Shadows and Steel
The dawn's first light filtered through the dense canopy, casting mottled patterns on the forest floor. The Moonborn camp stirred with a new energy—one born not just of survival, but of purpose. Under Alaric's orders, the pack's elite were gathering for the most rigorous training they had ever endured.
Alaric stood at the edge of the clearing, watching as Seris barked sharp commands, her eyes flashing like steel. Around her, the hunters moved with practiced precision, but today, the drills were harsher, more exacting. Mistakes weren't tolerated; the cost of failure was far too high.
"Eyes open," Seris snapped, pacing among them. "The enemy is not just the blade you see—it's the whisper you don't hear, the shadow that slips past your guard. Scouts must be ghosts. Unseen. Unheard. Untouchable."
One by one, the recruits melted into the forest, their footsteps muffled by fallen leaves and soft earth. The training was not just physical but mental—a test of senses, patience, and intuition. They learned to read the slightest shift in the wind, the faintest crack of a twig, the subtle changes in animal behavior that hinted at human or supernatural presence.
Alaric moved among them, his eyes sharp. He called out corrections, guided hands on bows and daggers, but his mind was also searching—searching for the wolves who could become the pack's new eyes and ears.
He caught the steady, controlled movements of a young scout named Kael, whose gaze missed nothing. Kneeling beside him, Alaric whispered, "Focus on the silence between sounds. The forest speaks—if you know how to listen."
Kael nodded, eyes bright with determination. "I won't fail you."
Meanwhile, Seris led a group through stealth exercises. The wolves crawled beneath thorny bushes, slipped across creeks without a splash, and vanished into the shadows as if part of the night itself. Every muscle was trained for silence and speed.
But it wasn't only about stealth. The scouts learned combat techniques designed for quick, precise strikes—disabling an enemy before they could raise an alarm. Alaric himself demonstrated the deadly grace of the werewolf's claws and teeth, his body moving with fluid power, reminding the pack of the primal strength they could unleash when needed.
The physical toll was immense. Several fell exhausted, gasping for breath, muscles trembling. Yet, even in their fatigue, the fire of resolve burned in their eyes.
As dusk fell, Alaric gathered the scouts around a small fire, the flickering flames reflecting their weariness but also their growing confidence.
"You've done well today," he said quietly. "But remember—training is endless. Every day, every moment, you must be ready. Our enemies will not rest, and neither can we."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. The bond between them was growing—strengthened by shared struggle and sharpened focus.
Later that night, alone beneath the stars, Alaric felt the ancient fire pulse within him—a reminder of his rebirth and the heavy mantle he bore. The training was only the beginning. The real test would come when shadow met steel in the crucible of battle.
And when that day came, the Moonborn would be ready.