On the second day of the new year, no cloud trailed the clear blue sky, and the morning sun shone brightly as if to burn away the dark horrors and tragedies of the past week. The wind settled into a courteous breeze, and the temperature climbed out of the freezing trenches for the day. Unnaturally warm for winter, it allowed Ethan to get away with not wearing an overcoat.
It was as if the universe conspired to make this a perfect day in memory.
But regardless of what fate wanted, the alpha would forever remember this moment as the saddest event in Snow Pines' history. Christmas had slipped by under the bloody haze of gore and death when they had fought to rescue their families. Now, they would mark the new year with grief and sorrow. Today was the memorial of all the brave warriors who fell in battle and the unfortunate victims who did not survive the witches' influence.
As the clock ticked past nine, the great doors of the Vanguard's Hall swung open to allow the mourners to pay their last respects. And the cries of the bereaved families drifted in.
A thick layer of snow from the night before covered the trimmed lawns of the memorial hall. But efficient staff had shoveled and salted the paved paths clear of ice.
Smartly dressed warriors stood on guard for every two paces on the walkways. The colors of their uniforms varied - army green for Vanguards, midnight blue for Trackers, inky black for Territory Police, and ash-gray for Border Patrol. They represented every Snow Pines Lycan military and enforcement agency.
That was where their differences ended.
Except for the two silver pinecone badges clipped to the breast, the warriors had stripped every color of office or achievement from their uniforms. It was their last act of humility to the departed.
Only the dead would be honored today.
Similarly, they donned pristine white gloves as a mark of service to the brave. Finally, two silk braids run from chest to shoulder: snow white for their pack and midnight black to show mourning.
Ethan joined his warriors, standing on guard by the main entrance of the Vanguard hall. The native she-wolf trotted after him and sat on her haunches beside his white matching shoes.
He had tried all morning to shoo her away, but the only language she recognized was to stick to him like a shadow. At least her two brothers obediently stayed in the side rooms with Zyga and his mother.
Ethan sighed in resignation and squared his shoulders to meet the crowd. Clad in his father's clothes, the all-white uniform of the alpha's office, he schooled his face and stared straight ahead.
He could not shake off the weight that a number of the names listed in the hall died under his command. Nor could he help the guilt that some of the victims might have survived had he acted sooner. Had Ethan not run away. Had he challenged Ryden earlier. Had he done something. Anything!
However, as the first mourners climbed the stairs to the hall, Ethan pushed his self-recrimination to the back. This moment was not about him. He was here to serve the families of those he had failed.
Slowly, the stream of mourners shuffled past, dipping their heads to Ethan in respect before moving on. Some wailed, others sniffled and hid their tears behind damp handkerchiefs. But no one walked past with clear eyes.
Ethan's irises flashed red as his heart tore under the cries of their pain. So many people had suffered needlessly. Countless loved ones had died, leaving their families heartbroken. He balled his hands into fists and clenched his teeth as his wolf railed within his breast.
As an older couple climbed the stairs leading to where Ethan stood, the tearful woman wobbled. It was clear her husband was struggling to keep her upright.
YOU ARE READING
Blooded Mate
Fantasy[[MATURE CONTENT]] Pack, family, mate. Loyalty, respect, honor. These are the words that form the foundation of the wolf society. At six years old, Ethan had to choose between his Alpha title and his survival on the night of his father's death. As a...
