The Nightmare, the rite and the deadly fight

JOYCE

Joyce blinked a few times, but the scene in front of her of a forest of twisted trees under an indigo moonlit sky was impossible, so she closed her eyes and tried to wake up. She opened her eyes again, but now her view was blocked by the face of a woman with thin, angular features and her head tilted sideways, staring at her from just a few inches away. She had been at the Patron's ball in Henderson House at the University. And she had been drinking – this must be an alcohol-infused dream.

Joyce gasped and tried to push herself away from the strange woman, her hands clawing through the dirt; she wasn't at the university anymore. And she was not at home in bed, either. This was no dream.

"Wh - where am I?"

The woman extended her hand, the long, bell-like sleeves of her thick robe swinging like a bird's wing as she opened her hand to the forest around them. Joyce turned and gasped, scrambling to her feet.

She was in an almost perfectly round clearing surrounded by tree branches twisted and coiled together. The trees were silhouetted in the moonlight, so bright everything looked silver and cast shadows on the dirt and grass. Shadows of a hundred people or more stood shoulder-to-shoulder between the trees.

"The sacrifice is frightened," a shaky voice whispered behind her and was immediately shushed by others. "What? It is only the truth!"

"Lane, shut your mouth, or we will put you back into the nursery herd, and you will have to wait another year for your coming out," an angry male responded.

Joyce whirled to see where the voice came from, but the trees were thicker behind her, so she found only the silent figures of strangers staring at her.

"What is this? Where am I? How did I get here? What's going on?"

"Your questions are normal, of course. But quite pointless. The ritual is about to begin. You would do better to make peace with your God if you have one," the woman in front of her said.

"Tell me where I am and who these people are?" her voice shook, and so did her body.

The woman sighed and fluffed her thick robe.

"If you wish to spend your final moments in the search for truth, very well, but questions will only bring more questions. You are in Wildwood. You were brought here as a sacrifice (one who fights for the king's pleasure). It is a rare honour, though I know you were not raised in our world to appreciate it. You will likely not survive the night, but your death is not in vain. It will assure the survival of Anima. You should take great pride in it."

Joyce's mouth dropped open. "A sacrifice? What king? Who the hell are you, people?"

The woman sighed and made a slight clucking noise. "You see, I did tell you questions would only bring more questions. Hear me, then prepare yourself: when the drums begin to beat, the others will enter, and the fighting will begin. Show yourself worthy of the choice. Die with honour."

"Die?! I'm not fighting anyone."

"You do not have a choice," the woman ruffled her robe again. "If you do not fight, you will be slain. It is not an honourable death."

"Stop talking about me dying! I am not dying. This is a dream, or a hallucination, or something!"

"No," the woman said firmly and stepped close. So close, Joyce put her hands up to stop her in case this was the beginning of the fighting. Her finger brushed the woman's robe, which was not fur but feathers. Soft, tiny feathers. But Joyce didn't have time to consider what that meant before the woman continued, her eyes fixed on Joyce's with a fierce light. "This is not a dream. You are no longer in your world, and your chances of ever returning to it dim with every moment you refuse to fight. You must accept that your life has been altered and meet the challenge before you, or you will die, Joyce."

"How do you know my name?"

"You were chosen for this. Selected by –" A deep, rhythmic boom rang between the trees, and the crowd shifted, whispering. The woman cut off and turned, staring toward the moonlight. "He comes," she said breathlessly. "And the other sacrifices also. Give your life to please him, and you will be honoured by the tribes." Then she bowed to Joyce, muttered a few words under her breath, and disappeared to join the circle under the trees with a snap of her robe.

Gaping, Joyce turned in the direction of the drums. Between the two largest trees directly under the full moon, more than a dozen people walked slowly, their steps in time with the drum beat. There didn't seem to be a line or order in how the people were gathered. However, they moved in clusters, all walking before a tall figure deep in the dark under the distant trees. A drummer at his elbow kept the time, and several behind him in a line, their instruments echoing in the chill night air.

Joyce covered her mouth with her hands as the first people at the front emerged from the shadows, and she could finally see them in the silver light.

They were all women.

They were all painted, their bodies dotted and lined in swipes of some paint that glowed white in the moonlight, making patterns on them resembling spots, stripes, feathers, and fur.

But, other than the paint, they were all completely naked.

Joyce looked in every direction, searching wildly for a way out, an escape from this nightmare; who were these people? And what were they going to do? But everywhere she turned, she met eyes fixed on her, sometimes teeth bared, and a wall of bodies that did not move to give her ground.

Then the drums stopped.

Joyce turned on her heel as the man, who was this King the woman had spoken of, finally stepped out of the darkness and into the moonlit clearing.

Head and shoulders taller than anyone near him and with a chest so broad he seemed to threaten the trees, he stepped into the circle bringing with him an air of violence only barely leashed, a sense of sheer feral power. His hair fell into his eyes, and his vest's thick fur collar that looked like a massive lion's mane framed his angular face and light eyes. Under the high-collared vest that fell to sweep around his knees, he wore leather pants and no shirt. His biceps, chest, and abdomen were oiled and shining in the moonlight. He was perhaps the most carnal man Joyce had ever laid her eyes on, and he scanned the clearing as if it and everyone within it belonged to him.

There was a rustle in the trees, and Joyce realised everyone watching had bowed to him, including the naked women who had spaced themselves around the circle, each of them facing him with their heads bowed. Everyone, that is, except Joyce. She swallowed hard as they all straightened, the watchers in the trees leaning in, breathless and waiting for him to speak.

