The Bondmaker's curse

Chapter 9: Moonrise Trial

By the time moonrise approached, the air on the island turned dense with expectation. The stones beneath my boots were slick from earlier rains, and the wind had stilled—too still, as if the land itself held its breath. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a stag barked once, and then silence returned like a drawn blade.

The trial grounds were an ancient place, a shallow bowl of stone ringed with standing monoliths that hummed faintly in the back of my senses. Bone-casting patterns from the boat replayed in my mind, and with them came the weight of things not yet spoken aloud.

Cathal was already there.

He stood at the far side of the circle with his arms folded across his chest, his posture carved from the same stone as the standing stones around us. There was no sign of nerves on the Alpha’s face, but his eyes followed me with a sharpness that spoke to something else. Worry, maybe. Or expectation.

Neasa lingered nearby, half-concealed by one of the older stones. She offered me a small nod, something just between us, before fading into the shadow of the crowd.

Callum gave me a pat on the back and a whispered, “Try not to bleed too much. They respect blood, but they’ll respect cleverness more.”

That much was familiar. Every fight I’d won—back in Texas, out in the swamps, even the one in the warehouse against men twice my size—had been won by speed, cunning, and a refusal to go down the way they expected. I had never overpowered anyone. I’d never needed to.

Now, the pack watched.

The Elders formed a crescent of weathered faces, murmuring among themselves. The Enforcer—Bran, the one who’d tested me with disbelief and let me cast the bones only to find truth in them—stood off to the side, his arms crossed and expression unreadable.

A younger wolf from the pack entered the ring, his muscles taut with challenge. Not cruel, but determined. This wasn’t personal. It was tradition. It was ritual. And tonight, I had to earn my place.

Cathal finally spoke, voice low and carrying. “This is not a duel to harm. It is a test to reveal.”

I rolled my shoulders, already calculating angles and terrain. There was moss underfoot—slippery. The stone pillars were too far to use as cover. My opponent was stronger, probably faster in a straight sprint.

But I had something else.

I moved first.

The crowd barely saw me shift position before I was low, ducking under the first swipe, planting a hand in the moss and using it to vault behind my opponent. Quick, efficient. Not flashy.

I tapped the young wolf’s back with two fingers. Not a strike, but a message: I could’ve taken you down. You didn’t see me. You’re already behind.

The challenger whirled, growling—not shifting fully, but close—and I raised my hands calmly.

“No need,” I said. “You’ve already shown me what I needed to see.”

Silence.

Then, one of the Elders leaned forward. “Explain.”

I tilted my head. “You put me here to see if I’d claw my way to a place that wasn’t offered. But I don’t need to break anyone else to belong. I just need to show I can stand where you ask me to.”

The Enforcer let out a breath like a stifled laugh. Neasa smiled.

Cathal, though still silent, met my gaze across the ring. There was something different in his eyes now—like he was seeing something he hadn’t dared hope to. And for the first time, I held that look without flinching.

As I turned to leave the ring, thinking the test was done, one of the Elders—an older woman with hair braided in silver and moss—lifted a hand. Her voice was creaky with age but carved with command.

“Wait. That was the body. Now test the spirit.”

I froze mid-step.

Bran looked at her, then at Cathal, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod. The Enforcer stepped into the ring and tossed something into the moss: a shallow bone bowl, one I hadn’t seen since the ship.

Another test.

“Under moonlight,” the Elder said, “you say you see the threads of bond. Then show us. Prove that you are what the stories claim.”

The crowd rippled with murmurs. I could feel the tension coil up again—worse this time. This wasn’t about strength or tactics. This was the deeper fear they held. That I was a fake. A pretender.

I took a breath, stepped forward, and knelt beside the bowl.

The moon overhead cleared the last veil of cloud. The ring was suddenly silver-lit, the standing stones casting long, watching shadows. I reached into the pouch at my side and let the thirteen runes tumble free into the bowl.

They clicked like teeth. Like something ancient waking.

My eyes fluttered closed. My fingers hovered over them, not touching, just… listening.

Twined Moons near the center, barely touching the edge of Fang & Flame—the beginnings of a soul-deep bond formed through conflict.

Voidstone, cracked down its hollow center, sitting just off to the side. A heart that feels nothing. Mine.

Distant Howl, cast far to the rim of the bowl—someone calling out, not knowing who might answer.

Bloodtrail, upside down and faint in its angle—violence in the past, but not the future.

And nearest to me… Hearthfang, face up, firm. The unchosen home. The place I could belong, if I dared.

Ghoststep, hidden half under Voidstone—past decisions that won’t stay buried.

Sunken Fang, drawn close to Bloodtrail—reminders of loss or betrayal that still ache.

The Huntress, barely visible beneath Twined Moons—watchful love, patient but piercing.

I opened my eyes and looked up slowly. The bowl hadn't moved. But the air around us had thickened. More than one Elder leaned in. Even Bran didn’t hide his curiosity.

“What does it mean?” the silver-braided Elder asked.

I let silence fill the space first.

“It means,” I said slowly, “someone here already calls out for a bond they don’t know they need. It means I carry nothing in return—just a shape to fill a gap I don’t understand. And it means… your Alpha isn’t the only one being tested tonight.”

The air shifted. Some faces turned to Cathal. Others turned away.

But Neasa, from somewhere in the crowd, met my gaze like she already knew.

Cathal’s face didn’t change, not right away, but his hands dropped from where they’d been clasped behind his back. A tremor passed through him—not weakness, not fear, but the steady exhale of someone preparing to accept something heavy.

He looked at the bowl, then at me.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, voice low enough only I might hear.

“Neither did I,” I replied, just as softly.

The crowd had begun to shift, some dispersing now that the spectacle had passed. Bran gave me a single nod, thoughtful, as if he might actually believe what he’d seen. Neasa stepped forward from the stones and laid a hand briefly on my shoulder, grounding.

“You did well,” she murmured. “Even if they won’t all say it.”

That night, they let me stay in the longhouse. The guest quarters were warm, but sparse. No luxury. Just a bed, a basin, a view of the sea.

I lay there listening to the wind whispering through the beams, the soft hush of waves below.

Somewhere nearby, Cathal’s scent drifted through the air—sea smoke, pine, and that thread of something unplaceable. The clothes in the Alpha’s cabin flashed through my mind again. So did Neasa’s words about untethered threads.

I didn’t know where this road led.

But the first step had been made.

And the Moon was watching.