The soothsayer's smoke hangs thick in my tent, the visions clearer tonight. I saw a strong back arching under my hands, my teeth marking a path from shoulder to hip. Not the frenzy of conquest after battle, but something slower. A claiming. My nails digging into muscled flesh, my voice a low growl in their ear telling them exactly how their cock will feel inside me, how deep I'll take them before I make them beg to finish. Destiny isn't just carved on a battlefield. It's written in the sweat-soaked furs of my bed, in the raw, guttural sounds of a mate who knows they belong to me. The tribe needs an heir. My body aches for the making of one.