A translucent, crimson aura surrounded the mânie sânge as Aron held it, balancing the hilt and blade with his fingers. Flanking the Lycan king, the Âlde Tire’s hands hovered over the sword, their deep voices whispering as they chanted in their old language, sanctifying it. For nearly fifteen minutes now, they were like this, their faces relaxed in solemn repose, surrounded in a muted pale light of the lupi mortem blossoms as it hummed a brilliant white behind them.
The Lycan litany ended with Aron’s final, murmur of “Gloria Matri,” his eyes slowly opening, looking down at Tate who knelt on one knee in front of him. Levi and Sébastien took a step backward as Aron shifted the sword into one hand and pointed toward him; the blade extending outward and laying on Tate’s left shoulder.
When
