Festival Trash Duty

Standing nonchalantly against the wooden doorframe, Maddox watched the exchange in quiet amusement. For the first time in his adult life, he was just a spectator on his own territory. He didn't have to be the one barking the orders, stressing over the logistics, or managing the pack's reputation. The realization lifted a load he hadn't even known he was carrying, and before he could stop it, a low, rumbling chuckle sprang from his chest.

 

The sound froze both younger men in their tracks. Zyan and Xander snapped their heads toward the door, staring at the former Alpha. It was a sound neither of them had heard in over eight agonizing months.

Zyan’s position relaxed, the stiff Alpha tension melting from his shoulders as a broad, relieved grin spread across his face.

 

"Watch it, old man," Zyan teased, his commanding tone slipping effortlessly into the friendly teasing of a son. "Keep laughing, and I’ll put you on festival trash duty."

 

Maddox snorted, clasping his arms over his chest. A trace of the old, formidable Alpha lit up his fatigued eyes, glowing more brightly than it had in a long time. "I'd like to see you try, pup. You young pups think you have the whole world figured out. It's cute, it really is, boys."

 

Lettie and Reagan had planned a trip into town to gather all the fresh supplies they would need. As they bustled around gathering their bags, an unusual, genuine smile graced both of their faces. It seemed as if this giant, burdensome weight had finally been lifted from the pack house. Zyan, ever the protective Alpha, wasn't taking any chances; however, he had assigned two trusted warriors to escort them into town.

 

Xander was worried and repressing the need to go with her. This would be the first time since the night of the attack—the very first night he had moved into her room to keep her from completely shattering—that Reagan would be out of his sight for more than fifteen minutes. His wolf paced anxiously below his skin, hating the idea of the separation.

 

Sensing his rising distress, Reagan turned to him. She reached up, cupped his jaw, pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, then patted him on the chest.

 

"We'll be fine, Xander. I promise," she spoke quietly, her fingers stroking gently against his scruff. "Besides, we have Jonah and Fiskey going with us. They will make sure nothing happens. And you need to stay and help Zyan and Dad get started on preparing here. Lettie and I have some serious shopping and when we get back, some serious cooking to do."

 

Xander swallowed his protests, nodding tightly. He stood by the front steps, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her climb into the back of the black SUV with Lettie.

 

As she pulled herself up into the seat, Xander's heart gave a painful, sharp squeeze. The denim jeans that used to fit Reagan perfectly against her frame were now hanging loose, almost sliding off her hips. She had withered away so much while she tried to get over her grief.

 

As the SUV's tires rasped down the gravel driveway and disappeared out of sight, Xander shoved his hands into his pockets. He closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly, sending a silent, quiet prayer to the Moon Goddess that these games would actually work. He needed his Little Warrior back. He missed her fire. The fire he had fought for so long. He even missed the spitfire manner she always stood up to everyone who didn’t agree with her. Because nine times out of ten, she was right in the first place.

 

And while Lettie and Reagan spent the afternoon making their way through the crowded town market, the guards were loading the back of the SUV with fifty-pound bags of flour, sugar, and endless pantry staples,while the men were back at the pack lands, up to their necks in logistics.

 

The sprawling territory behind the main packhouse was a blank clean canvas of potential, but right now, it just represented a daunting amount of heavy labor. Zyan stood with a quickly drawn map of the grounds rolled out over the hood of a truck, Xander and Maddox on either side of him.

 

"The obstacle course will go here, passing through the eastern woods and ending here," Zyan said, tapping a finger against the paper. "We need to get a crew out there today to inspect all the climbing walls and re-hang the heavy ropes. We need the course to be extra grueling this year. "

 

Xander leaned over the map; he had his brain already working overtime. "I'll take a team out there this afternoon, get them to clear out some of the bigger overgrowth. The stuff we can’t work around. But we also need to get the heavy machinery down to the lower basin. That mud pit for the tug-of-war isn't going to dig itself, and it needs to be massive. If the visiting packs are bringing their heavyweights, we need a pit deep enough to actually challenge them."

 

"Make sure you get the hoses run down there early," Maddox chimed in, folding his arms as he looked out over the flat expanse of grass closer to the main road. "You don't want to be trying to fill that pit the morning of the games."

 

The former Alpha pointed a finger toward the wide, open field. "And the Midway needs to go up front, right where the ground naturally levels out."

 

The Midway was always the beating heart of the games for the attendees—the families, elders, and youth who came not to bleed in the dirt, but to celebrate. By the time the games began, that empty field would be transformed into a vibrant market of vibrant tents and wooden booths. It was a tradition for the visiting packs to set up shop and sell the specific wares their territories were known for. Soon, the air would be filled permeated with the scent of spiced meats and potent home-brewed meads, and the booths would be packed with finely carved  jewelry, hand-tooled leather armor, forged iron weapons, and rare medicinal herbs from the deep territories.