~Savanna's POV~
The air tastes of smoke and iron.
They bring the mate-bond revelation ritual three nights after the general rite. Full moon, they say. The statue of Catherine watches from the center of the courtyard.
Even the thing inside me seems to hold its breath. I do not know why. It fears this moment like I do. That scares me more than anything.
Only Moon-Kingdom can perform this rite. No other pack enters. Still, the Wolfcrown delegation stands at the edge. They came to make sure I die if it names me, all because I killed their members. Their banners are stiff. I see their faces, hard and cold.
No absence is allowed. Unmated women gather at one side, pale and silent. Prisoners are bound to trees in one corner. I am tied to the nearest oak, ropes biting my wrists, my chest, my waist, around my legs, around my throat. The sacred rope is rough. It sucks at the blood where the cords bite. My tiny circle mark at the base of my neck is dark with it. The triangle on my forearm is smeared and slick.
Five guardians stand between me and the crowd. Others watch different prisoners. My parents stand with the crowd. They look away. Amanda does not meet my eye. Lila stands near the elders, face stony. Some warriors point and spit. A few friends shout insults. I hear the words like blows.
Three elders take the center. Eamon, Brynn, and Thalia. Anders keeps his gaze on me like a blade. His jaw is a line. Beside him the Wolfcrown men whisper.
Eamon draws the ash circle. He lays candles at eight points. Bones from the last fires are set like teeth. He moves with slow care I envy. He does not look up. He is the one who makes the line and the runes. The crowd quiets to listen to the small sound of his hands.
Hector steps into the circle. He stands bare-armed. He closes his eyes as if he can pull the moon into his chest. The three elders form a triangle around him, faces down, hands open. They tell the crowd again not to look up. The pups are warned. The old law is spoken so all hear.
Candles burn steady. Ash does not move. Bones stay whole.
Eamon raises his voice. "The firmament is open," he says. "The ritual is welcomed." His words drape over the crowd like a cloak. He reminds us why we do this. "The moon gives us power. The firmament restrains it. Tonight we call what the moon has given."
He begins the chant. Thalia and Brynn pick up her cadence. The sound folds into the stone. I feel it in my ribs. The scent of the burning leaves climbs into my throat. Everyone speaks the words seven times.
When the chanting fades, Eamon reaches into a sacred calabash. He draws out a blade. It is small, clean, the edge keen enough to slice butter. He raises it and speaks like a priest.
"Our Alpha is bound by prophecy," he says. "He must find his destined Luna. She will be called the Messenger when the moon reveals her."
Hector straightens his left arm. The crowd hushes, waiting for the cut. He does not flinch. Eamon cuts his skin. Blood beads and falls inside the circle, dark and bright on the ash.
We must wait seven minutes now. The law is set. If no sign opens, the rite fails and we wait another year. If a sign appears, the Messenger is named.
The minutes stretch like a rope.
At first nothing happens. Eamon watches the blood in the dirt. Thalia counts time under her breath. People shift. Two minutes in, someone coughs. The unmated women angle their heads. The Wolfcrown men mutter among themselves. Hector's face grows thinner.
Five minutes, and the wind seems to hold. Everyone looks at everyone else. The silence presses.
I try to breathe through the ropes. My wrists burn. My chest pulls with each breath. The ring of guardians is a blur of armor and leather. My mark itches under the salt and blood.
The sixth minute slides by. Hector blinks once. He leans forward as if weight will fall through him. His hand drops like a man whose strength is only patience.
Then, without warning, I scream.
The sound rips out of me. It is not mine at first. It is the thing's voice and my own torn together. My wolf answers with a long keening that makes some in the crowd cover their ears.
Heat explodes along my left upper arm. A brand of pain lashes me and blooms. I feel the skin split there, red and wet. The world buckles sideways.
Someone shouts. I see blood on the ground. I see a line cut on me, right where the elders could not have reached. It is a cross of thin slash marks, a shape like the one Eamon made on Hector's arm.
Hector vomits then, a wet sound. Blood spills from his mouth and splashes the stone at his feet.
Eamon stumbles forward, old eyes wide. "What abomination is this?" he cries. His voice breaks like a struck drum. "This cannot be… Savannah?"
The two remaining elders run to the circle. Thalia lifts her hand as if balancing a verdict. She stares at my arm, then at Hector. The cut on his left arm is the same. The pattern matches the cross at my skin.
Thalia's voice climbs over the crowd. "She is the one," she says. "This is the Messenger we waited for. Savannah."
The word falls like a stone.
A long sound rises through the crowd—first disbelief, then a low groan, then a sharp bark of derision. "Impossible," someone cries. "Abomination."
People step back, knocking shoulders. Someone points at me like a child would point at a snake.
Hector comes close despite the blood. He looks at my arm and then at me. Up close I can see it in him. His mouth trembles and his eyes go soft and sharp all at once. He asks, voice small and raw, "Is she… is she truly my mate?"
Anders is first to answer. He spits the words like venom. "This cannot stand," he shouts. "The Moon Goddess would not choose a cursed woman. She chooses purity, not a monster marked with death. Eamon, you have turned this circle to darkness. You perform your tricks and save the murderer."
Eamon slams his hand on the ash. "Do not you dare speak to me like that," he snaps. "After what she did to my best friend's daughter, do you think I can forgive? I am no ally to this woman. The ritual shows what it shows. The mark is clear."
Anders is not quiet. He moves through the crowd like a blade. "What proof is this? One cut, one sign. The firmament is not fooled. We must repeat the rite. Perhaps the moon mis-sent. Perhaps this is—" He spits the last words. "—a mistake."
People begin to shout for the repeat. Wolfcrown men beat their fists on shields. The cry grows until the courtyard is a tide of noise.
I do not speak. My throat is raw. My arm pulses. The cut throbs. I feel like the world has split and I am the seam.
A thought slides through me like ice. If the Moon Goddess marks only the pure, then this cannot be right. If the ritual is true, then why me? Was this done to save me? By whom? Lila? Eamon? No. Eamon hates me. Anders hates me even more. I am trapped inside the proof all the same.
Hector stands back, caught between law and a new shape of hope that frightens him. He searches the faces of elders for a law that will tell him what to do.
"Repeat it," Anders says, voice loud enough to stop the crowd. "We will not crown a monster on one sign. The moon could be mocked. We will perform the ritual again. If the goddess is true, she will mark her Messenger twice."
A hundred voices take up the chant. "Repeat the ritual! Repeat it!"
They do not wait for an answer. The circle hums with fury and fear. The word abomination runs like a whistle across the crowd.
I taste metal and moonlight and something I cannot name.
Repeat the ritual.