"I am the rightful Alpha of the North! By blood, by law, and by the failure of a King who hides behind a bastard girl!"Marcus’s voice boomed against the vaulted stone ceilings of the Great Hall. He stood in the center of the ritual circle, his chest bare, muscles rippling under skin covered in crude, jagged tattoos. The smell of cedar and old blood saturated the air. Jonathan Clarke didn't move from his throne. He just sat there, fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the silver armrest. The High King looked bored, though the set of his jaw told a different story."You’re a distant cousin with a loud mouth, Marcus," Jonathan said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. "The Northern Wilds don't belong to the loudest dog in the room. They belong to the one who survives the winter.""Then survive this!" Marcus signaled to the ritual attendants.Two women in white robes stepped forward, carrying a tray with two obsidian chalices. This was the tasting. The ancient protocol. Before a due
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