Silence fell over the Windhaven outpost as each of the sister camps and their leaders arrived. Droves of Illyrian warriors, young and untried, flew at the behest of the camp lords to gather before the Rite. To swear the oath before their wings were bound and the consumption of the concoction that would render them powerless.
A week this pre-Rite would last, with clans celebrating the slaughter and rite of passage that was to come. This time granted each warrior the opportunity to size up the competition; to pinpoint who they'd hunt first.
Amongst those warriors stood Cenric, his shoulders stiff in his new Illyrian leathers as he watched each winged male saunter in, their chests were puffed with an arrogance that made his vision bleed red. He barely felt the comforting hand of his mother on his shoulder.
He shrugged out of it.
Now wasn't the time for her coddling, he noted bitterly as fury cold as ice bit at his spine. No, now was the time to put each of them back in their place. He thought back on her ongoing, increasingly desperate attempts to make him postpone the Rite, but none had succeeded. He barely noticed the hurt that flashed across her icy eyes as his fixed his gaze on the other warriors.
He watched each stride into the packed, oversized tent, their wings held high and shoulders back as their hard eyes locked with his own.
Predators sizing up their prey.
He dared them to try, begged them to. And with the relentless training that Cassian and Rhys had put him through, every brutal assault and defensive tactic they could drill into him, he knew he was ready.
The status of the Rite had been deliberated extensively, with his father and Cassian protesting the loudest against it, but to no avail. The matter had been put to a vote and they had lost in a landslide against the camp lords. The lords had insisted that regardless of the display of discarded wings, or the "shedding" as the elder women in the camps had taken to calling it, it could not defer tradition followed for centuries.
Cenric had been pleased by the notion, happy even that the Rite was to continue. The same could not be said of his father and uncle, both of whom wanted to press the issue further. He knew his father had considered forcing the postponement anyway but had relented when he'd met backlash from Cenric himself during their training.
He'd snapped at his father that he was doing nothing but making him look like a childish coward by trying to force the issue. He'd demanded to know if Rhys's own father would have gone to such lengths to protect him from some cowards hiding behind clipped wings.
His father had pushed the issue no further. Instead, he'd redoubled his efforts on trying to trace where the wings had come from and finding the cultists before the Rite began.
None had slept peacefully since the shedding. Even the few females who had braved attending the pre-Rite looked cautious, their eyes glancing to and fro, undoubtedly searching for the now-wingless females that were surely among them. But, as always, none were visible. Still, they kept their wings tucked in close.
In fact, no females appeared to be missing at all. It was as though it had been ghosts who had shed their wings and then vanished in the night before any could see. It didn't set well.
Azriel hadn't stopped looking since the incident and had been so absent in the past weeks that Cenric was surprised to see him amongst the warriors in the tent, his sharp face harsh as he watched the mulling crowd.
Searching no doubt.
"Enough," Cenric heard the low murmur from Nesta to his left, her hand tugging none too gently on his forearm, "You're grinding your teeth so loudly I can hear it."
Cenric barely contained the hiss, annoyed at the command in her voice, but made an effort to unclench his jaw regardless.
He had one advantage his father and uncle were unaware of. After his training had ceased in the evenings, when they had deemed it enough, he had sought out Nesta for further instruction, for the sheer brutality she brought to ring that neither of the males were willing to put him through.
Nesta had had no such reservations.
They sparred in the training ring for weeks in the darkest hours of the night, working through every maneuver she could teach him, every brutal exercise that pushed him near to his limits, and she never pulled a single punch.
She'd insisted she was spending the time trying to wear down his temper but Cenric knew she was only fueling it, honing into an edge sharper than any blade.
She wanted him to make them bleed.
And he would. He would not break, nor would he bow.
He'd barely slept, had survived purely on the notion that the score that had begun tallying when they'd taken his sister would finally be settled.
A hushed murmur rushed through the tent as Cassian made his way to the center of the crowd, encircled by the camp lords who looked out on their warriors with brutal indifference. Rhys stood nearby, arms crossed and by all appearances relaxed, but Cenric knew better.
He knew the tick in his father's jaw, the one that promised violence if anyone so much as stepped out of line.
He was aching to fight too, then.
"You all stand here today as warriors prepared to take part in the Blood Rite," Cassian began. His gaze passed over every individual in the tent, lingering only briefly on the small pocket of female warriors who congregated near the front, Nesta's lieutenant Valka and her quiet mother amongst them. "This sacred ritual is presented only to those who have earned it, to those whose very essence bleeds Illyrian."
The original "blood" had been changed to "essence" in the formal charge to the warriors once Nesta had insisted on taking the Rite and annihilated the first rebels who had spoken out against their High Lord. Since then it had been decided that anyone could petition to join the Rite if they proved themselves worthy, even without Illyrian blood in their veins.
This was the reason the meager fourth Illyrian in Cenric's blood had been enough to permit him to join in the fray.
"Tonight, you will swear the oath before our ancestors, the warriors who have preceded you." Cassian pulled forth an old iron dagger with a leather-wrapped pommel, one believed to have belonged to the first Illyrian warrior Enalius. This blade that would be used to draw blood from each of the warriors as they swore their oaths before the first's tomb. "And you will begin the last descent into becoming true warriors by the Illyrian creed."