But Joyce froze because as he raised his great head and scanned the clearing, his eyes locked on her, and the light of recognition burned in them for a split second. There was a crystal moment during which their gaze held, and Joyce would have sworn he called her name, yet his lips didn't move.

She blinked and sucked in a breath.

But his face remained a flat mask. Then he dragged his gaze to her left, and as he continued to scan the crowd, he opened his mouth and began to speak.

***

SUNG

He hated this.

Every step alongside the drums grated on Sung like a claw drawn down his spine.

He knew his people needed the ancient traditions to feel the instincts of their ancestors speaking in the tribes. But the rite of survival was brutal, uncivilized and deadly. It appeased the flesh but did nothing for the mind. So, he dreaded every step he took towards the circle. And hated that as king; he could not denounce it but the opposite. He had to protect the traditions no matter how terrible they were. This night would end with blood on his hands, with a copper tang of it in his mouth.

Sung let a low growl flicker in his throat. The drummer next to him eyed him warily.

Slowly, slowly they made their painful way towards the bloodbath. While there was no doubt he had seen that pure humans were often marked by the weakness of both body and mind. It was also true that if he were a human ruler, he would likely never find himself overseeing a fight to the death where females fought to become his mate.

There were some things the purists got right; the drums pounded on until finally Sung took his first step into the clearing, turning, nodding to show himself to his people. His people murmured and chattered their excitement as they bowed their submission to him. Most of them he knew bowed with gritted teeth and unsheathed claws, but at least for now, they disguised their treason.

Sung scanned the circle slowly, letting his scent call the devotion of the loyal. He reached the northern end of the clearing, and his eyes landed on the pure one that had been chosen. It was like a set of claws on his stomach. Only years of training and discipline stopped Sung's jaw from falling open in shock.

"Joyce?" he breathed to himself; it was not possible, it could not be possible; it also could not be a coincidence. Yet, no one knew, and if she was here, she was destined for death.

The thought turned his stomach cold. She froze in his gaze, not because she recognised him but because some long-buried instinct within her understood the danger he posed. She responded to his presence, not his person. How was it possible that she was here?

Instinctively he turned to look at the wolves. He was sure this was their doing, but he could not let himself show her any special attention or let them know they had succeeded in unsettling him. So, after he met eyes with every Alpha in the packs, he moved on to the other tribes. But his mind turned back to her with every passing breath.

"Welcome, Anima!" he called across the night to the answering chorus of barks, coughs, calls, and applause. "You come tonight in memory of your ancestors. The sacrifices you offer will ensure the strongest blood continues to flow in the veins of Anima's rulers. These offerings will be honoured for generations. The clan leader, his father, and his father's father thank you." He paused for effect and to receive their applause but was forced to suck in a deep breath to brace himself. "Tonight, the future of Anima will step forward. Tonight, the tribes receive their queen!"

The response would have sounded chaotic to human ears, but Sung could pick out the chitter of warning from the birdlike ava lines, the nicker of submission from the horse-blood equines, the snarls of the wolfish lupines, even the toadlike amphines raised their croaks along with the other tribes. All of Anima was represented tonight, and despite their different hopes for this night, all anticipated the next step.

Even Sung did not know how the wolves had found Joyce, but he knew the lupine battle strategy was second to none. He could not do anything to save her without weakening the position of the entire kingdom. The thought tore a snarl from his throat, echoing across the chatter and silencing the crowd. He let the silence hang in the air to remind the wolves who were in control.

He kept his face blank of emotion, knowing they would be watching him closely.

"Only on this night, once per generation, do we bring the pure to Anima to offer them the chance to prove their blood. And so, I call on the tribes to recognise our human sister, the pure."

He swept a hand toward Joyce, and the tribes answered with hisses, croaks, barks and bleats, each calling to her ancient human blood in their tongue. It was tradition to give the pure sacrifice a chance to speak words to be remembered. So as they quieted, Sung held his breath, forcing himself to pretend disinterest in what she might say, despite his entire body yearning to lean closer.

"I… I don't even know you, people! Why am I here?"

Murmurs rose in the circle, some with discomfort, others amused. There was a great variety of opinions about continuing the tradition of bringing a pure one into the rite. But no matter how soft-hearted, Anima would never respect a show of fear.

Sung did not miss that as the crowd murmured their thoughts to each other; Lucine, the lupine sacrifice, widened her eyes at Joyce and drew a hooked finger across her throat. To anyone from Anima, she would have clawed her belly to make the threat, but she knew enough of humans to understand that they would miss the reference to the wolves' practice of disembowelling prey.

"Let us get this shitshow on the road," he muttered under his breath. He nodded once, and the drummer next to him snapped his stick down on the drum thrice quickly. "Let the rite begin!" Sung roared and was answered by the crowd.

The women within the circle leapt to life or, rather, to death.

Turning to take his place in the circle, he knew he could not allow his face to fall or give away his pity for Joyce. But he felt it to his bones. Sympathy for her and rage for the wolves who had hunted her down, but also for himself. Joyce did not deserve to die because he had been too weak to finish his enemies.

***

JOYCE

That terrifying man roared a command to start. All the women in the circle immediately tensed. They moved from their almost prayerful stances to half-crouched on the heels of their feet as the crowd cheered.

