Luciel’s POV

His steps patter along the thick ice, a faster, louder tune than I am used to when we all know how to be soundless, but I only have my stride to blame for it when it is me he tries to keep pace with.

Slowing is an option I barely consider.

He keeps up, despite himself, and he does not complain or ask me to slow. He follows dutifully instead, a guileless smile leading his way.

And all the while, his eyes remain adhered to me.

He stares, and he does so boldly and without pause, as though glimpses of me are more important than manning his steps. In his strange mind, I believe they are. After his proclamation following the Rites, it was hardly a far stretch.

I ignore the staring for the time being, more… concerned? No. Intrigued— by the smile. It is not as bright as the one he had adorned within the lowermost pool, but it is still filled with far more cheer than he has shown since he appeared beneath the tunnels, shaking and eternally tearful.

There are no tears today. I walk onwards.

I pretend that I do not feel his gaze up until he begins his muted gasps. They come after something on our path mystifies him enough to draw his gaze from me, and then when he thinks to use that thing as an excuse to attempt conversation, only he never does. Not completely.

The start never meets the end, but it is after the fifth ‘um ’ that I round my gaze and fix it upon him.

Peter looks down before our eyes have the chance to meet, casting his attention to the ice as though some invisible tether has yanked it downwards. His hair immediately falls to hide the rest of him. It is like a curtain, moving and fluid, but never parting enough to reveal the wolf hiding behind it.

I frown.

How was it that one could shift so seamlessly between bravery and timidity? Cowardice seemed too cruel a word considering all he had done thus far. But mere moments ago, he had spoken to me without any of this hesitation, and now, he could barely manage a syllable.

There was still the stuttering when we had spoken, though that seemed a part of him, and he had been scared when I raised my voice in error, but there had been a confidence to him then that had allowed him to speak to me without trying to erase his words before they left his tongue.

I maintain my stare despite the hair that divides us, whilst I note the differences between then and now.

The cold, obviously, but he had his coat and did not seem to resent it. Maeve was present, but he had to have grown more accustomed to her presence now than mine. The only true difference was that we were no longer sequestered to a small space, or more notably, alone.

My frown deepens.

I redirect my attention forward, and when his immediately returns to me, I ignore the weight of it just as I do the pressure of the gold coin in my pocket.

At the start of this day, it seemed a perfectly reasonable token for the boy-wolf I knew nothing of. But after witnessing him /urrender himself wholly to the Rites, it felt offensive to still carry it.

The Rites were always done before the Trials, a tradition Peter would not be exempted from, even if he did not know what they were. I had taken myself down to the ceremonial room, believing that Maeve would bring him eventually, and I could talk him through performing them if he was still insistent on the Trials, only to receive yet another shock within this new millennium.

Maeve had brought him, but he had not been alone. Two of the clan’s most devoted had led Peter through the Rites as they would an ally.

Peter could hardly fathom how honourable their presence was, how special they made his Rites, but he had respected it in full, immersed himself in our ways and traditions, and in doing so, he shared with us a glimpse of what might just emerge from the Trials, if he bested them.

So, no. The token no longer sufficed.

“Um,” he begins as we stride into the Northern Wing. Unsurprisingly, he is not a quitter. “B-Big place.”

His gaze is already cast downwards when I peer at him, sure that I may have misheard him. For those to be his first words after so many attempts seemed odd.

“Big place?” I repeat, and his head bobs beneath its curtain. “Yes… This is a big place.”

He winces, and I spot a reddened ear before his hair reclaims its task of concealing him.

Only a minute passes before he tries again. “A-A-And b-beautiful. V-Very detailed.”

My frown deepens, and his heating worsens with only the sound of his steps to soothe it. Peter burns brighter.

“Yes, it is,” I reply to put him out of his misery, and Peter, thankfully, leaves it at that.

Our fortress was big and beautiful, but conversation about how it came to be so was of no desire of mine. In fact, no conversation in general would go unmourned by me, but Peter seems unwilling to do without it.

“H-How l-long have y-you been here?” I look to him, and he looks to the floor. Again.

I consider sharing the truth for a moment before I decide it is harmless. “The clan has been here for four thousand years,” I answer as I would any other clan prospect.

“Oh,” he mumbles with awe. “A-And you?”

Maeve’s steps grow purposefully pronounced, and I mean to heed her silent warning, but then I catch sight of the boy’s wringing fingers. It is an awful habit.

“Some years less,” I reply, and thankfully, shock seems to render him mute for the time being while Maeve’s disapproval simmers.

While he contends with the reality of the lifetimes I have spent before him, we begin up the spiralling staircase that leads to the topmost floors where the library resides. Peter takes each step with care, but he also gawks openly at the widened view of the stronghold it offers.

It is a subtle reminder that he has yet to see much of our clan, even if what he glimpsed were our most intimate parts. He still knew nothing of the blood banks or upper viewing decks. Such things were explored with a guide, a title I had somehow adorned.

I should have pawned his request to be shown the library onto Maeve. She would have scowled and cursed at me silently as she did even now, but she would have done it.

