The morning sun rose over the Lion Tribe village, painting the sky in strokes of rose gold and amber, but the beauty of the dawn felt distant to me like something observed through thick glass. Today was the day of the mate selection, and the entire village had transformed overnight. Branches of flowering shrubs had been placed around the central clearing, their white and yellow blossoms fluttering in the gentle breeze, releasing a sweet, heavy scent into the air. The central square had been cleared and decorated with circles of white stones, each one representing a potential union, a future woven from choice and tradition. Dried grasses had been woven into mats that lined the ground where the elders would sit, and someone had arranged piles of smooth river stones painted with ochre and charcoal symbols, the only color in an otherwise earthy palette.
It had been four days since we returned from our sea visit and Lyle coming of age celebration, and in that short time, the village had prepared with frenetic energy. Now, standing at the edge of the square with my mates gathered around me like a protective wall, I watched the proceedings with a knot of tension in my stomach that I could not quite name.
Lyle looked like a nervous wreck.
He stood at the center of the stone circle, his newly adult frame rigid with tension, his hands clasped behind his back in an attempt at composure that fooled no one. His dark hair had been pulled back with formal precision, but I could see the way his jaw worked, the slight tremor in his lower lip that he tried to hide behind a stoic expression. He looked, for all his eighteen years, like a boy playing at being a man, and my heart ached for him.
The custom unfolded with ancient ritual. The females who had come of age and some who had been of age for years stood in a semicircle facing him, each waiting for their moment to approach, the younger one’s eyes bright with hope and calculation, their best finery displayed like plumage. And then there were the older women, those who had probably watched Lyle grow from gangly boy to broad shouldered man, who now looked at him with expressions that made me shift uncomfortably.
It was weird to me, this mingling of ages, the way maturity and tradition blurred lines that my old world would have found rigid. But this was their custom, so who was I to say otherwise? I was also mated to someone barely of age too, after all. The hypocrisy would have been laughable if I had any laughter left in me.
The rejections came one by one. A lioness with golden hair and confident stride approached, her smile dazzling, her offer clear in her posture. Lyle bowed his head with formal regret, speaking words too soft for me to hear, and she retreated with her pride intact, but her hopes dashed. Another followed, a wolf shifter, and then another, each one turned away with increasing gentleness until I began to wonder if Lyle would find anyone who met whatever standard he held in his heart.
Until another girl came forward.
She was a pretty little thing, delicate where the others had been bold, her movements tentative and birdlike. She was a peacock beast woman, and even in my anxious state, I found myself captivated by her appearance. Her hair cascaded in iridescent waves down her back, shifting between emerald and sapphire and violet with every movement, like oil on water or the sheen of a soap bubble caught in sunlight. Her eyes were large and luminous, the color of warm honey, framed by lashes that seemed too long to be real. She wore robes of flowing silk in shades that complemented her natural coloring, turquoise and jade and gold that made her look like a living jewel against the earthy tones of the village square.
The crowd hushed as she approached the circle, her small feet bare against the packed earth, her fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her sleeves. She stopped before Lyle, close enough that he had to look down to meet her gaze, and I saw something shift in his expression, the tension draining away, replaced by something tender and surprised.
"I, Fiarah," she said, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying clearly in the sudden silence, "would like to accept you as a mate, Lyle. Would you accept?"
The question hung in the air, fragile as a spider’s thread. I held my breath without realizing it, my hand finding Leon’s and gripping tight.
Lyle smiled brightly.
It transformed him completely, that smile, stripping away the nervous youth and revealing the man he had become. He stepped forward without hesitation and grabbed her hand, his larger fingers engulfing her delicate ones with a gentleness that spoke volumes.
"I am Lyle," he announced, his voice ringing out across the square with newfound confidence, "son of the queen of the Lion Tribe, son of the king Raon and the queen’s consort Bane. I accept you, Fiarah, as my mate."
The cheers were loud.
They erupted from the crowd like a physical force, voices raised in celebration, in joy, in the profound relief that came from witnessing a successful union. Drums began to beat, a rhythmic thunder that matched my pounding heart, and around me, people surged forward to congratulate the new couple. Fiarah’s peacock colors seemed to brighten in her happiness, a flush rising to her cheeks that made her look even more lovely, and Lyle, my brother in law, this boy I had watched become a man, looked at her like she was the only person in the world.
Everyone was happy for the new mate bond. The energy was infectious, spreading through the crowd like wildfire, laughter and embraces and the promise of future celebrations to come.
Lisa looked super happy for her youngest child.
