The full moon rose fat and white over the valley, turning the river into a sheet of hammered silver. Every path leading to the ceremonial ground had been swept clean of stones. Pine resin smoked in shallow clay bowls, sweetening the night air. The whole clan had gathered—hunters, gatherers, children half-asleep on their parents’ shoulders, elders seated on the highest rocks so they could see everything.

Arthit remained in his hut.

He had not meant to come at all. The leg was bound tightly from mid-thigh to below the knee with strips of softened hide and the last of Kongpob’s bitter-smelling poultice. Even so, every shift of weight sent a deep, grinding reminder through the bone. He sat on the edge of his sleeping platform, fully dressed in his best hunting leathers—the ones Rara had once said made him look like a winter wolf—and stared at the single oil lamp until the flame blurred.

Footsteps approached. Not the light, quick steps of an omega. Heavier. Measured.

The chief ducked through the low doorway without waiting for permission. He was a broad man, still strong despite the grey in his braids, and the scent of authority clung to him the way smoke clung to old furs. He looked at Arthit’s bound leg, then at Arthit’s face, and sighed through his nose.

“You will come,” the chief said. It was not a request.

Arthit did not move. “There is no place for me in the line.”

“There is a place until the last garland is given.” The chief’s voice softened, almost against his will. “My son has been strange these past days. Quiet. I think he still means to choose you. He has spoken of no one else for two seasons. A broken leg does not change the heart overnight.”

Arthit almost laughed. The sound stayed trapped behind his teeth. He had seen the way Rara’s visits stopped the same hour the healer pronounced the injury serious. He had smelled the shift in the younger omega’s scent whenever the subject of the future was raised—fear layered under sweetness, the particular fear of being tied to someone who could no longer run or provide or stand tall in front of the clan.

Still, the chief waited.

Arthit reached for the walking staff Kongpob had cut for him three days earlier—a length of ash wood smoothed and polished until it felt almost soft under the palm. He levered himself upright. The pain flared white-hot, then settled into its familiar deep ache. He did not let it show on his face.

They walked the path in silence. Arthit’s limp was pronounced. Each step required careful placement of the injured leg, a small hesitation that the watching clan would notice and remember. By the time they reached the edge of the firelight, sweat had gathered at his temples despite the cool night air.

The ceremonial ground was a wide circle of packed earth ringed by standing stones. In the center burned the great mating fire. Around it the unmated alphas had already begun the display.

Zane was easy to find. Tall, golden-skinned, laughing as he completed a series of spear forms that made the younger hunters shout approval. His movements were clean, powerful, unbroken. When he finished he planted the spear butt in the earth and scanned the watching omegas with open confidence. Several of them smiled back.

Other alphas followed—wrestling holds, knife dances, a young one who sang in a clear high voice while striking a rhythm on a hollow log. The clan clapped and called encouragement. The air was thick with competing alpha scents: spice, smoke, fresh blood, sun-warmed stone.

Arthit did not join them. He stood at the outer edge of the circle, staff planted, weight carefully distributed. The chief remained beside him for a moment longer, one heavy hand briefly gripping Arthit’s shoulder, then moved away to take his place among the elders.

Kongpob stood with the other unmated omegas on the far side of the fire. He wore a simple tunic of undyed linen and a thin leather belt. No feathers. No ornaments. His satchel was still slung across his chest, as if he might be called away to tend someone at any moment. He kept his gaze lowered, but every few breaths his eyes flicked toward the place where Arthit stood.

The dances ended. The alphas formed a loose line facing the omegas. Tradition was simple and old as the clan itself: each unmated or widowed omega who wished to claim a mate stepped forward carrying a garland of braided sweetgrass and late-summer flowers. The omega placed the garland around the chosen alpha’s neck. If the alpha accepted, he returned a second garland—kept ready by the elders—around the omega’s neck. The pair then stepped out of the line together to begin the first night of their mating.

If the alpha refused, the omega simply walked away, garland still in hand, and the shame belonged to both of them in different measures.

The first omega—a quiet widow with two young children—chose a steady mid-rank hunter. They exchanged garlands with little fuss. Another pair followed. Then another. Laughter rose. Someone started a soft drumbeat.

Rara stepped into the firelight last.

He wore a tunic the color of new cream, embroidered at the hem with tiny blue beads. A single white feather was bound into his hair. His scent bloomed outward—ripe plum and honey and something sharper underneath, like bruised fruit. The clan fell quiet. Everyone knew the story. Everyone expected the same ending.

Rara walked the line slowly, as if considering. He paused in front of Arthit for the space of three heartbeats. Their eyes met. Arthit did not speak. He simply looked at the omega he had planned to claim, the one he had brought gifts for across two full seasons, and waited.

