I stand tall that fateful morning in the Werecat village. Proud and true as I would have in my youth when addressing a problem set before me, hiding the boy beneath the Shifter and the Shifter beneath the Prince.

Both healers turn with varying degrees of shock. Morgana’s eyes are wide as her mouth forms an O. Shefa Bridge drops the pestle she was working with. The loud crash of wood upon hard packed dirt sounds muted to my ears, the echo only heard clearly in my subconscious. I knew this day would come. The fear in my heart has come to fruition. Might as well get it over with.

I observe the Imperial. He meets my eyes. He does not challenge my position, only shows with his gaze that he wishes to confirm that which he somehow already knows. Those bushy eyebrows almost hide the silver gaze that is bright with emotion. The only scent I gather from him is the sweetness of an honest hope. I nod in grave acceptance.

He bows deeper, going down farther than his waist. I go down to one knee, and twist my head to offer him my throat, the gesture of wolven submission. Whoever came up with the way to check for legitimacy was determined to have his legacy known and his descendants humiliated.

"The Imperial to the Pack should first seek to serve his people before asking the pack to serve him. He is first into battle and last to withdraw. He is last to bed and first to wake. The True Alpha is servant first and leader last." The First Alpha's words are drilled into us heirs.

The Imperium grabs my throat in a vise-like grip, almost cutting off my air supply.

“Is this necessary?” Shefa Bridge asks.

We both ignore her. I wish it wasn’t. Yet, such is the ceremony for one who wishes to check my heritage. I will not turn down this man for his wish to know. It is a sign of grave disrespect. Also, should I wish to claim my inheritance, I cannot refuse.

By pack law, should the heir refuse to show the proper submission to one with no malicious intentions, the inheritance is forfeit. My father may have sent me from the pack, but if my cousin is putting up such a show as to look for me, then I must still be a threat to Greyson's power.

No one has any idea how this ceremony works, nor why it works. All my ancestors were subjected to this, and we all know how hard it is for an alpha to show submission. Definitely keeps them humble.

It should be done to others. Humans could use this humility, the voice grumbles.

It would not be proper.

Psshaw. Let's do it! Next human we see...

Shut up, I reply, trying to control misplaced humor, considering the Imperial still before me with his hand around my throat.

My lips twitch, and the Imperial frowns.

“I am sorry about this,” he says. His tight lips and furrowed brow, along with the slightly spicy cinnamon scent on the air communicate sincerity.

“Do it,” I choke out.

He looks into my eyes and says three words. “Blackson Salom Imperialinus.”

Immediately, a shooting pain begins behind my eyes. The Imperium’s hand holds me upright. His other hand grips my shoulder as I tip forward. The flesh on my forehead prickles as the sign of my heritage carves itself into my skin. The scent of burned flesh assaults my nose.

A sharp intake of breath from Shefa Bridge.

“What happened to you, boy? How did ya get so afar from home?” Morgana asks in the tenderest manner I have heard.

I stand on slightly shaky legs and take a deep breath. I nod to the Imperial to release me. He rises with a bow of his head and steps back.

“I did something displeasing to my father." I answer Morgana, "Let’s just say some places don’t care about heritage.” A grim smirk tugs at my lips.

The pound of rushing footsteps comes from outside the door. Adrenaline pounds through my veins and heightens my senses. My ears morph into points and fur tingles along my arms.

The door slams open with a jarring thud, and the Imperial grimaces.

My upper lip pulls back to reveal pointed fangs.

"Get him off our land, Imperial!" a Were says with a harsh swipe of his meaty hand, pounding against the wooden wall of the shack. "We need no mutt here."

"Jeryld, he is here by my blessing. If you have a challenge, take it up at the next Council,” the Imperial replies blandly.

"Mark my words, he will only bring disaster,” the man growls, his lips curling to reveal pointed teeth, jabbing a sausage-like finger in my direction.

Flash sends me an apologetic shrug, even as the eyes of the intruder are drawn to my forehead.

His eyes become murderous, and I see a flicker of recognition within. "You don't belong anywhere, do you? Cast from your pack, a Krilous of dishonor. Perhaps you are the assassin who killed your father in vengeance."

It's enough that the roiling rage within roars in turmoil, calling for this Were's head. I tap down on it with my entire will, my hands clenching into fists that shake with emotion.

The man, despite his taunting, doesn't know how close he came to the truth.

"Should you attack him, it will be a direct attack on one of my chosen. Do you wish to start a tribunal so soon after losing so much?" the Imperial asks, his voice soft and cajoling, even as he stands between me and the man.

"He's not one of us. He doesn't belong here." Anger rolls from him in waves. "Don't you know what the Kursk did to Amberin? To my baby girl?"

The Imperial's countenance softens slightly. "I know. But that wasn't him."

He almost looks as if he will back down, his shoulders slumping, but then his eyes flicker back up to my forehead.

"It may not have been him, but it was his fault. If he had been there, the bastard Alpha wouldn't be king. My baby girl would still live. His kind did this."

He casts a meaty fist at his Imperial to knock the Were out of the way, but the Imperial blocks it.

He steps towards Jeryld, his fist hitting the man's chin and making Jeryld's head snap back.

The Imperial kicks the man in the chest, sending him out the door to land flat on his back. Two Were outside the door look on with wide eyes, a man and a woman.

"Get this sack of dragon spit out of my sight,” the Imperial says with the most vehemence I have heard in his voice.

The two, both with light blond hair and deeply tanned skin, bow and hurry to each take an arm of Jeryld. He flails, hitting the woman across the cheek and knocking her to the ground. The other man's eyes slit and he draws a dagger, resting it on Jeryld's throat. Jeryld stills, but his eyes still speak of vengeance.

The man with the light blond hair nods to the Imperial as he leads Jeryld away.

The Imperial nods back, then he closes the door with a bang.

"Forgive me, boy. Some don't know their place."

“You’re him.” Flash watches me, something indistinct and practically glowing in his wide blue eyes. He holds up a plain tan note as if it were the Holy Hair of Esmerelda, rumored to heal all ills. The snoop had been going through my bag and took the note from my informants. “You’re truly Bloodfang.” His voice is filled with wonder and a bit of awe.

The Imperial cuffs his son on the back of his head.

"Do you genuinely have no concept of secrecy, child of my blood?"

Flash looks up with an impish grin even as he rubs the back of his head.

Shefa Bridge releases a nervous, tittering laugh. "Of course he's not some worlds’ famous assassin. Who in their right minds would even believe such fairy tales?" She pauses, looking at the others. "Correct?"

The gazes of the other two say they are actually considering it. Morgana taps her cane against her lips.

I note a small healer's blade near the bed, only an arm's length from me. The Imperial's hand reaches down towards his dagger as my eyes flicker first from the small knife to the different exits.

Shefa Bridge gulps. "Correct?" she asks again.