"As per tradition," the General added, a wry smile forming on his lips as he flicked his eyes towards Rhys and Azriel in some unspoken memory, "each clan or individual is invited to address the assembly before the pre-Rite ceremonies begin." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Anyone?"
Cenric took a single deep breath and stepped forward.
"I will," he began, his deep voice echoing across the crowd as hundreds of eyes landed on him. A hushed silence fell over the tent as each warrior began to size him up. He tried to ignore the flare of surprise and irritation that flashed across both his father and Cassian's faces, to ignore the sharp intake of breath from his mother behind him.
Too late to go back now, he thought with bitter amusement.
"I stand here before you today as the last living heir of the Night Court," he nearly spat the words as he stepped before the assembly, "and I offer you a challenge." Willing his father's cool confidence and quiet power to his demeanor, he smiled wickedly as each of the warriors eyed him with dismissive indifference or feral interest.
"We are all aware of the act of treason that has been committed against my family," Cenric turned his attention to the nonexistent dirt beneath his nails, arrogance coating his every tone and movement, "and it seems the perpetrators have decided to hide like the cowardly rodents they are."
He didn't fail to notice the slight shifting of wings in the crowd, the quiet murmurs. Good.
"So I issue you a challenge," he opened his arms wide to the crowd, "if you are too fearful to present yourselves openly and face my family as a whole then face me during the Rite," he snarled, "and we will finish it there and end this cowardly bullshit in a contest of strength." He let out a humorless chuckle, and the surrounding warriors bristled. "Come, show me the courage and honor the Illyrians claim to pride themselves on. Or will you take a coward's path again? After all, it takes true bravery and skill to hunt a child in the night for sport."
Silence brimming with barely contained fury rippled through the crowd.
"Brave words," one of the young warriors nearest Cenric, a male built like a wall and with a wicked scar running from forehead to cheek, finally interrupted the heavy pause, "for a wingless, pampered, mixed breed prince." Cenric bristled.
The warrior stepped forward, his sharp gaze bearing down on Cenric as his hand drifted to a blade at his side. The males around him cast wary glances between him and the too-still shadowsinger half hidden in shadow. He stopped before the smaller male, wings flaring. "And a bold accusation to make with no proof of treason from any one of us."
"Is it?" Cenric hissed back, unperturbed, the blood beginning to thrum in his veins. "I've come to expect nothing but boorish idiocy and weak loyalties when it comes to the Illyrian males. You're all barely a fraction of the warriors that came before you."
"I'm giving you one warning, boy." An array of furious growls and grunts rose in the tent with a crescendo. The male stepped within inches of Cenric, his eyes dilated to black. "Why don't go you back to your cozy palace and let the real males play?" He shoved him harshly.
A tether in Cenric snapped.
Before the male could turn to step away he found cold steel pressed flat against his throat, his eyes widening in rage and shock as Cenric's knife bit harshly into his flesh.
"Try me, bastard."
The warrior growled in fury and reeled back away from the blade, whipping a wicked dagger from his belt and slashing at him in a blind fury. Cenric dodged easily and whirled behind the male before planting his boot squarely between his shoulder blades and sending him flying forward.
A shout of alarm and fury escaped his opponent's lips as he clumsily crashed forward into another group of warriors, who snarled in return as they shoved him back to his feet. Cenric only fell into a defensive stance, daring anyone else to step forward.
Gaining his balance, the warrior immediately whipped around to charge towards Cenric, blade brandished, when he came face to face with an arrow leveled at his face. Feyre's eyes narrowed dangerously as she pulled the bowstring taut.
"Stand down," her voice was like ice as she glared at the male, her aim unwavering. "Immediately." Cenric went still.
Silence dropped over the entire tent.
The male froze, but his nostrils flared in fury as he glared beyond his High Lady at Cenric, his hand still tight around his dagger. The bow creaked as Feyre pulled it tighter.
"I said, stand down," she hissed, ice beginning to crawl up the body of the bow and down the arrow's shaft. "That wasn't a request."
The male had enough sense to drop his hand, and though he looked likely to break past Feyre, he settled for spitting on the ground before her. "Of course, the halfbreed's whore came to rescue her pup-" The male's eyes suddenly went wide as though an invisible tether held him, his dagger tumbling to the ground before him.
"One more word," Rhys's hard voice came from behind Cenric, "and that mouth will never make another sound." The male had enough wisdom to look concerned, a bead of sweat beginning to trail down his forehead. Cenric turned just enough to see his father behind him, flanked by Azriel and Cassian who both rested hands on the hilts of their blades.
"There is to be no dueling during the pre-Rite," Cassian reminded, his face hard as granite, "those who commit it are to be banned from participating." He angled a very pointed, angry look at Cenric, who refused to balk. The General sighed, slightly relaxing his grip on his sword. "However, since there was no bloodshed I will permit you to join with the understanding this does not happen again."
A gasp escaped the warrior as Rhys's hold on him loosened.
"Now move on, both of you."
Neither male made any motion to move, each refusing to be the first to back down. Cenric kept his eyes locked on his adversary's face, memorizing every detail. The other warrior snarled in return.
"Move on." Cassian near-bellowed at them. Cenric barely registered the command as he rose from his defensive stance and sheathed his blade, the blood roaring in his ears. Another pregnant pause followed as they each backed up a step, still staring one another down.
The silence was finally interrupted with a pleasant chirp from Valka.
"Well then, this is chalking up to be a good time. And here I was worried this Rite would be boring."