Rara’s mouth trembled once. Then he turned and continued down the line until he stood in front of Zane.

A soft collective breath moved through the watchers.

Rara lifted the garland and settled it around Zane’s neck with careful grace. Zane’s smile was bright and immediate. He accepted the second garland from the elder and placed it around Rara’s neck in return. The drumbeat swelled. Someone cheered. Rara leaned into Zane’s side as if he had always belonged there, laughing a little too loudly when Zane murmured something against his ear.

Arthit felt the moment settle into his chest like a stone dropped into still water. He turned.

The staff took his weight. He began the slow, careful walk back toward the darkness beyond the standing stones. Each step was a negotiation with pain. He did not look at anyone. He did not need to. The clan’s attention had already shifted to the new pair; the broken hunter limping away was only a brief, uncomfortable footnote.

He had almost reached the edge of the light when soft, rapid footsteps caught up to him.

“Arthit.”

Kongpob’s voice was low but steady. Arthit stopped. He did not turn at once. When he finally did, he found the apprentice omega standing two paces away, breathing a little too fast, a braided garland clutched in both hands. The sweetgrass was slightly crushed from the force of his grip.

Kongpob’s face was pale in the firelight, but his eyes were clear.

“I know I can never compare to him,” Kongpob said. The words came out in a rush, as if he was afraid they would stick in his throat if he slowed down. “I am not beautiful. I have no high rank. I have only what I know of healing and the work of my hands. But I choose you. I would like you to be my mate—if you consent.”

Silence opened around them. A few nearby watchers turned. The drumbeat faltered.

Arthit’s gaze dropped to the garland, then rose again to Kongpob’s face. He glanced once, almost unwillingly, toward the center of the circle. Rara was still tucked against Zane’s side, smiling up at his new mate, seemingly oblivious. The chief stood among the elders; when Arthit’s eyes found him, the older man gave a single, deliberate nod.

Arthit’s voice, when it came, was rough from disuse.

“I am an invalid.” He shifted his weight and the staff creaked. “The bone may never take my full weight again. I cannot run. I cannot provide as I once did. Do not be a fool and choose a mate who will only become a burden.”

Kongpob stepped closer. The scent of crushed herbs and clean river water clung to him—quiet, persistent, stubborn.

“Then give me six months,” he said. “Let me treat the leg properly. Let me try the methods the other healers spoke of. If at the end of that time the injury has not improved enough for you to live without constant pain, or if you find that sharing a hearth with me is worse than solitude, we will go before the chief and ask for the mating to be set aside. No shame. No debt. Only six months of honesty.”

Arthit stared at him. The night air moved between them, carrying woodsmoke and the distant sweetness of Rara’s scent. Somewhere behind them a child laughed. The drum began again, softer now.

Slowly, Arthit lifted his free hand.

Kongpob raised the garland. Arthit bent his head just enough for the braided sweetgrass and late flowers to settle around his neck. The weight of it was slight. It smelled of summer and the particular green sharpness of the riverbank where Kongpob must have gathered the grass that morning.

For a long moment Arthit did not move. Then he reached to the side, where an elder had quietly approached with the second garland—the one meant for the claiming omega. Arthit’s fingers closed around it. He turned back to Kongpob and, with the same careful precision he once used to set a spearpoint, placed the garland around the younger man’s neck.

A small sound escaped Kongpob—relief, or disbelief, or both.

From the center of the circle Rara’s voice rose, bright and carrying.

“Well. I suppose even a broken hunter can still find someone willing.” The words were light, almost playful, but they landed with the particular cruelty of someone who had never learned how to share attention. “Take good care of him, little healer. He’ll need it.”

Kongpob turned. His shoulders were straight. The garland rested against his collarbones like a declaration.

“You have your own mate to concern yourself with,” he said, voice calm and clear enough to carry. “I suggest you do so.”

Rara’s smile faltered. Zane glanced between them, expression unreadable, then drew Rara a little further into the crowd with a low word. The moment passed. The clan, practical as ever, began to turn its attention back to the remaining pairs and the feasting that would follow.

Arthit stood very still, the staff grounded, the unfamiliar weight of the garland against his throat. Kongpob remained beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, not quite daring to close the last distance.

After a time Arthit spoke, so quietly that only Kongpob could hear.

“Six months.”

Kongpob’s answer was softer still.

“Six months.”

They turned together toward the path that led away from the firelight, one limping, one matching his pace without comment, the twin garlands pale against the dark of their clothes. Behind them the drums continued, and the full moon watched without judgment as the newest mating of the clan walked slowly into the night.