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In The Land Of The Damned...
Donovan settled on a sturdy wooden bench near a hearth in the alehouse, with Lothar and Acheron as his companions for the night. The crackling fire bathed them in a comforting heat as they shrugged off their cloaks and took their seats.
"This is the men’s life," Acheron rubbed his hands together with gusto, eager to warm them by the flames.
The atmosphere of the alehouse was alive with the gentle hum of conversation, punctuated by occasional burst of laughter and the clinking of wooden spoons against earthenware bowls. To avoid drawing undue attention, given the presence of their Alpha, they had selected a secluded table tucked behind one of the heavy curtains.
"We come here to down our sorrows," Lothar reclined in his seat as he explained to Donovan. "And you my friend, you are in need of some of that ale to just let it out. Before you burden us with the details, that is."
Lothar whistled at a serving maid nearby, catching her attention. Upon recognizing him, the young lady approached his table with a knowing smile.
"Ale for the lots of you?" She asked, reaching for the pewter mug at her waist. Lothar nodded, tossing a generous handful of coins onto the table, which was more than enough to cover their order.
"And also, don’t forget to bring us a portion of whatever savory stew is simmering on the hearth tonight. Today has been nothing short of chaotic."
Acheron added, his stomach growling in anticipation. The maid bobbed her head in acknowledgement and reached for the coins on the table, her skirt swishing as she hurried off to fulfill their request.
Lothar’s gaze swept the rustic interior of the alehouse, taking in the rough-hewn wooden beams and stone walls that seemed to absorb the warm, golden lights of the candles.
The few iron sconces that dotted the wall, casted a dim, amber glow, illuminating every nook and cranny of the room. "This place hasn’t changed much," he observed, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "We should drag Neville here next time, show him a good time."
Donovan remained silent as he listened to Acheron and Lothar converse away. The faint scent of ale and roasted meat lingered in the air, but Donovan had no appetite for any of that. His keen ears twitched each time he caught subtle remarks from guests, and he mumbled.
"Thirty heartbeats."
"Hm?" The suddenness of his comment caught Lothar and Acheron off guard, their conversation faltering as they turned to him in inquiry. Lothar’s eyebrows were furrowed in curiosity, and Acheron’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if seeking clarification.
"The alehouse contains thirty people," he explained, a faint smile playing on his lips. "That means it’s big enough to hold thirty guests and slightly more. Don’t mind me, it’s a habit." He leaned into the crook of his arm, his movement relaxed and effortless.
Just then, the serving lady returned, placing the steaming bowls of stew and brimming mugs of ale before them.
Recognizing her Alpha, she gave him two mugs of ales. "And for you, Alpha. This one’s on the house." She smiled prettily and walked away. Acheron’s jaw dropped in dismay at the Alpha privilege, and he rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation.
Lothar’s eyes sparkled with amusement as Donovan raised his mug, "Take it slow, my friend," he cautioned. "This is your first time after all."
Acheron’s green eyes twinkled with mischief as he eyed the second mug. "And what’s with the two mugs anyway? You think you’re some kind of ale connoisseur? Not to worry though, I’ve got you covered." He reached out to take the extra mug, but Donovan’s hand shot out, blocking his first attempt with a firm yet gentle slap.
"Hey!" Acheron exclaimed, withdrawing his hand immediately.
"Don’t touch," Donovan cautioned gently. He took a sip from his mug, his expression thoughtful. "Not bad," he pronounced, his tone measured.
His opinion of the ale was actually ambivalent, cause he was neither strongly for, or against it. But if someone offered him a mug, he wouldn’t decline. He only agreed to join Lothar and Acheron due to his desire to distract himself from the looming reality. His mate would be getting married to Lennox tomorrow, a man who clearly didn’t deserve her. The thought of her walking down the aisle towards that scoundrel was a bitter pill to swallow.
What troubled him the most was that his mate didn’t abhor the idea of marrying someone who wasn’t him, and worse, she chose Lennox of all people. He couldn’t bring himself to intervene, no matter how much his heart ached at the thought of losing her when he’s just only found her.
That’s why he chose to come here so he can distract his senses from anything that has to do with her.
If marrying Lennox brought her joy, then he would silently bear the pain, as long as she’s happy, even if it meant she wouldn’t be by his side.
The moon goddess is indeed cruel.
In a state of turmoil, Donovan inhaled the earthy scent of the ale before taking a long, parched draught that left Acheron and Lothar agog. The ale’s bitter flavor seemed to wash away some of the bitter thoughts plaguing his mind.
As he reached for the second mug, his hand paused mid-way, arrested by a sudden, jarring voice in his mind.
"Mate."
The word resonated through his thoughts, spoken in a deep, commanding tone that sent shivers down his spine. It was his wolf’s voice, yet it was unlike anything he had heard. The sound was instinctual, primal, and unnervingly intense.
Donovan’s hand remained suspended in the air, his mind reeling from the unexpected intrusion.
Did he hear it right, or was the ale starting to affect his ways of thinking after downing one mug?
Lothar and Acheron were enjoying their meal while also engaging themselves in conversation that didn’t pique Donovan’s interest. He eventually convinced himself that he must have misheard, attributing the strange voice to the ale’s influence.
After all, his wolf has never spoken to him before, and the last time they conversed was during his first transformation as a child.
Picking up the second mug and raising it to his lips, Donovan’s hand hesitated mere inches from his lips when the same commanding growl boomed in his mind. "Get me my mate, she needs us!"
"Son of a motherless goat," Donovan’s soft exclamation drew the attention of Lothar and Acheron.
Acheron misinterpreted it as a contribution to their conversation, and he nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I heard he was the son of a motherless goat too!"
"That’s not what he meant," Lothar’s eyes rolled heavenward as he realized Acheron had mistakenly assumed Donovan was joining in on their teasing of a shifter they were discussing.
"What happened?" Lothar asked, concern etched on his face. "You look like you’ve ran into a ghost. Did you remember something?"
"No," Donovan shook his head slowly. "My wolf just talked to me, for the first time after so many years." He said, dropping the second mug. "My wolf and I have been estranged, but it just spoke to me, and it mentioned my mate."
Acheron’s eyes widened, and Lothar stifled a gasp. "You found your mate???"
"Yeah," Donovan’s response sounded hesitant. "I did before now but she’s... getting married to someone else tomorrow."
Acheron rose to his feet and glanced at Lothar. "I just mind-linked Neville to get the ropes and that sleeping potion he has. I think we’re gonna need a mask, or is it necessary since she’ll see our faces anyway?"
"Not necessary," Lothar responded after much contemplation.
"What are you two planning on doing?" Donovan asked, confusion writ on his face.
Acheron’s sassy smirk was unmistakable as he dropped the bombshell. "Well, what do you think? Didn’t you say you just found your mate? We’re going to crash that wedding tomorrow and kidnap her."