Briefly, no one seemed to know what to do. The women all looked at each other, but no one moved; for a single breath, Joyce hoped none of these women would fight. Her hopes were dashed when a feminine snarl erupted from Joyce's right. She turned to watch a woman, though clearly strong and painted entirely in fur, leap on the back of the woman closest to her, who was painted in swirls and spirals. The fur-painted woman took the other's head between both hands and twisted her neck with a mighty jerk that snapped her spine.

The body sagged in her hands, and she let it drop, standing over it as it twitched for a handful of seconds while she scanned the clearing. For a moment, their eyes met, and the fur-painted woman smiled and raised her eyebrows but then darted across the clearing to a spot where another woman was rising. The woman rose from the ground shaking the dirt from a body in front of her. All breath left Joyce's body; what nightmare was this?

Bile rose in her throat, and Joyce whirled around, painfully aware of the carnage behind her but looking to clear her mind of the gore and death occurring around her. Instead, she found a circle of people cheering, screaming, barking and growling like animals on the hunt. Their eyes passed over her with looks of contempt as she rushed to the tree nearby and leaned on it, throwing up the last of the alcohol and appetisers she'd had at the patron's ball.

As she coughed and spat, her entire body trembling, there was a significant hiss and a shriek nearby. Joyce whipped around to find two women (one painted in feathers and the other one in a strange set of lines and dots) wrestling in the dirt, teeth bared.

It was instinct to get away, to hide, but there were so many people. Without thought, Joyce grasped the tree's lowest branch and pulled herself up, running her feet up the trunk as she had as a child. The ridiculous high heels she still wore slid on the bark, but she clung, and the thick denim of her nicest jeans gave her traction on the branch as she hiked a leg over and pulled herself to sit against the trunk.

It wasn't a large tree, but there was a strange twisting in the branches with clusters of upward-pointing leaves at the end of every branch. A large branch gave her some cover from the battle below but allowed her to peer through to see much of what was happening below between the gaps.

"Is she allowed to do that?" the young voice she had heard earlier whined.

Joyce froze, but several shushed the young one, and no one came to tug her down, so Joyce braced herself against the tree trunk and tried to catch her breath, not that it worked. Her entire body trembled, humming with fear. She knew being up here only delayed what had to be an inevitable end. Whomever these people were, they did not hesitate to kill.

She peered between a gap in the leaves to see the fur-painted woman chase another across the circle, snarling, teeth bared and launching on the other woman. They rolled and tumbled through the dirt together, and when the dust settled, the fur-painted woman was the one to rise, her face dark with the other woman's blood. A strange noise erupted from Joyce's throat. Where is she? How the hell had she gotten here? And how long did she have before she died?

The wolf-daughter, Lucine, was ruthless and committed as a machine. She had been the first to take a kill which had the lupines howling their pleasure and excitement. And she was making her way through the other opponents which efficient, deadly grace. Lucan would be strutting for weeks.

Sung growled in his throat. He was distracted for a moment, watching her tear out the throat of the avalines sacrifice, an unnecessary reminder of the merciless nature of the wolves. But he turned quickly, unable to stop himself from looking for Joyce and, in the same breath wishing he never had to see her here.

With profound grief, he realised she was already down, gone for a moment; his memories flickered to a tiny, human girl, so kind and un-self-conscious. A little girl who had ignored his strange behaviour and instead simply shared his love for animals had made herself his friend. Defended him to her peers and her parents, who were wisely wary of the neighbour boy who demonstrated such strange behaviour.

Thank the creator; he had never transformed in front of them. His control had been patchy at best back then. Sadness settled into his bones as he realised that the only bright light in his childhood in the human world had been extinguished. The only light his heart had ever recognised. He allowed himself one moment of mourning, knowing the gathered audience would assume he had grieved all his sacrifices. But he resolved then that he would make sure she had a proper burial. He knew the pure humans generally felt a body must be buried or burned.

With stinging eyes, he inhaled her scent, intending to locate her body in the circle, so he could return later to bury her. Instead, his senses tingled with the smell of hot blood, still pumping her unique scent, impossibly alive. Turning his head left and right as if scanning the rite, he continued to breathe in the scents until he had identified her unique scent mixed with the disturbed bark of the tree on the northern end of the circle. But where was she? She had hidden.

Sung blinked; his two natures argued about how he should feel: The Anima within him, the blood of his predator ancestors, growled and shook itself. It had nothing but contempt for the prey's behaviour. But his humanity applauded her resourcefulness that she sought an answer other than bloodlust.

Both perked their ears as his heart beat faster because she was still alive. Then he blinked and turned away from the tree before anyone noticed his attention. The rite was almost finished, the clearing already littered with bodies. Lucine was in the dirt, far to his left, straddling the equine sacrifice, strangling the life out of her. The girl had stopped fighting, only one of her legs still kicking weakly. It would not be long, but he would be forced to watch Lucine slay Joyce with no other battles.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. He had always enjoyed the human curses. They were very visceral, and he would undoubtedly utter a few more choice words before this night was over.

The wolves began howling and clapping as Lucine pushed her to her feet. She was exhausted but smiling; that wolf grin she knew made the herds shiver. She turned towards him and bowed, then started forward. Sung realised she and the wolf packs were unaware of Joyce, still hidden in the tree. Lucine was so confident that she would use only her eyes, not scenting for her enemies. It was a fatal mistake, and once he prayed, she would correct it before she reached him for the offering. He would not be able to accept it, and she would be shamed.

