The pre-dawn cold bites like a blade, sinking through my furs and skin, clawing straight into bone. My breath clouds in the frigid air as I pull on my training gear—fitted black trousers, a sleeveless tunic, and bracers that hug my wrists, their leather worn soft from years of sweat and sparring. I tug my hair into a tight braid, each sharp pull grounding me, sharpening my focus like a whetstone on steel. The rest of the pack can sleep until the sun breaks the horizon. I crave the quiet of the training yard before it wakes—the fleeting moment when it's mine alone.
The frozen dirt crunches under my boots as I cross to the sparring circle, the air sharp with the scent of frost and pine. I start with stretches, rolling my shoulders to loosen the knots left by yesterday's bruises. My staff, smooth and familiar, feels like an extension of my will as I grip it. First swing—a clean, whistling arc through the air. Second—tighter, faster, slicing the silence. By the third set, my arms burn, a hot, satisfying ache that drowns out the echo of yesterday's defeat.
Footsteps shatter the stillness, light but deliberate. I pivot, expecting a senior warrior's gruff critique. Instead, Liora saunters into the yard, looking like she's stepped from a bard's ballad—her auburn hair falling in loose waves, her tunic laced with infuriating precision, her face untouched by the exhaustion that clings to me. "Morning, Kael," she says, her voice bright, almost too bright, like sunlight glinting off a blade. "You're up early."
I plant my staff in the dirt, meeting her gaze. "I could say the same."
"Oh, I'm just here to watch," she replies, leaning against the weathered fence with a casual grace that sets my teeth on edge. Her smile is syrup-sweet, the kind that could rot teeth. "I admire the… effort you put in."
Before I can fire back, Tirian ambles in, carrying two steaming mugs that smell faintly of honey and herbs. He hands one to Liora, then takes a slow sip from his own, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. "Looks like you're trying to make up for yesterday, Kael."
My grip on the staff tightens, the wood creaking faintly. "Looks like you two are avoiding the training part of training."
Tirian's grin widens, sharp and teasing. "Someone's got to supervise."
Their laughter is soft but barbed, a sound that pricks at the edges of my composure. I turn back to my drills, forcing my focus to the staff's rhythm—thwack, spin, thrust—refusing to let their whispers carve deeper than Eryx's boot did yesterday. The yard is mine again, if only for a moment.
Then heavier footsteps break the air, deliberate and unhurried. My pulse quickens as Eryx strides into the circle, his jaw set, his dark eyes locking onto mine like a predator sighting prey. The others might as well be shadows for all the attention he spares them. His leather armor creaks faintly, still dusted with the arena's grit, and his presence shifts the yard's air, charging it with unspoken challenge.
"You're early," he says, his voice low, steady, but laced with something that could be respect—or mockery.
"So are you," I shoot back, my chin lifting.
He steps to the rack, selecting a training sword with a casual ease that belies the intensity in his gaze. "Wanted a rematch," he says simply, testing the blade's balance. "Unless you're too tired from swinging at air."
Behind him, Liora and Tirian exchange a glance—quick, fleeting, but loaded with shared amusement. It's not about my form; it's about me, always me, the Beta's daughter who dares to stand too close to the Alpha's son. My blood simmers, but I shove it down, stepping into the circle with deliberate calm. I meet Eryx's gaze without flinching, my staff raised, its weight an anchor against the storm in my chest.
"Let's see if you can actually knock me down this time," I say, my voice steady but burning with defiance.
The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smirk, but close enough to ignite my resolve. "We'll see," he says, and the words hang like a gauntlet thrown between us.
Liora's soft chuckle drifts from the fence, but I don't look. The yard narrows to the circle, to Eryx's stance, to the pulse of my own heartbeat. This isn't just a rematch. It's a chance to prove I'm more than almost.
