“Sinsoel,” he greets with a strained smile that fails to reach his eyes, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” His voice trembles slightly with restrained anger. “Let’s go, the dance is starting.” 

The invitation hangs heavy in the air, charged with tension, as Landon’s impatient demeanor casts a shadow over the festive evening. 

Bryson’s grip on my hand tightens slightly as I start to speak. I glance at him, his jaw setting as he faces Landon squarely. A feat he’s refused to do before. 

“She’s with me tonight, Landon. I believe she’s made her choice clear, no matter what you’ve been promised.” The air between the two men charges with an unspoken challenge, and I feel a ripple of tension pass through the crowd.  

Landon’s strained smile falters, his eyes narrowing as he assesses the situation, his gaze flickering between Bryson and me before homing in on our joined hands. 

“It seems you’ve yet again mistaken courtesy for affection,” Landon retorts, stepping forward. His presence feels invasive, and I instinctively move closer to Bryson, who releases my hand only to wrap his arm around my shoulders protectively. “Clearly, you’re as misguided as ever,” Landon continues sharply, his tone laced with condescension. “You’re meant to stand with a leader, not a follower. Your mother said you were to spend the festival with me, not him. Now let’s go.” His words slice through the air, intended to undercut and assert his supposed rightful place by my side. He reaches for me, his grip bruising against my arm. I yank myself away from Landon. 

 My response is swift and tinged with sarcasm, “Since when did I become a prize to be handed off based on someone else’s decisions? I think you missed the memo: I make my own choices.” The cool, anger tinged, dismissal in my voice is clear, designed to put him in his place, even as his arrogance stings.  

A pain begins to form behind my eyes. 

Landon’s face reddens, anger flaring in his eyes as he processes my rebuff, a feat that may never have happened openly before. The tension between us crackles, palpable to everyone nearby.  

His pride wounded, his eyes snap sharply to Bryson, his voice laced with challenge, “If you think you’re so worthy of her, prove it. Let’s settle this with a mating challenge. Traditional. We fight and the winner gets her.” 

The proposal hangs heavy in the air, gasps spring up and the crowd holds it’s breath at the mention of an archaic tradition that has not been called upon in recent history.  

Bryson’s expression hardens, the weight of the situation settling around us. He meets my gaze, seeking silent permission, or perhaps strength. The crowd murmurs, some in excitement, but all are captivated by the possibility of witnessing the first fight over a mate in centuries. 

“Really Landon? A fight? Because nothing says ‘modern Alpha’ like resorting to brute force to claim what you think you’re entitled to. I’m not a trophy in your vie for power.” With that, I step back, turning on my heel and striding away, leaving Landon simmering. 

“You spoiled B—” 

Landon is cut off and I glance back to see that Bryson has stepped in front of Landon, blocking his path with a hand on his chest. His stance is firm, a silent yet powerful barrier against Landon’s explosive impulsiveness.  

Bryson’s deep growl rumbles through the tension filled night air, a clear warning to Landon as he firmly blocks his path, his protective instincts flaring in defense.  

Bryson’s growl fades into the heavy silence that’s fallen over the clearing, every pair of eyes locked on the two of them.  

The tension is thick, pressing on the air like a gathering storm. Landon’s chest heaves with rage, his fists clenched, jaw tight, waiting: daring Bryson to flinch. 

But Bryson doesn’t. He simply breathes, slow and measured, never breaking his gaze. 

“Let’s do it then,” Bryson says, voice low but unwavering. “The Alpha Challenge.” 

Gasps ripple through the onlookers. The weight of tradition settles in like a heavy cloak, and the crowd instinctively begins backing away, widening the space for what’s to come. 

Landon’s smirk returns, quick and hungry. “Finally grew a spine,” he sneers, stripping off his shirt and tossing it aside. “Don’t worry, I’ll make this quick.” 

Bryson says nothing. He shrugs off his jacket, I grab it before it hits the dirt, and steps into the ring of packed earth forming at the center of the crowd. His movements are calm, deliberate, every line of his body a portrait of control. 

Landon lunges first, fists swinging wild and fast.  

Bryson sidesteps easily, catching Landon’s wrist and redirecting the momentum, sending him stumbling forward.  

The crowd murmurs as Landon snarls, spinning on his heel to charge again. 

“This isn’t only about her,” Landon spits, circling. “It’s about what’s right for the pack. I’m stronger. I’m smarter. I was bred for this.” 

Bryson still doesn’t speak. He watches for Landon’s next attack. 

Landon attacks again, a feint followed by a low kick, trying to throw Bryson off balance. 