Unfortunately, she was too busy accepting the cheers of her people howling for the moon as she stumbled towards him, her body spent, to realise the error. So, when she reached the dirt just feet before him and swept a bow, he was forced to speak before she made her offerings of devotion.

"There is still one left, Lucine," he growled. She blinked, but to her credit, she did not argue; she just dropped to a crouch and began scenting the clearing behind her. It took her only a few more seconds than it had already taken Sung himself to locate Joyce. Such a pity she was a wolf and would be shamed by this moment. She would make a formidable Alpha one day.

With Sung watching, yearning for this to end any way other than what it must do, Lucine tracked the scent straight to the tree. Without hesitating, she leapt and grabbed for Joyce, who shrieked like a wounded rodent in an owl's talons.

Sung was torn between contempt for her weakness and grief for the girl she'd been to him as she was dragged from the heavy branch. He was about to close his eyes, not wishing to see the moment when Lucine tore the life from her, but one of Joyce's feet kicked out as she attempted to stop herself from being pulled from the tree, and the wicked heel on it caught an overly confident Lucine right in the face.

The wolf-woman yowled like a cat, flinching and letting go with one hand. Sung's heart rose for a moment, but only for a moment, because a second later, even as Lucine held her eye with one hand, Joyce lost her grip on the tree and tumbled awkwardly to the ground on top of the wolf.

Sung braced himself for the bloodbath and forced his expression to an unfeeling mask, knowing even a tired Lucine would enjoy ending the pure one. But a murmur rose from the crowd in the clearing, many of the Anima shifting uneasily. Sung's heart raced, but he forced himself to stillness as Joyce stumbled to her feet, staring open-mouthed at Lucine on the ground, who was not moving.

Joyce stepped back, then jerked to look left and right at the people surrounding the clearing as if someone else might attack her. Sung scented Lucine, but her scent did not have the pale chill of death. She was still alive but unconscious. Yet, Joyce continued to back away, and then she looked at him, her eyes and mouth wide.

"She is not yet dead," Sung growled. "Finish her."

Joyce's entire body pulled away from him.

"I'm not killing her."

The clearing shook with the fierce reaction of the crowd; all of the tribes agreed; the rite must be fulfilled. Sung snarled, and they quieted, but the wolves were pacing, all the herds stamped their feet, and the avalines kept ruffling their cloaks. Sung snorted her scent from his nose in disgust; the only counter to his rage was the awareness that Lucine's father, Lucan, must be quivering with shame. His daughter was already humiliated by this loss. But to be declared too weak to be killed in good conscience and by an untried human! Sung would have given his left testicle to hear Lucan's thoughts.

His enemy's discomfort aside, Sung growled his anger. She would not force him to be the one to end this! He started toward her, the tribes chittering in response to the tension in him, their king lion on the prowl.

"She is a sacrifice," he snarled. "Just like you. Kill her."

But for the first time on this horrific night, Joyce showed a spark of the firm and vibrant child she had been. She straightened and turned to face him fully, locked eyes with him, clenching her hands into fists.

"No!" she yelled.

***

JOYCE

The rage in his eyes was terrifying, but if she was going to die tonight, it would not be with blood on her hands. So, with trembling knees, she stared him down, gulping when his eyes flashed, and for a moment, she thought she was staring into the eyes of a lion,

Unable to hold the penetrating gaze, she looked at the fur-woman, crumpled at her feet. Joyce knew she would be sore the next day, that fall had been awkward, and the ground was hard. But she had felt her elbow come down as she reached out to catch herself. She had taken the women in the temple. It was an accident, but it felled her like a tree.

"Kill her!" the king snarled, the last word guttering in his throat like the big cat he reminded her of. Joyce looked down at the woman again; no doubt she deserved to die. Joyce had just watched her kill several other women.

She could feel the eyes of the spectators on the back of her neck. But she took another step away from the woman and shook her head.

"I am not going to kill her."

The crowd gasped, but no one said a word, and Joyce felt their attention shift to their leader. As did he; she seemed to swell under the scrutiny; he pulled his shoulders and head back, though his chin stayed low.

"You would exchange your life for the life of a proud woman who would have torn out your throat without a second thought? You do not know what you do," he barked through his teeth.

Joyce shivered but forced herself to hold his gaze. "I do not even know where I am! But I know life and murder," she pointed at the fur-painted woman. "If I have to die tonight, I'll do it with a clear conscience, unlike her."

The words were barely out of her mouth when the gathered people poured their disgust in an overwhelming roar of shrieks, howls, bleats and hisses. If the man in front of her were less compelling or in charge, Joyce would have whirled to ensure they did not come back at her. But the man did not even look at them. Although his massive shoulders heaved with his breath and his hands clenched to fists at his side.

He lifted one hand, barely inches, and the noise stopped. Joyce could hear the people moving now, hissing their dissatisfaction to each other now that he had commanded them to stop yelling at her.

She swallowed hard, and the king's eyes narrowed. She would have sworn that look of recognition passed behind his eyes again, but his expression did not change; he huffed a breath and thought he would speak, but suddenly there was noise to her left. She turned to find a man running hunched over, teeth bared, snarling.

"You will not shame my sister!" he roared.

Still twenty feet from her, the man leapt, and in the dark, he looked for a moment as if his limbs had become legs, his hands were paws, and his open mouth grew fangs that flashed in the moonlight as they came for her throat.