Instead, I agreed to the task because… well, I was not entirely sure why.

It was not as if I suffered Peter’s bond or felt any desire to please him. If I had, then he would not be facing the Trials. But I had agreed, and I still do not harbour a clue as to why, and because of it, now, he walks beside me, muttering ’ums’ and ‘ohs’ while he tries to find common ground for us.

I quicken my steps when he tries it again, so that he finds no success.

On the uppermost floor, we cross the only overarching internal bridge to reach the entry gateway to one of the clan’s eternal treasures.

The doors tower heads above each of us, and I look to Peter, expecting him to be scuttling back, rethinking his request. Instead, his incessant shield slides back to reveal his awe.

It is pure— as pure as he had looked the first moment he saw me, before he came to learn that I had no want for his mate bond. It is a stark difference from his usual fear and misery, and when the doors open and he steps inside, I follow suit to watch it grow.

Peter gasps, and while the sound fills the gargantuan room, none inside split their attention towards him to witness the wonder spread across Peter’s face as I do.

It is though he has never seen books before or a room filled with them, but he had requested this visit, so he must have been familiar. Even so, his eyes flit from the steadily climbing shelves of readings and the roped ladder to reach them, to the deep pods carved within the ground with a shielding dome to retain warmth and protect the books once they were out of their frozen sleeves.

The sleeves themselves seem to enchant him as he watches one sail past to find the sage who does not even stay to ensure that the ingrained spell does its job. The book is promptly recaptured within the sleeve before it returns to its space amongst the surrounding shelves.

Peter drifts to the one nearest to him, peering at the thin ice sheet wrapped around the book’s binding, mouth agape. His fingers lift, tentatively, but he snatches them away without allowing himself to touch.

When he turns to me, I stiffen for some odd reason. I suspect it has something to do with the look in his eyes as he peers up at me.

His mouth hangs, flapping about as he stands before me. He seems to say all manner of things without uttering a single word before he finally mouths, ’This is amazing!’

I nod again, and my earlier frown fades a measure. It was amazing.

I could not remember precisely when I last ventured into the library, but it remained as awe-inspiring as it had been upon my first visit, even with all the centuries passed.

Lifting a finger again, he points to the encased books closest to him. “Doesn’t this d-dampen the pages?”

His stutter appears for one fleeting word. Only one.

I stare at him while shock slithers soundlessly beneath my skin. I thought it an impediment, but he had spoken clearly enough then. Perhaps it was situational.

“No,” I reply after a moment. “This entire room is spelled to preserve the books. It chose the ice to do so.”

Peter’s mouth opens, more questions on the horizon, but he abandons them all as he spins for another /look of the room, as though he has forgotten it already.

His eyes glow, and his smile returns— the full one from the pool— and it grows wider as he seemingly falls deeper in love with the library with every passing second. It is a wholesome sight.

I stiffen the moment the thought settles, and my frown returns in short order.

“I will leave you then,” I state, and Peter’s excitement is quick to plummet as panic takes its place. “You asked for me to lead you here, and I have done so. Now, I have to tend to my own matters.” Such as hunting for an appropriate token.

“B-B-But I-I do-do-don’t know w-where anything is-is,” he stammers, brows lifting and curling in as he begins wringing his hands again. More certainly situational.

I stare at his hands. He had done that earlier at the pool and before, when he had asked for his time to adjust— his time with me.

“I am sure you shall figure it out,” I retort, and it comes out far cruder than I intend it to be. It is only the truth and one we all live.

Our libraries were not visibly sectioned or organised in a way that made for an easy search. Text was collected and preserved, but as for their content, origin, or date of creation, such things were uncovered by searching within each.

It was how the clan ensured all were kept well-read and knowledgeable, for being familiar with the library was a must. But Peter was a newcomer, and trying to sift through it all for heedful information a day before the Trials was a needless task few suffered.

“You will receive your token shortly,” I state, turning from him before he can protest. “Maeve will escort you back to your room once you are done.”

Peter tries to say something else, but I ignore it just as I do Maeve’s stare. It is approving for the first time in far too long, but I wonder how quickly it would flee if she knew what I was leaving to do.

Without Peter at my side, it takes a mere blink in time for me to reach the treasury’s entryway, where the single guard recedes from my path without question, just as they had at the start of this day.

It seemed moons ago when I had traipsed inside, hardly sparing a second to collect the closest coin in the pile by the door.

This time, I must steal a proper moment to survey the jewelled cavern.

While the clan did not claim all that one might find when they travelled beyond, we did have a shared pot of riches that grew solely by the giving we all partook in.

The more one sacrificed, the larger the overall loot became.

What had once been a number of chests was now a cavern overflowing with diamonds of the past, both real and metaphorical. But gold had always been our favourite type of treasure, and it is gold that conquers the space now.

My fingers slip into my pocket and grip the plain hold coin that I toss into the closest pile as I travel further inside.

Recent rummagings show themselves all over, telling of the clan’s efforts before the millennium celebrations. Some necklaces and bands have been returned, others still basking in the afterglow, even with the surprise that followed.