Bryson blocks, twisting with the movement to keep the force from landing.  

His heel digs into the earth, stopping him from sliding too close to the crowd. He’s attentive. 

“You're just a Beta aiming for more than you’re worth,” Landon growls, swinging high this time, a fist aimed straight for Bryson’s jaw.  

Bryson ducks, grabbing Landon’s arm and pushing him backward, away from a pair of elders who had edged too close. 

The crowd shifts as the two move across the arena, a mix of awe and tension rising. 

This isn’t a display of brutality from Bryson, it’s control. He doesn’t retaliate. He defends. He redirects. He lets Landon wear himself down. It’s the movements of an Alpha. 

“Say something,” Landon barks, breathless now, fury deepening. “Come on, Bryson, tell them why you don’t deserve her.” 

More hits are exchanged.  

Landon lands a glancing blow to Bryson’s side, and the sound of impact draws a sharp breath from the crowd.  

But Bryson stays upright, turning the moment into another deflection, pushing Landon further from the clustered bystanders.  

A young girl stumbles close to the edge of the fight, and Bryson shifts, subtly placing himself between her and Landon before sweeping Landon’s legs out from under him. 

Landon hits the ground hard, dirt kicking up around him, but he rolls quickly back to his feet, red-faced and snarling.  

“You think looking noble will win you the title? You think keeping your damn mouth shut makes you a leader?” 

Bryson’s eyes flick toward me, just once. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. I can see everything I need to see.  

My choice in my future mate, my gut instinct, was playing out in front of my face and we both knew it. But knowing doesn’t make it easier. Watching them fight for me as if I’m a title to be claimed leaves something bitter in my chest. This isn’t how I wanted it, any of it, and still, I can't look away. 

While everyone around was holding their breath, I was calm. I could see the outcome before either of them. 

They crash together again, more brutal this time.  

Fists land with real force, the sound of knuckles against flesh sharp and unforgiving.  

Bryson takes a blow to the ribs, the hit landing with a sickening thud that makes the crowd flinch. He grunts but doesn’t stagger.  

As he twists to drive his shoulder forward and shove Landon back, his shirt lifts just enough for me to glimpse the deep bruise already blooming along his side, dark and angry.  

The pain flickers across his face for only a breath before vanishing behind grit and discipline. He never strikes to harm more than necessary. He never lets it turn into rage. 

The crowd, once murmuring, has fallen silent again. There is only this ring of earth, the night sky above, and the two boys fighting for the Alpha position. 

Bryson blocks another punch, gripping Landon’s wrist with firm resolve. They stand locked in place, breathing hard, sweat glistening across their skin. 

“Say it,” Landon hisses, eyes wild. “Say she’s yours. Try it.” 

Bryson holds him there, not speaking, not flinching. Just looking. 

For a moment, neither moves. 

Something shifts. 

It starts with a murmur, one voice in the crowd, then another, and another, building like the wind before a storm. A low chant begins to rise, rhythmic and certain, echoing off the stone and the trees. Bry-son. Bry-son. Bry-son. 

The sound rolls over the area like thunder, each repetition driving deeper into Landon’s pride.  

His jaw clenches, chest rising and falling with uneven breath, while Bryson stands still, his grip steady, his expression unreadable.  

Landon looks worn down, sweat streaking his face, eyes wild with disbelief and growing anger. Across from him, Bryson barely looks winded. 

My heart beats steady in my chest, strangely calm. I've seen Bryson in the training grounds at dawn and dusk. I've seen him run drills in the rain, spar alone in the mud, help the younger pups learn proper form.  

Landon was never there. Landon lounged in town, laughing too loud and pushing others aside. 

Now the difference between them is clear. 

They stand a few feet apart, motionless, the chant still rising around them.  

Landon shifts his weight too fast in his next attack, stumbling a half-step. The crowd notices. So does Bryson. The fury in Landon’s eyes deepens, but his confidence wavers. 

They lock eyes. 

And neither of them moves. 

Time stalls. Landon’s eyes flicker, something feral rising behind them.  

His wolf is pushing forward, clawing for control.  

I can already see the ripple beneath his skin, muscle tightening, the first signs of his shift beginning to take hold. His next move is clear. 

Before either of them can move, a sudden wave of energy ripples across the festival grounds.  

It hits like a foul wind, thick and unnatural, clinging to my skin like rot. The air curdles in my lungs, and I swallow hard, instinctively recoiling.  

Whatever that was, it didn’t belong here. I feel dirty just standing in it, like I’ll need a dozen showers to wash it off. My breath catches in my throat.  

What was that?