Not Strong Enough, An Unquestionable king, Scent recognition

JOYCE

A vast shadow rose directly before her, then leapt forward to meet the attacker. Joyce realised the king had jumped between her and the man. The two now looked into each other's eyes. They rolled in combat, snarling, snapping and moving so quickly. Joyce was sure her eyes played tricks on her, making her see silver fur and a black jaw tumbling in the dirt with a massive tawny hide and a golden mane.

The sound was horrific, with growls that rattled her ribs and snarls of bloodthirst. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The man who had tried to attack her lay on his back with his hands clutching the king's wrist while the king had his hands wrapped around his neck. He roared his words, and Joyce heard the animal in him.

"You will NOT break the rite! You will not shame our people!"

There was a moment where the man twisted under the king's hand, then made a slight sound, and his body slumped. It reminded her so much of the sag of the dead body earlier that Joyce wondered if he had died. But no, as soon as he slacked, the king let go of his neck and straightened it but remained standing over him.

The man slowly got to his feet, his eyes alight with rage, but did not meet the king's eyes or move towards her. He stood, head bowed, shoulders hunched on his heel and ran back to his place in the circle. The audience was utterly silent.

Then the king turned and stared at her, his chest shifting up and down with his breath. She waited, but he did not speak; instead, he walked towards her, chin low so the shadow cast by his stiff jaw cut across the thick fur collar of his vest. His hair had fallen over his eyes in the scuffle, and he peered at her like a lion stalking his prey. With each step, his graceful, rolling gait reminded her of a predator stalking its prey. He did not make a sound despite the forest floor littered with twigs and leaves.

"Wh-who are you?" Joyce stammered, backing away her hands up. He met her step for step until she came up hard against the tree behind her and did not stop until they stood toe to toe, and he loomed over her, so broad his shoulders and chest made a wall in front of her. She could feel the heat rising off his skin in the cool night air.

"I am the king," his voice was dark and husky gravel. Behind him, a chorus of coughing cheers, howls and chirps of agreement rose from the people watching. "And you are?"

"Joyce," she breathed.

"Joyce," he growled, leaning in closer, bringing the scent of pine and rain and the musk of something distinctly male. His eyes dropped to her throat. He leaned in suddenly, inhaling deeply and gently dragged his nose along her collarbone.

Her skin prickled wherever he touched her. Her reflex was to put her hands on his chest to stop him from pressing any closer. When she touched him, he went still as a hunted animal. Then, he straightened, meeting her eyes warily. His face remained in that flat, expressionless mask. But his eyes glowed with a feral light that delivered a shot of adrenalin to her gut and a tingling thrill to areas she did not usually think about.

"Joyce," he rasped again.

"Yes?"

"I am Sung," he said the name with a strange, guttural roll that reminded her of a growl. "I am the ruler of all beasts, I am the clan leader of the Anima, and I am alpha of all," several snarls rose behind him at the last statement, but he leaned in until the scruff on his jaw rasped her check and said, "and you will be my mate."

The forest behind him erupted.

JOYCE

"She is no queen."

"This is not the intention of the rite!"

"A human? Did he just say he is mating a human?"

The chaos was shifting and noisy, punctuated by howls and other noises that startled Joyce. But Sung did not even break eye contact. When the protests did not die, he shouted for silence, and the crowd cut off immediately, shifting on their feet and murmuring, but no one raised their voices again. Only after they had settled did Sung turn to look at them.

"If you would speak to me, speak plainly and show yourself. I will not give an audience to cowards hanging behind a crowd."

"She won through a deception," a deep voice barked from Joyce's right. She whirled as Sung chuckled and swung his massive body around to face the man as if he was not afraid to have a menacing voice at his back.

"You, of all people, condemn the use of deceit and strategy in battle, Lucan?" Sung said, his voice strong and good-natured, though she could see the gleam in his eye. Some in the crowd laughed too, but it died quickly. He did not trust this man.

"I condemn using deceit because you are a coward and hide behind you're weakness," the man growled.

"An interesting statement," Sung said through gritted teeth; every inch of his body appeared at ease, his weight back on one leg, his hands relaxed at his sides. But Joyce could feel the coiled tension in him. "Whose tribe selected the pure one?"

"Mine," the man replied.

"The call to find the pure one is clear; identify the best bloodline. She was the best and most challenging opponent to bring to the rite, so if she were to win, her blood would run in the veins of our kin. And so, she was measured by your people to be the strongest of those you could find in the human world, yes? Unless there was some other plan afoot that did not fulfil the terms of the rite?"

The crowd murmured. Lucan did not move or reply immediately, and to Joyce, it seemed the entire circle leaned in, waiting for his answer.

"We did our best choosing a candidate," he said finally. "But she was untested. Her response here has proven she is not the queen we need."

Everyone turned to Sung

"How convenient," he muttered, so quietly Joyce wondered if anyone but she could hear him. "The rite is in the hands of the creator," he said, his voice low but carrying through the chill night air. "The wolf-father should be grateful for the mercy of her queen; that means his daughter remains alive at this moment."

Lucan looked at the woman on the ground, curling his upper lip.

"She is shamed by the woman. She fought like a true wolf, and her efforts were not recognised; her opponent deemed her… incapable?" he said.

Joyce blinked. "What?"

Sung snapped his head to glare at her with such a dark warning; her mouth closed instantly. After an uncomfortable moment, he turned back to Lucan.

"The pure one does not know our customs or the rites. In her word, mercy is a measure of value. She measured Lucine's life as more valuable than taking the win for herself. Motives matter, Lucan."

