The air hung heavy and still beneath the ancient, gnarled oaks of the clearing, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching for a bruised, purpling sky. The pack warriors stood as a silent, watchful circle, their eyes—a hundred pinpricks of amber and gold—fixed on the center. Only they had the right to witness the punishment of the beta. Behind them, the beta house stood tall and proud, a silent witness to the punishment to come. Each warrior's face was a study in stoicism, their emotions schooled, yet a profound sense of duty resonated through their ranks. These were Boris's peers, his comrades in arms, the very individuals he was sworn to protect.
Three warriors, clad in leather, marched large slabs of polished white jade stone into the clearing. The stone had been polished to a mirrored finish, its edges jagged yet smooth, a touch of ceremony. It was laid at the center of the clearing, its gleaming white a heavy contrast against the rich green of the grass it crushed beneath it. Thick silver poles were placed into the awaiting holes of the jade, shackles dangling from each end, clattering into the air and creating their own music. This was no impromptu punishment; the podium's presence, along with the quiet, rigid formations of the warriors, spoke volumes of the gravity and ritualistic nature of what was to come.
Two warriors, war-tested and rippling with strength, stood on either side of Boris, guiding him toward the podium. Brought forward, Boris strode with purposeful steps, a formidable pride and arrogance to his movement. Boris knew he had to be punished, but he wasn't sorry. He couldn't be. The two hulking enforcers, their faces devoid of emotion, guided him to the podium, their hands firm but not unkind. Boris, his head held high, offered no resistance as his knees met the jade surface beneath him. Pulling off his shirt, he tossed it to the side. The two guards took an arm each, shackling his wrists in the silver bindings. The sound of sizzling skin and burning flesh filled the air, but his eyes remained steadfast and clear, a stubborn spark of defiance flickering within their depths. The gleaming silver cuffs bit cold against his skin, holding his powerful, stripped-to-the-waist frame taut and ready for what came next.
From the circle of warriors, Kael stepped forward, his gaze meeting Boris's. There was no animosity, only a flicker of acknowledgment and respect in Kael's eyes—a silent communion between two warriors, one tasked with inflicting pain, the other with enduring it. In Kael's calloused hands, he held the Silver Scourge, a whip unlike any other. Its handle was carved from bone, smooth and pale, and its lashes were strands of pure, braided silver, gleaming dully in the fading light. Each strand was tipped with a small, sharpened claw.
"Beta Boris, you have put yourself above the shared survival of the pack. You've been found guilty. The punishment you have chosen is fifty lashes of silver," Kael announced, turning from the warriors to face Boris. "May you find clarity in suffering," he told his brother. Stepping off the jade, he raised the whip high in the air. The first lash descended with a sickening crack that ripped through the heavy air. The silver bit into Boris's flesh with an audible sizzle, a searing line of fire across his broad back. Boris's jaw clenched, his teeth gritting so hard the muscles in his neck stood out in sharp relief, but no sound escaped him. As he instinctively pulled against his restraints, the silver chains around his wrists rattled with a sharp, metallic clang, a physical manifestation of his agony. As Kael pulled the whip back, fine droplets of blood sprayed from the wound, a crimson mist that settled on the faces and armor of the closest observers. One warrior, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and horror, visibly flinched, his gaze dropping to the blood blooming on his chest, a stark contrast to the battle-won stains he was accustomed to.
The next strike was no less brutal than the first. The whip whistled through the air, and its sound of connection when it met flesh was followed by a sickening choir of tearing flesh as it ripped out. The wicked flick of its tongue shed the blood from the whip's end onto the crowd behind, decorating their armor with blood they didn't conquer. Those new to the warrior ranks had a harder time hiding their discomfort. Gibson stood to the side, counting each strike as they landed on the beta's back with lethal intent. "Six," he called out, his voice strong and clear, his eyes fixed on the warriors who watched. He spoke into the shared mind link of all the warriors watching, not just those who seemed to be squeamish, so as not to interrupt the beta in his struggle for clarity.
Do not let your face waver. What you see is not weakness—it is strength. The strength of a wolf willing to endure judgment for the survival of the pack. Do not pity him. To do so is to disrespect him, to act as if he is so fragile that he cannot bear this.
"Seven," his voice rang out not just in their minds but out loud as he continued to count.
We are warriors. We are the protectors. We stand here not as spectators, but as witnesses to the creation of a new foundation. We face this hard truth so others do not have to. The Alpha has given us an honor—the honor of bearing witness to a cleansing. An honor earned through our own loyalty and purpose.
"Eight," the whip ripped against his skin once more, and Gibson continued to count.
We are here to watch, to learn, and to be reminded of our place. We are here to show our Beta the strength of our unity, the unwavering bond that he is fighting to return to. So stand tall! Stand firm! Let this be a reminder of what is worth enduring this pain for: our pack, our family, our future. Because family is pack, and pack is family. They are one.
Each subsequent strike was a brutal echo of the first, the whip's sharp report followed by the visceral sizzle of silver on skin, each sound a fresh wound opened. With every lash, Boris's body arched, the silver chains clinking with his silent struggle, and blood spattered again and again. It painted streaks across the stoic faces and dulled the sheen of the warriors' armor. A few more of the hardened fighters found their gazes faltering, unable to hold eye contact with the man on the podium as his blood, the blood of their respected second, mingled with the rain beginning to fall. Yet, their jaws remained unclenched, their unwavering presence a testament to their profound sense of duty.
They refused to dishonor the beta with looks of pity. Gibson was right. His foundation was being cracked and reformed, and they had no right to wince at the brutality of his molding.
As the tenth whip tore across Boris's back, a low rumble vibrated through the earth. The bruised sky above them began to churn, and storm clouds, dark and pregnant with rain, gathered with startling speed. A flash of lightning illuminated the grim tableau, followed swiftly by a sharp, echoing clap of thunder. Then, the heavens opened, and rain began to pour down in thick, relentless sheets, washing over the warriors, over the podium, and over Boris's bleeding, silver-scorched back. As the downpour intensified, the blood streaking their faces began to run, washing away in crimson rivulets that vanished into the saturated earth—a stark, fleeting reminder of the brutal penance they had just witnessed. The ritual was not merely observed; it was consumed by the raw power of the storm, as if the very elements conspired to bear witness to the brutal, necessary act of purification.
His head fell forward, but his body remained strong and taut, ready to receive his punishment. Through the fog of pain and the beating of the rain, Boris could smell his mate, Alana's sweet scent of jasmine and the first rays of sun. He didn't need to look up to see her face. He had closed off the bond between them so she wouldn't be able to feel his pain, but he knew she was suffering as much as he was. True mates never suffered alone.
I will be fine, my love, he sent the words into her mind, opening the link for the briefest of moments so she knew he was okay.
Alana stood behind all the warriors, at the farthest edge away from everything, a mere spectator to a ritual she didn't understand. She observed the punishment from a distance, her designer purse clutched in a white-knuckled grip against her navy blazer. The fine silk of her dress was beginning to stick uncomfortably to her skin as the rain soaked through, and her high heels sank precariously into the wet grass with every shift of her weight. She stood there, letting the trappings of luxury go as she and her expensive clothing were destroyed by the rain. She had a hard time understanding the brutality, the way they all watched in reverent silence, as if they did not notice the man who had saved so many of their lives and treated them as family. She couldn't make sense of how Boris would be able to look at any of them the same, how he would be able to watch their back in a battle or share a laugh with the very men who had stood witness to the mockery of his position as beta, as he was whipped with silver. The only benefit she knew was her plan that was assumed to come to fruition.