I found her in the crowd, her face illuminated by joy and tears, her hands pressed to her mouth as if holding back a sob. Ravin had his arm around her shoulders, supporting her, and even Leon’s usually stoic expression had softened with emotion. This was what they had waited for, what they had hoped for, Lyle finding his place, his partner, his future.
But it was also bittersweet.
The thought came unbidden, threading through my happiness like a dark vein in marble. I knew Lisa was thinking of Marcus in this moment, of her other son who should have been standing here beside his brother, should have been waiting for his own chance at love and family. He would already be at the age to find a mate and maybe would have already if he had lived. Would have been twenty, perhaps twenty one, with his own adult markings and his own hopeful heart.
His death was still hard on all of us.
I could feel it in the way Lisa’s smile trembled at the edges, the way she blinked rapidly to clear her vision. Marcus’s ghost haunted this moment of joy, a silent presence that made the celebration sharper, more precious, and infinitely more painful. The wind seemed to carry his memory, the sound of his laugh that we would never hear again, the warmth of his presence that had been snuffed out too soon.
Especially for me.
The guilt was a familiar weight; one I carried daily like a stone in my chest. Marcus had died saving my life, my cubs’ lives, and Lyle’s life when Rina’s uncle had his wolves attack. He had thrown himself between us and death without hesitation, without thought for his own safety, and the last thing I had seen of him was his smile, reassuring even in the face of his own end, and the flash of teeth as the wolves took him down.
I had watched him die; had felt the weight of his sacrifice settle onto my shoulders like a physical burden I would carry forever.
And now, watching Lyle embrace his future while Marcus’s remained forever a boy, I felt the grief rise up fresh and raw, as if it had happened yesterday instead of nearly a year ago.
Fiarah was looking up at Lyle with adoration plain on her face, and he was tucking a strand of that iridescent hair behind her ear with a tenderness that made my heart clench. They would have children someday, perhaps many, and those children would grow up knowing stories of the uncle they had never met, the hero who had given everything so that they could exist.
The drums beat on, and the dancing began, and I let Leon lead me into the celebration because that was what Marcus would have wanted. To stop living because he had stopped breathing would have been the greater tragedy, the true desecration of his sacrifice.
But as the firelight flickered and the night deepened around us, I offered a silent prayer to whatever gods might listen, to keep this new couple safe, to let them have the years that Marcus had been denied, to give Lisa some measure of peace in knowing that her remaining sons would know the fullness of life.
And to Marcus, wherever he was, I whispered words he would never hear. I remember. I honor you. I live because you did not, and I will not waste a single breath of this gift.
The celebration continued, joyous and loud and alive, and I watched my mates and watched my children play in the firelight, enjoying their brother and my cub’s uncle bonding succession.
I looked across the square to where Lisa stood with her new daughter in law, Fiarah’s small hand clasped in hers as she spoke with animated gestures that seemed to ease some of the lingering tension in the younger woman’s shoulders. Even from here, I could see the brightness of Lisa’s smile, the genuine warmth she extended to the girl who would become family. I sighed and walked towards her.
Lisa saw me approaching and extracted herself from Fiarah with gentle words and a pat on the hand that spoke of immediate affection. The peacock girl looked somewhat overwhelmed by the attention, her iridescent hair seeming to dim slightly in her nervousness, but there was happiness in her posture too, a tentative settling into her new reality.
"Krys." Lisa’s voice was warm, if somewhat thick with unshed tears. "Walk with me?"
We moved away from the square, toward the edge of the village. The sounds of celebration faded behind us, becoming a distant pulse rather than an immediate presence. Lisa walked with her arms wrapped around herself, though the night was mild, as if holding something in or keeping something out.
"I wanted to thank you," she said finally, her voice soft against the whisper of wind through the grass.
"For what?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.
"For being here. For caring about my sons as if they were your own blood." She stopped, turning to face me, and in the starlight I could see the tracks of tears on her cheeks, though her voice remained steady. "I know you carry guilt about Marcus. I see it in your eyes whenever his name is spoken or when you look at Lyle, because I do that to. But I need you to know, Krys, truly know, that I do not blame you. That I have never blamed you."
The words hit me like a physical blow, and I found myself unable to respond, my throat closing around the emotions I had kept so carefully contained.
"He made a choice," Lisa continued, stepping closer to take my hands in hers. Her fingers were warm and calloused, a mother’s hands, a warrior’s hands. "Marcus was always going to be the one to step between danger and those he loved. It was who he was. If it had not been that day, with that threat, it would have been another. He died as he lived, protecting his family. And you, Krys, you are family. You have been since the day Ravin brought you to us."
"I should have been able to save him," I managed, the words torn from somewhere deep and painful. "I should have done something, anything..."