That last statement dripped with such weight and venom that Joyce wondered what stood between the two men. What previous conversation did Sung refer to that made Lucan go still again?

"The future of the tribes matters more," he growled, stepping toward Sung and standing so obviously ready for the violence that the crowd began to whisper as the two men stared each other down.

Joyce held her breath as Sung took one step, then another, then another, stalking towards the man who stood, chin low but body braced for impact.

When they were mere inches apart, Sung stopped.

"Did you just make a challenge for the throne, Lucan?" he said in a low purr that invited the man to speak yes so he would have the opportunity to slaughter him.

Lucan, only an inch shorter than Sung, though not as broad, stared back, his face expressionless. The tension in the air pulled tighter, and Joyce wondered if she had, without meaning to, sparked a revolution in these strange people. And what would happen to her if Sung was killed?

But with the tiniest shift of his body, Sung suddenly seemed to loom over Lucan. "Make your choice, wolf," he growled through his teeth. "Submission or death?" The shift was so subtle that Joyce almost missed it. But something in Lucan changed. Though he did not break eye contact, his chin lowered slightly, and the tension left his body. Sung stepped in closer until they were almost chest to chest, and he stared down at Lucan, who seemed to shrink reluctantly. But Joyce knew she had understood this correctly when the crowd began to murmur again, whispering their thoughts about the exchange. And Sung turned away from Lucan to address them. "I still do not hear a valid counter to my claim of a mate. Are there more?" he turned the circle, his hands open to invite comment.

The people shifted, looking at each other, whispering. But then, one man stepped forward. He was long, lean, naked above his leather pants, and whip-strong. He moved with an odd grace that reminded Joyce of a snake or a fish in the water.

"Majesty," he said loudly enough for the entire hearing to clear. "Regardless of her selection, the goal of the rite is to identify the strongest queen, the best to mother the royal line. She did not even fight. She does not possess the battle spirit needed of a leader.

"Severus?" Sung gave a cold smile, and Joyce's skin crawled. "She faced me down and refused my direct order to kill Lucine. Unless you see me as an easily dominated opponent?" there was a collective gasp at that. Sung's smile got even colder as he stared down at this man, Seerus. Sung sauntered up to him, and his body moved with a lethal grace. "Does your king lack knowledge of the battle or the courage in it that a battle queen is needed to pick up the slack?" he asked menacingly.

A sense of barely contained power suddenly rolled off Sung in waves.

Seerus' throat bobbed.

SUNG

When the serpent did not respond to his challenge, Sung let himself feel his kingship, strength, power, and authority. He let it all roll around in his head and felt his blood pulse. Then he let the male serpent and anyone who cared to pay attention scent him. He was the ruler of beasts! His dominance and his sheer masculinity.

This sense of himself had made him dominant, to begin with. Even as heir, his kingship could be challenged. He would have to earn it. He remembered how he had grown and strengthened as a young man-cub, let himself be filled with the pride of this position he owned. All the males would then scent him and decide if they wanted to accept his offer.

They did not, of course; that is why he was king.

But just for a moment, inside, he begged one of them to snap and come at him and give him a chance to unleash some of this tension and aggression he was building. He was tempted to taunt Lucan. But that was a difference between a wolf and a lion. Lions made the decisions that were best for the pride as a whole. Wolves, while pack animals, are still centred on themselves or their family groups. Let Lucan come at me, and he would tear the man's head off. But Sung refused to be the one to lose control or push someone else to it. He would lead by example.

Then he spoke to Severus again.

"Speak up, man. Do you feel a queen is needed to make up for some lack in your king?" he growled.

"No, Sire. But if something were to happen to you."

"Did my mother lead in battle, Severus?"

"No, majesty."

"Did my grandmother?"

"No."

The king stared down at the man, who broke eye contact and dropped his head, stepping back in the circle of watchers as Sung snarled at the rest of them.

"You demanded the ancient rite as was your due, and I fulfilled it as your king," he turned to stare at Lucan and the wolves. "You chose the contenders for my pleasure and trained your sacrifices. The result stands before you: a clan that will not need to grieve their daughter's death and a pure one as queen for the first time in twenty generations. You asked for the right to show you the clan's future, and so it has. That future is now. Anima, meet your chosen queen!"

The tribes all responded as they should, raising their voices in their battle cries to celebrate her victory. But he sensed the tension in them. The forced feeling of the cheers. The question remained in their minds. Well, let them question the commands. They were the ones who had brought this about.

Then he turned to face Joyce. She stood there, hands at her sides clenched into tiny fists, dressed like the human world, her eyes wide and her hair falling from its twists.

"Joyce, I am sorry that you were pulled into our world without choice, but you have earned the greatest honour Anima can bestow upon us," it was unfortunate that he had to have this conversation with her publicly, but it was perhaps even more critical for the tribes to hear it more than Joyce herself. "You are now one of us, and I will not leave you unprotected. All that is mine is yours, my wealth, strength, body, everything my position as king offers. But you need not fear me. The Anima may have animal blood in our veins, but we are first thinkers, people of heart. You need never fear that I would force myself upon you. You will rule with me, but you will do so untouched until you would choose differently."

Everyone gasped, and Sung had to bite back his smile. Let them chew on that.

"But Sire," one of the lionesses spluttered. Sung had to swallow his snarl; his tribe would question him on this

He turned to face Khloe, who was a Leonise wise woman. As such, she carried her dignity and authority. He would do well to take care of her.

"Yes, mother," he said gently, using the title she had earned before he went to the human world.

