Chapter 8
The silence lasted only a second before Diann's shrill voice shattered it. She stood up from her seat, pointing a clawed finger at the dead beast.
"By the rules of the clan, the best meat goes to the elders and to me!" she demanded. "Cut it!"
A few of the stronger males who served Diann stepped forward, their knives drawn, moving toward the Blade Beast.
Brannon's eyes narrowed. In a flash, he drew the bone blade from his hip. The blade was a blur, and a sharp crack echoed through the square. The stone slab at the male's feet was split open, a deep gouge marking the stone.
The male stumbled back, falling on his ass. Brannon's voice was ice. "I said, nobody touches it."
The crowd erupted in whispers. Chief Gareth frowned, walking down from the platform. He tried to use his authority. "Brannon, you are a member of this clan. Your strength is a gift from the clan. Your kills must be shared."
Brannon let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Gift? I was thrown out of the inner circle when I was six. I survived on rotting meat. What gift did you ever give me?"
The old shaman, Cyprian Frye, hobbled out, leaning on his staff. He began the guilt trip. "You are selfish, Brannon. You would let the clan's cubs starve this winter? You have no heart."
A few pregnant females were pushed to the front. They rubbed their bellies and wailed about the coming cold, begging for the high-energy meat to feed their young.
The crowd's mood shifted. They began to shout, calling Brannon a monster, an ungrateful beast.
Carin watched from the shadows, her disgust for this hypocritical clan turning her stomach.
Brannon stood tall, his spine straight, refusing to yield an inch. He stared at the shaman. "Last month, when the hunting party was ambushed by wolves, who stayed behind to save your son? How do we settle that debt?"
The shaman's face went red, then pale. He had no answer.
Diann, seeing her advantage slip, went for the jugular. She attacked him personally, her voice dripping with venom.
"What's the point of guarding that meat? You're a cripple who can't even shift into a full beast! No female will ever choose you!" she screamed. "You won't survive this winter! Your cells are rotting! You are a curse!"
The words hit Brannon like physical blows. The leopard ears on top of his head flattened back, a primal sign of pain and defense. The hand holding the bone blade tightened, his knuckles turning white.
Chief Gareth saw Brannon's hesitation. He gave a sharp nod to the guards.
A dozen spears leveled at Brannon, encircling him.
Brannon didn't attack. Instead, he raised the blood-stained bone blade and pressed it against his own throat.
The crowd gasped. Gareth shouted, "Are you insane?"
Brannon's eyes were wild, a man with nothing left to lose. "One more step, and I destroy the core. You won't even get a piece of rotten meat."
It was common knowledge that if a high-level beast's core was forcibly detonated, the meat would instantly carbonize. The guards froze, their spears hovering uselessly.
A standoff. The air was thick with the smell of blood and tension.
Carin watched the lone figure, surrounded by enemies, willing to destroy himself rather than submit. A sharp, painful empathy twisted in her chest. She knew what it felt like to be cornered, to have nothing.
She couldn't wait any longer. If he died, or if he was exiled, her shield was gone.
Carin took a deep breath. She pulled her hood even lower and stepped out of the shadows, walking straight toward the volcano that was about to erupt.
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