Page 50 of A Kingdom of Wild and Power
You belong to both, to neither whole,
Forever split in flesh and soul.
So bound, so cursed, forendless time,
Until all worlds forget your name.
Among wolverians, it has long been custom that a new leader must be challenged before they may truly claim the throne. When a king dies, the crown passes, as expected, to the eldest child. Yet inheritance alone is never enough in the north. Worth must be proven. The fiercest of their warriors are granted the right to step forward and challenge the heir, to test their strength. And it is no rare occurrence for such trials to reshape everything, the throne passing into new hands, a new bloodline rising where another has fallen. It is the way of wolverians; to ensure that their ruler is not merely born to lead, but forged for it. The strongest of the pack must stand above the rest. To outsiders, it may seem brutal. Senseless, even. But to them, it is tradition. Honour bound in steel and blood. And there is something else, too. When an heir rises and no challenge comes, it is seen as a bad omen. A crown untested is a crown unwelcome. So more often than not, they hope for the challenge. For in that proof of strength, they show their people that they are worthy of the throne.
Tabitha Wysteria
Bryn forced himself back onto his feet the moment he saw the axe in Caldwell’s grip. His fingers brushed instinctively towards the small dagger hidden at his hip beneath his heavy coat.
‘No need for that,’ Caldwell said calmly. ‘We’ll use our fists, Bryn Wynter.’
Bryn frowned.
‘What do ya mean?’ Caldwell stood only a few paces away, his men arrayed behind him while Bryn had nothing at his back but an open field and snow. Endless snow.
The wolf that had guided Bryn to his family now stood to one side, observing. Its blue eyes narrowed at Bryn, as if waiting for the prince to prove his worth. It would not help him. Bryn would have to prove himself.
‘I challenge ya for da throne,’ Caldwell declared. ‘We fight like wolves. With teeth and with fists, until only one of us stands. Do ya accept, Bryn Wynter?’
Bryn knew he had no choice. Caldwell had been careful in his selection, surrounding himself with only his most loyal followers. Refusal was unthinkable. Among wolverians, a challenge to the throne could not be denied. It was law older than memory: when a king was challenged, he fought to the death. One survivor. One ruler.
Bryn had to win.
He nodded and shrugged off his heavy coat, letting it fall into the snow so he could move freely. Caldwell was a massive brute of a man, all muscle and menace, but size was not everything. Bryn was swift, quick as a winter fox. He could outpace him, exhaust him, strike when the moment came.
He could do this.
And yet his throat tightened as he met Caldwell’s blue eyes, which had gone cold and sharp, stripped of all pretence.
Eyes set on only one thing.
Killing him.
Caldwell roared and lunged, his strength explosive. One moment Bryn had been upright; the next, he was airborne, wrenched up and hurled over Caldwell’s head. He hit the ground hard, the breath torn from his lungs, pain blooming white-hot across his back. He swore and rolled just in time as Caldwell’senormous fists smashed down where his skull had been moments before.
There was no time to think. He had to move. He had to wear the giant down.
Bryn sprang away with the speed he had been praised for all his life, limbs light despite the snow, instincts sharp as winter air. A part of him wished Wren were there lending strength, lending fury, but another part was glad she wasn’t. Not that she would fret. No. Wren would be howling for blood, screaming for him to finish it.
The thought cost him.
Caldwell clipped the side of his head with a brutal elbow. Bryn crashed to the ground, stars bursting behind his eyes. The cold snow bit into his skin, numbing what would surely bloom into a bruise if he survived. Which he would. He had to.
His gaze flicked to the fallen king.
And Bryn made a promise to his father.
He surged back to his feet and drove a kick into Caldwell’s knee, the one ruined long ago. The brute dropped with a grunt, shock rippling through his bulk. Bryn struck again, knocking him further down. One of Caldwell’s men stepped forward, instinct screaming to intervene, but Caldwell barked a command and they froze.
Bryn twisted, fast and precise, and locked his arm around Caldwell’s neck, wrenching tight. His heart thundered as his muscles strained, forearm burning with effort. Caldwell thrashed beneath him, power waning as breath deserted his lungs.
Bryn held on.
And squeezed.