"The Royal Line, you must have an heir!"

He nodded. "And there is a great deal of time until I shake the tundra in the sky, mother," he replied.

"But if she is not mated."

"You doubt my ability to tempt a female in heat?" he said with a smile.

The tribes laughed a couple of the women shrieked their giggles. But Khloe gave him the tight-lipped stare of an unimpressed parent.

"Do not be childish; the whole point of taking a mate is to enjoy both the union and the fruits of the mating Sung. I know your mother raised you to understand this," she said.

"And should my mate choose to take me, I will enjoy the union greatly, mother, I assure you," he said dryly. Many of the men laughed, but his attention was caught elsewhere. He could smell Joyce's embarrassment as blood rushed to her cheeks. Ah, that was right; he had forgotten how much more careful the humans were speaking about the acts of love. Their customs were different. Speaking of mating, it was generally done in private, between couples. Ah, well, she would need to get used to this. She was Anima now. "None of us knows the future," he called to the gathering. "We know only what the creator has chosen to reveal today, and this is my queen. So let us return to the caves and the ceremony and celebrate!"

As his people cheered, even if it was half-hearted, he turned back to Joyce, approaching slowly, then offered his arm for her to take. She looked at him and hesitated. Everyone was too busy talking or gathering their things to have noticed, but it would not take long.

"I understand that this has been a difficult night for you," he said under the guise of pulling a piece of her hair back behind her ear. She flinched when he touched her, which made him feel sick. "But you must understand that unless you are known to be under my protection, you will not be accepted here in our world," he stared at her then, willing her to remember him, to sense his truth, to trust him. To at least feel the sense of safety that rested in him. "I spoke true, Joyce. I will never force you to do anything. Please come with me back to the caves."

He offered his arm again, and she looked at it like she was unsure what it was. But her throat jumped, and then she wiped her hands on her jeans and took his arm in both hands.

He tucked her arm under his and started back toward home. He could feel her trembling under his touch and huffed his displeasure, though she did not catch it.

He just prayed he could drag her through the rest of the night, which would seem even more foreign to her than the rite had. Because some of his people were staring at her with looks that he did not like.

If she did not stay close to him, she would not live until dawn.

JOYCE

Joyce stared at the broad arm he offered and swallowed. There was a set of white, jagged lines across his forearm as if some beast had swiped him with claws. His shoulder topped her head, and his chest was so broad, not to mention bare under the open vest, that she could not see past him when he stood before her.

He was huge and scarred and feral.

If he was indeed a protector, she would be safe from anything. But his words could not be trusted. They stared at each other and shifted once, a breath of wind bringing her the scent of pine and rain and something uniquely him and yet somehow familiar, though that was impossible.

He looked over her shoulder, then nudged his offered arm closer with a pointed look. Others must be noticing. Joyce took a deep breath and reminded herself that if she died tonight anyway, it would be better to die touching him than a fur-painted woman.

She put her hands on that arm; it felt like warm steel. Though his skin was surprisingly soft, they started walking. As they disappeared into the shadows under the trees, they were surrounded suddenly by many people from the circle. Primarily big, tall men with straight shoulders and loping strides. At first, Joyce flinched whenever a new body popped up out of nowhere. But as the men circled them and intently watched for anyone else nearby, Joyce relaxed.

It was hard to relax walking through a dark forest in high heels on the arm of a man who looked like he could snap your spine if he hugged you too tight. She caught a tree root at one point, and her heel slid off, turning her ankle. She gasped and almost went down, but he just stiffened his arm and put his hands over hers to keep her grip secure, using himself as a counterweight to swing her back into step and onto her feet.

"Stupid, human shoes," he muttered under his breath so only she could hear. "You would be better off barefoot, of course. But if you can't stomach that, I will have some boots found for you back at the caves."

Caves? Were they going to caves? Of course, they were going to caves. If it were not for the bruises and smells, Joyce would still have told herself this was a dream. But she did not ever remember a dream that smelled quite so uniquely.

They had been walking silently for several minutes when another large man appeared from ahead of them on the path they were following. Joyce gripped Sung's arm and shrank back; the man was a foot taller than Sung; he had to be well over seven feet! Yet his limbs seemed long and thin compared to his barrel of a chest and strong back.

He approached quickly, almost silently, and swept a bow before falling into step with Sung, who had not even slowed his pace. Joyce took nearly two steps to his one.

"Interesting night," the man said in a low, deep voice.

Sung nodded without taking his eyes off the path ahead. "Very, what do the winds say?" he asked casually.

"The winds," the man said through tight lips as if the word was sarcastic. "Would suggest a full fist to watch your majesty's back and another to patrol the caves after the ceremony because tensions are high?"

Sung grunted, and his hand tightened over hers on his arm.

"My people are not so angry yet. I will allow watchmen at the mouth and clearing but no patrols. Besides, things may die down after the ceremony," he replied.

The tall man turned his head to give Sung a sceptical look but only nodded and kept walking. A moment later, Sung's fingers tightened on hers again.

"I am very sorry, Joyce, it was rude of me. I had forgotten you have not met anyone; this is Erwin, Captain of the guard and my defender."

Without thinking, Joyce pulled one hand from under Sung's and extended it past his chest towards the man on his other side. Both men just stared at her hand, then at her face. She flushed and pulled her hand back quickly.

"I am sorry, do you not shake hands?"

Sung growled something under his breath. "My apologies again. I had forgotten the human tradition of shaking hands. Our customs are different. Here, we simply allow ourselves to be scented."