I walk the offered paths that split the gold like river tributaries, spying what can work for the boy-wolf who made demands with a raised chin and watering eyes.

I thought him petulant in nature at the start, even with his softness, and a part of me still believed him to be so, for he acted as though he was owed what he was promised in life. He had not yet learned that promises were seedless wishes. But in truth, he was not so simple.

If he were petulant, then he was ceding as well, and as for what he was denied, he accepted it before even trying to complain about it. He also did not seem the materialistic type, for when he looked at each of our golden pieces, it was with admiration rather than envy. And even though I was yet to see him tire or show any strain after exercise, I was not resentful enough to tax him with a token that would harden his going of the Trials.

I glimpse rings and bracelets, but feel drawn to none, just as all else fails to impress me.

Scowling, I search deeper, paying his would-be token the same attention I had for all other incoming prospects while I stood at pylen.

If he were to survive the Trials, his token would be his first emblem of the clan, which meant that it had to be something he would be proud to wear for an eternity, short as that would be for him.

Mine had been the first coil in my locs, as Maeve’s had been the leg brace she wore beneath her layers. They were a piece of us, and Peter needed as much.

I glimpse earrings, but dismiss them when I recall his untouched lobes, soon doing the same with all else that belonged in other places. I had not seen all of his bare skin before he’d entered the pool, but I had seen enough to know that his chest was unpierced and unmarred.

I could not recall the last time I witnessed someone without a single jewel upon their body. Most in the clan were pierced or marked in white ink, and if not, body chains and beading dripped from some part of them.

Peter, however, had been bare, void of anything beside smooth, pale skin and more muscle than I would have guessed.

It had not been blatant, but it had been there, a slight mound over the tendons of his arms, and a hint to his long torso, and—

I freeze just as my thoughts do and stand unmoving over a stack of golden plates.

Why in all the realms— I needed an appropriate token, not a mental exposition about his figure.

Fanning the thoughts from my mind, I look with more speed and applied purpose, digging through the treasury until I am at the very back, and a glint of something catches my eyes.

I approach, careful, minding the older treasures sequestered to the back.

I fish it out from beneath the chained armour draped over it and lift the thick metal. An arm brace, and it is not made of gold, but brass.

I blink at it.

We had hardly any brass in our company, but we had for a time. It had just been steadily replaced by the gold as our numbers grew and our influence with it.

But this brass stands strong, a wide cuff with rolled edges and no detail or embellishment. It is as though it was welded, made, and left to its own devices.

I settle it in my palm, and while it only stretches across half of it, I am sure it would fit Peter’s arm comfortably. It was also noticeably light. No burden.

Turning it over, I study the cuff.

It was simple, but that did not make it any less delicate, and oddly, in my mind, it was all that suited him. But… it was brass, and while Arraya, Maeve and I had been given golden tokens on our arrival, Nkosi had received brass.

We thought it meant he was destined for more, and so had he.

How ruinsome such innocent thoughts proved to be.

I squeeze the brace only to immediately cease when the brass bends with no resistance. “Ices,” I curse as I hastily temper it, my anger and anguish flooding from me as though they had never left.

I push and twist, trying with measured patience to return the brace to its proper form. It does not find it, maintaining a slight twist at one arc that I loathe until I think of its owner again.

Most resisted such intrusion and broke beneath it, but those who withstood it emerged anew and with bent edges, yes. But that did not make their new selves any less impressive.

So far, Peter had withstood our pressure, as much as I wished he would not, and if he were to survive the Trials, he would have to withstand much more.

The brass would withstand it, too.

Decision made, I turn on my heels and emerge from the treasury without pausing to glimpse at anything else. Passing the guard with a nod, I walk until I find the nearest available newborn.

“Take this to the werewolf,” I say, holding the brace out. “It is his token.”

Dark eyes widen with surprise before they offer the firmest bow I have witnessed in some time. My lips twitch. The newborns were always so comical whilst they adapted. Peter had been much the same today with his bows to Niamh and Radu, though his were far more awkward and displaced.

Gods!

Scowling, I thrust the brace into the offered palms and turn before he can deliver a parting word. He would convey it with haste and die before allowing it to be commandeered, and while I was well aware it was proper for me to deliver it, I had given the boy-wolf enough of my time as it was, both in mind and presence.

The next time I saw him, it would be at the starting post of his first Trial.

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Luciel finna be kissing that arm brace before this book is done lmfaooooo

Thoughts??????

Thoughts on Luciel’s POV??? On his thoughts??? The interraction at the start and him choosing Peter’s token????

I actually think it was so cute how he picked it and the reasons behind it, even if he was like super reluctant lol! And for anyone who’s like who tf is Nkosi, they were been mentioned briefly at the start, and adds to Luciel’s incoming lore hehe

If you enjoyed this chapter, please remember to vote or leave a comment! I love them so much, and the next one will be out in like 2 weeks and will be THE TRIALS!!!!

I hope ya’ll are ready

Until next time,
Byeeeeeeeeeeee Humanssssssssssss