"You did," Lisa said firmly, her grip tightening. "You lived. You kept my grandchildren safe. That is what Marcus wanted. That is what he gave his life for. Do not diminish his sacrifice by wishing it away."
We stood there in the darkness, two women bound by love and loss, and I felt something shift inside me, some knot that had been pulled too tight for too long finally beginning to loosen. The guilt would not disappear, I knew that. It was part of me now, woven into the fabric of who I had become. But perhaps it did not have to be the dominant thread. Perhaps there was room for gratitude as well, for the memory of a young man who had loved fiercely and given everything.
"Fiarah seems lovely," I said finally, the change of subject small but necessary.
Lisa’s smile returned, watery but genuine. "She is. Timid, but there is strength in her. I see it. She will need it, mating into this family." She laughed, a sound that held real humor despite everything. "We are not the easiest tribe to belong to."
"Neither am I the easiest mate to have," I pointed out. "My circle grows larger by the season."
"And we love you for it," Lisa said simply. "Now come. We have a celebration to return to, and I believe my new daughter is trying to work up the courage to speak with you. She has heard stories, I think, and finds you somewhat intimidating."
I blinked, surprised. "Intimidating? Me?"
"You are the next queen in line, and mated to many strong mates, and that’s including two of my sons," Lisa reminded me, her eyes sparkling now with something like her usual mischief. "Mate to multiple powerful men, mother to the next generation of warriors, survivor of battles that would have broken lesser women. You are, by any measure, a figure of some renown."
"I am just Krys," I protested, but I was smiling now, the expression feeling strange but welcome on my face.
"And that," Lisa said, tucking her arm through mine as we began walking back toward the firelight, "is precisely what makes you so formidable."
We returned to the square to find that the formal portion of the evening had given way to something more raucous and free. Someone had produced barrels of the wine I had showed them to make, and now the tribe had perfected it themselves, the fermented fruit drink flowing freely among the celebrants. Lyle and Fiarah sat together on a raised platform of packed earth near the elders, surrounded by well-wishers, and I saw with satisfaction that the peacock girl had lost some of her initial nervousness, her laughter ringing out bright and genuine as Lyle whispered something in her ear.
My children had been gathered by their various fathers, Atlas and Jasper looking somewhat disgruntled at having their play interrupted, while Ryder and Chase had slumped against Caelion’s sides, their substantial weight leaning heavily into his broad frame as sleep claimed them. At a year old, they already weighed over a hundred pounds each, their lion heritage making them dense with muscle and bone, far too large to be carried like infants but still young enough to seek the comfort of a father’s presence when exhaustion took hold. Caelion sat braced against a sturdy oak, his arms draped across their shoulders to keep them from sliding into the dirt, his own head tipped back in rest while the firelight played across their peaceful faces. Levara, of course, was still awake and demanding attention from anyone who would meet her imperious gaze, her fur tangled with grass and her cheeks smeared with what appeared to be honey from the comb someone had brought as a gift.
Soryn materialized at my side as I approached, his movements so silent that even now, knowing what he was, I started slightly. He did not apologize, merely offered me a cup of the wine and stood close enough that the warmth of his body radiated against my side.
"You spoke with Lisa," he observed.
"She is stronger than I realized," I said, accepting the cup and taking a long drink. The wine was tart and heady, the tribe’s own recipe improved from my early instructions, burning pleasantly down my throat. "Stronger than I am, perhaps."
"Different strengths," Soryn corrected gently.
I looked at him, at the elegant planes of his face illuminated by the dancing firelight, at the ancient patience in his eyes that had seen so much more loss than I could imagine and felt a rush of affection so intense it stole my breath.
"I love you," I said, the words coming out somewhat surprised, as if I had not planned to speak them but could not contain them.
Soryn’s expression softened, the careful neutrality he usually maintained dropping away completely. "I know," he said, his voice carrying the weight of waiting finally rewarded. "And I you. For longer than you can imagine, I have loved you."
We stood together in the heart of the celebration, surrounded by joy and memory, by the living and the dead, by the past we carried and the future we were only beginning to build.
Tomorrow there would be responsibilities, duties, the endless work of building and protecting a tribe. There would be grief still, and guilt, and the hard work of learning to live with both. But tonight, there was this. Love acknowledged. Family celebrated. Life, precious and fragile and fleeting, embraced in all its complicated beauty.
I raised my cup to the stars, to Marcus, to all those who had given everything so that we could stand here now. Then I drank, and I let the warmth of my mates surround me, and I loved, because that was the only answer to sacrifice that mattered. That was the only way to honor the dead.
By living.