"Scented?"

The men both nodded.

"Everyone's smell is unique," Erwin explained. "Once we are familiar with yours, we will never miss it. And since it seems we will be spending a lot of time together in the future, it would be useful if I could become familiar with yours."

Joyce frowned, and they both stared at her. "Well, of course, but how exactly would I stop someone from scenting me?" she asked faintly.

Erwin blinked, then brayed a laugh so loud, Joyce startled, but the man clutched his stomach and almost doubled over. "She has a p-point, Sung," he brayed. "I can't believe I never, we never." He was off in wheezing laughter again. They continued walking until Erwin was under control again; then, as the people outside their circle of guards spread out, the tall man's face became deadly serious. "Are you certain, Sung?" he asked quietly, his deep voice barely a rustle in the forest leaves.

"Utterly," Sung said without hesitation.

The tall man sighed. "Then I will circle the warriors while you prepare for the ceremony. We will have a fist prepared to stay clear-headed, just in case. But they will have to remain out of the smoke."

"I doubt we will have anything to worry about during the flames," Sung growled. "As long as they keep their wits for after, we will be fine."

"They will keep their wits. She can dance naked through the village if she wishes. We will see her home safely."

Sung grunted again, then looked at his man. "Are you sure?"

"Utterly," Erwin said straight-faced, then he grinned wickedly. "It is safer for us under the foot of the lion than in front of his jaws."

They both laughed so loudly that it echoed in the trees.

SUNG

Erwin disappeared into the trees, and Sung turned his nose to the wind. Tensions were high indeed. He could smell it on every Anima in the breeze.

Even on Joyce, though her scent was so sweet to him. It was near intoxicating. He had never forgotten her smell. But now that she was no longer a child, the scent of her that he had enjoyed as a cub, the smell that made him feel safe, and accepted, had bloomed, from a single, frail flower, to an entire bouquet.

"What were you two talking about, flames and smoke?" she said cautiously.

The fear in her voice broke through his thoughts and grated on him like fur rubbed the wrong way. No woman should be afraid to walk among the Anima, especially when she was on his arm. But not only was it completely understandable that she was terrified, but it would also have been a lie for him to tell her the risk had passed. His people were not yet satisfied. He ground his teeth but relaxed his face so she would not pick up on his tension.

"The mating ceremony, we call it the flames and the smoke. Well, you will see. It is quite enjoyable, don't worry. No more killing tonight," he prayed that was the truth. The wolves had run off far too quickly for his taste.

"M-mating ceremony?" she looked up at him, her mouth open like a fish.

Sung nodded. "Whenever our people declare their intention to mate as bonded pairs, not just for fun, we hold the ceremony. Tonight's will be special. A king only takes the mating ceremony once," unless his wife died, but that did not seem a wise point to make when she was already shaking at the knees.

"Is it like, are we getting married?" her voice went up too high at the end, and again he cursed the plots that had brought her here.

"I know this is a lot, Joyce," he said quietly. "I know it's a shock. But I have to ask you to walk through this with me. For your safety and the peace of my people. Anima is your home now, for better or worse." She turned her head away but did not let go of his arm. He could see the tears in her eyes. "I was honest with you back at the rite. I will never force myself upon you nor create pressure to make you feel you must enter my bed. Your life will be peaceful as long as I am the king. We will share a name, a tribe, and a purpose. But your heart and body will remain yours unless you offer them willingly," he sighed.

She chewed on her lip and stared into the forest, where the trees began to spread, and the night air lightened as more moonlight filtered through.

"I believe you," she whispered finally. "I don't know why, but God help me; I believe you."

"The creator will bless you for it," he replied honestly. "Truth is always useful, and it is the one thing I guarantee you will always receive from me: I will not pretend to be what I am not, and I will not ask you to, either."

"Yes, but…."

"Please, Joyce, we are almost to the caves. When there is more time tomorrow, perhaps, we will sit down together, and I will answer your questions. I know you have many. Unfortunately, your first night here must be so eventful. But life is life, and the world turns. Tonight, Anima will make you one of us. Tomorrow we can worry about the rest."

He had hoped she would be distracted by his promise of their arrival, but Joyce glared at him and did not relax.

"How would you feel, I wonder, if you were suddenly ripped out of your entire life here, taken to my world, thrown into a fight for your life, and then forced to marry someone you did not even know? Would you be willing to hear? Tomorrow we can worry about the rest?"

She had a point, but it was not convenient for her to make it. Sung had already shortened his strides for her as they walked through the trees. But they could not afford to delay. The women of his tribe would already have the flames prepared, and she needed to change into appropriate clothing for the ceremony.

"I understand, Joyce. I do. Perhaps more than you realise. But if I have learned anything as a king, it is that sometimes life forces your hand. The creator knows what is needed to bring us to the right moments and decisions. Perhaps this was just what was required to bring you to the life you were supposed to have?"

"You don't know anything about my life," she spat.

"I know you are an orphan and have not taken a man to bed."

She stopped mid-step, turning to stare at him, open-mouthed. The guard all crouched, looking for the intruder that made them stop, but Sung shook his head at the first leader and then turned back to Joyce.

"How could you possibly know that?" she whispered, looking around to make sure no one else had heard.

"I know because those are the terms for the rite. We are not without hearts, Joyce. The pure one from the human world must be pure, unmarried, unmated and unattached. We would not tear a woman from her family to bring her here to die."