Defying the Lycan King

The fighting had finally stopped.

Smoke still drifted across the broken courtyard in thin grey ribbons. The ground was churned to mud and littered with weapons, torn clothing, and the still forms of those who would not rise again. The whole yard smelled of burning wood and blood.

Warriors moved slowly now, some carrying the bodies of fallen packmates, others kneeling beside them with heads bowed. Quiet weeping mixed with the low murmur of voices and the distant groan of the injured.

Kira and Derek stepped out of the fortress together. Dirt and blood streaked their skin and clothes, but they walked side by side, Kira mostly leaning on Derek.

The stronghold had come down on one side entirely. What was left of the north wall stood black against a sky that had started to lighten at the edges.

Kira took one look at the sad scene and her heart fell.

Oh, Lux said, very quietly. Such a sad scene.

Kira’s throat closed. She had never liked wars not to talk of being the reason for it, or even being a part of it. The aftermath of war was always the hardest.

The moment they appeared to the view, a weary cheer rose from the surviving Lycans and the Alphas who had fought with them.

Braxton stood near the centre of the courtyard with Nana leaning on his arm. Several Kings and Alphas who had sided with Derek waited close by. The moment Kira saw Nana, she broke away from Derek and ran.

Nana!"

Nana opened her arms and pulled her in tightly. The two women held each other for a long moment, hands stroking hair and backs, checking for injuries even as tears of relief slipped down their faces.

Kira pulled back just enough to look at her properly, then hugged her again.

"Are you alright?" she asked the old woman, finally pulling away.

"I’m all right," Nana murmured. "I should be asking you that. Look at the state of you. There’s blood in your hair."

"It’s not mine."

"That’s hardly a comfort, is it?" Her thumbs moved over Kira’s cheekbones. "Are they all right? Both of them?"

"Both of them are fine."

Behind Nana, Braxton arrived at a walk, looking wrecked, and stood there with his hands by his sides.

"Hey, bro," Kira called with a smile.

Braxton stood their looking at his sister as though he’d like to say something, but had had decided against it. Then, he pulled her into his chest and held the back of her head.

"You royal brat," he said into her hair.

"What—"

"You did really amazing. But I’m still mad at you."

A few feet away, Derek received brief, firm embraces from Nana and a few of the other Alphas.

Across the yard, the Northern King picked his way over the rubble towards Derek with his own men behind him.

His face was a mess. One eye had swollen almost shut and there was a bite out of his forearm that somebody had wrapped badly. He stopped in front of him and put out his hand.

Derek didn’t take it.

"You had every right to kill me in that field," the older King said.

"I know."

"And I had every right to expect it." He kept his hand out.

"There’s a saying that there is no lasting peace without conflict," the Northern King said. His voice was rough from battle but steady. "Our fathers buried the hatchet after the last Great War. I believe we should do the same.

Derek looked at the hand.

He was thinking about a clearing at two in the morning and a man telling him to marry a daughter and forget his wife. He was thinking that this same man had brought four hundred fighters across the ridge tonight, and that a good number of them were lying in a row along the eastern wall.

"I’ll pledge to you," the Northern King said. "In front of the council, in front of every alpha in four regions. Whatever comes next, the North stands behind the West."

Derek took the hand.

"We’ll discuss it," he said. "Later."

"Later, then."

The older King held on a moment longer than necessary, nodded once, and went to find his dead.

As the short exchanges of relief and congratulations continued around him, Derek’s gaze moved across the courtyard. He searched the faces of the living and the shapes being carried away. Kai was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Connor. Neither was Declan.

Something cold settled in his chest.

Without another word to the men still speaking to him, Derek walked away. He moved through the aftermath with growing urgency, stopping gammas who carried stretchers or supported limping comrades.

"Have you seen Kai?" "What about Connor?" "Declan?"

Most shook their heads. One pointed vaguely toward the far side of the courtyard where the worst of the fighting had taken place.

He found Kai near the northern gate.

He was crouched on the ground with his back to the courtyard, and for one terrible second Derek’s legs stopped working entirely.

Then Kai shifted, and Derek saw who was on the ground in front of him.

Alpha Tan.

He was propped against a fallen block with his left leg stretched out in front of him, and the leg was in a bad way. Something had gone through it above the knee and out the other side, and Kai had a belt round the thigh and both hands pressed flat over the wound.

Derek dropped down beside them. "How bad is it?"

"I don’t think I’m ever going to walk again," Tan said. "Kai’s going to become the alpha."

"I have no interest in that and you know it," Kai replied. "You better heal."

"Right." Derek said, slidding an arm under Tan’s shoulders, and together with Kai they lifted him. "Up."

Vehicles had begun arriving at the edge of the ridge — trucks and cars sent to carry the wounded and the dead. They carried Tan carefully toward the nearest one and settled him inside.

Somebody had organised stretchers from somewhere and there were pack doctors moving among the rows now, kneeling, checking, marking.

While Derek worked, Kira and Braxton moved among the injured as well. Kira knelt beside a young warrior with a deep gash across his ribs, pressing cloth to the wound and speaking to him in a low, steady voice until help arrived.

Braxton helped two limping fighters toward the vehicles,

Once Tan was safely in the vehicle, Derek turned. Connor stood a short distance away. Blood covered his bare chest and one side of his face, though little of it seemed to be his own. His expression was grim in a way Derek had rarely seen.

"Connor."

"Your Grace."

"Have you seen Declan?"

Connor’s eyes flickered. For a moment he said nothing. Then he gave a small shake of his head.

"No."

"No, you haven’t seen him, or—"

"He didn’t make it."

The courtyard went on around them. But Derek froze in place.

"Where is he," Derek said.

"I put him inside. Under the arch there, out of the way." Connor’s voice finally cracked. "I thought... you’d want to see him before we move him with everyone else."

Derek walked.

He didn’t hear anyone follow him and he didn’t look to see. He went across the courtyard and under the broken arch into the dark of what had been a guardroom, and there was a lamp burning on the floor because Connor had left one, and somebody had found a cloak from somewhere and laid it over him properly.

Declan was on his back with his hands folded on his chest. Only his face remained visible. In the grey light of early morning he looked almost peaceful, the fierce loyalty that had always marked him now stilled forever.

Strength left Derek’s legs, and he went down on his knees, a broken sob escaping his throat.

"Declan, oh, Declan," he sobbed. "Oh, brother."

He got his arms under him and lifted him up against his chest the way you’d lift somebody sleeping, and he held on.

The sound that left him was low and broken — the first open grief many of his men had ever heard from their King. He bowed his head over his fallen friend’s shoulder and wept.

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