carried over the fields like whispers in the wind.
