My mate-mother complained that the ceremonial feast spread I'd arranged was too extravagant, then publicly praised my bond-sister's homemade shredded root vegetables as the mark of a proper pack female.
I wanted to explain, but my bondmate gripped my arm.
"Mother has lived lean her whole life. Just bear with her."
Later, she made a cutting remark while gesturing toward the roasted nuts on the platter.
"Even these seeds know how to produce. Some she-wolves, though..."
I understood then.
She was using the dish to mock me.
Never mind that it was her son's body that carried the weakness—somehow, the blame landed on me.
My bond-brother and his mate piled on. The rest of the pack-kin snickered.
I looked at my bondmate. He kept his head lowered, silent.
I was done.
I summoned the Feast Steward.
"Pack everything up and have it delivered to my territory carriage."
My mate-mother's face twisted with fury.
"What do you think you're doing?"
I met her glare without flinching.
"I'm saying you and your precious daughter-by-bond can go home and eat shredded roots."
1.
The private feast chamber was packed—sixty wolves crammed around three large circular tables.
Servers moved between them, setting down platter after platter.
"Moonstone Shrimp Rings... Ribbon-Wrapped Herb Boar... Golden-Crusted Quail..."
Garrick Stonebriar, the Feast Steward, announced each course with practiced grace.
My mate-mother's expression, however, had gone dark as a gathering storm.
"A hundred and eight dishes?"
She slammed her eating knife onto her plate with a sharp ring.
"Selene Wolfsbane, are you trying to claim the entire feast hall?"
The table fell silent.
I smiled faintly.
"It's the Moon-Turn celebration, Mother. It's rare for the whole pack-line to gather like this."
Her eyelids lifted as she swept a cold gaze around the chamber.
"What's the point of everyone being here? Resources spent are resources gone. These dishes are overpriced and flavorless—not half as satisfying as the shredded roots Joryn makes!"
I turned to look at my bond-sister, Joryn Ashveil.
She sat with her head bowed, sipping her herbal brew, the faintest curl at the corner of her lips. She said nothing.
"Mother, Selene meant well."
My bondmate, Howl Fletcher, murmured beside me, playing peacemaker. His hand brushed my knee beneath the table—a signal to let it go.
I didn't pull away. But I didn't respond either.
The dishes kept arriving.
No one touched their eating knives.
Pups reached for the food, only to be silenced by sharp looks from their parents.
"How much did all this cost from the territory stores, anyway?"
Dahlia Crowmire, one of the aunts from Howl's bloodline, broke the silence.
I kept my voice even.
"One hundred eighty thousand in resource shares."
A collective intake of breath rippled across the tables.
My mate-mother's expression turned murderous.
"A hundred and eighty thousand!"
Her voice pitched higher.
"Howl, do you hear this? Your bonded certainly knows how to drain our stores!"
Howl rushed to explain.
"Mother, it's Selene's own pack resources—"
"Her resources are the Frostclaw bloodline's resources!"
She cut him off, jabbing her knife toward the freshly served "Pearl in Palm" dish.
"Look at this! All presentation, no substance. One bite and it's gone. Who is this supposed to feed?"
Joryn set down her cup and spoke in that soft, honeyed voice of hers.
"Mother, please don't let your hackles rise."
"Selene leads a pack—she has to maintain standing for territory dealings. We're just ordinary wolves, so we wouldn't understand. We just think... something more practical would be better."
She lingered on the word practical, letting it hang in the air.
One of the younger aunts jumped in immediately.
"Exactly! It's just a Moon-Turn feast—eating in the home den would've been fine. All this flashy nonsense at a feast hall... wolves who don't know us will think we're territory-grabbers with no breeding."
I'd had enough. I set down my knife and started to rise—but Howl pressed down on my shoulder.
He shook his head slightly, whispering, "Mother has always lived lean. Just be understanding. Bear with it a little longer."
I exhaled slowly.
If she hadn't spent the past moon cycle telling me that this year's Moon-Turn feast had to be done properly, I wouldn't have bothered arranging any of this.
Now I saw it clearly.
She never wanted a ceremonial feast at a hall.
She wanted me laboring over the fire pit in the home den—exhausted, overworked, playing the dutiful bond-daughter.
I had to be humble. Subservient. Suffering.
Only then would she be satisfied.