The frost-bitten air stings my lungs as Eryx and I circle each other, our boots crunching the frozen dirt of the training yard. The first slivers of sunlight creep over the treetops, glinting off his training sword like a warning. His movements are deliberate, measured, each step a predator's calculation. Mine are sharp, coiled tight like a bowstring ready to snap, my staff gripped so hard my knuckles ache. The yard is a battlefield, and I'm done being the one who falls.
The first clash—wood against wood—sends a jolt through my arms, the impact ringing in my bones. I push forward, driving Eryx back a step, my breath tearing out in ragged clouds. The cold sears my throat, but it fuels me, sharpening the fire in my chest.
From the fence, Tirian's voice cuts through, lazy and mocking. "Careful, Kael, don't bruise our golden boy before the Alpha gets a look at him."
Liora's soft laugh follows, her mug poised at her lips, eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh, I'm sure Eryx can handle her."
The words are a barb, but I swallow my retort. If I waste breath on them, I'm handing Eryx an opening. Instead, I tighten my grip, my staff a steady anchor against their needling.
He comes in low, his sword sweeping for my legs. I pivot, my boots skidding on the icy dirt, and swing high, aiming for his shoulder. He blocks with infuriating ease, the clash reverberating through the yard. Our eyes lock for a heartbeat—his dark, cool, calculating, the same unyielding gaze that pinned me in the trial. Not a bead of sweat on him, not a hint of strain.
"You're holding back," I say, my voice low, edged with accusation.
He tilts his head, a faint smirk curling his lips. "Maybe you're not worth my full effort."
The words hit harder than any blow, igniting a spark of fury in my chest. I lunge, faster this time, my staff a blur as I force him into a retreat. For half a second, his smirk falters, and that fleeting crack in his composure is enough to drive me forward—thwack, spin, thrust—each move sharper, hungrier.
A new voice cuts through the yard, deep and commanding, stopping my heart for a beat. "Good form on the footwork, Kaelen. Keep your weight centered."
I steal a glance, just long enough to see Commander Jarek leaning against the fence. Tall and broad-shouldered, his scarred face is a map of battles won, his gray eyes steady and assessing—not pitying, not mocking. Jarek's praise is rare, a coin hard-earned, and I've trained under him enough to know he doesn't waste words. My chest swells, but I shove the feeling down, refocusing on Eryx.
He's noticed Jarek too. His strikes sharpen, faster now, each swing carrying a new edge, like he's determined to keep Jarek's attention from lingering on me. I parry a heavy blow, the force rattling my teeth, and shove back with all my strength, enough to make him stumble. The dirt skids under his boots, and a soft gasp escapes Liora—sharp, fleeting, and definitely not for me.
Tirian mutters something under his breath, just loud enough for Liora's laugh to follow, a tinkling sound that grates like claws on stone. Jarek's voice slices through, crisp and unyielding. "If you're here to watch, keep quiet. The yard's for work, not gossip."
Tirian's smirk doesn't fade, but Liora ducks her head, her perfect composure flickering. A flicker of satisfaction sparks in me—small, petty, but undeniable. It's gone in an instant as Eryx feints left, his sword arcing toward my ribs. The blow lands hard, a dull thud that steals my breath and sends me crashing to one knee, the frozen ground biting through my trousers.
"You alright?" Jarek's voice is steady, unreadable, cutting through the haze of pain.
I shove myself up before Eryx can extend a hand, my ribs throbbing but my pride stinging worse. "Fine," I grit out, my voice rough but firm. I won't let him—or anyone—see me waver.
Eryx tilts his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, infuriatingly calm. "You're getting better, Kaelen," he says, his tone almost sincere but laced with that familiar barb. "Almost."
Almost. The word is a splinter, sharp and persistent, burrowing deeper with every repetition. I square my shoulders, my staff raised, my eyes burning into his. "Keep talking," I say, my voice low, a promise wrapped in defiance. "I'll show you almost."
The yard feels smaller now, the air heavier, charged with the weight of Jarek's gaze, Liora's quiet judgment, and the unspoken challenge between me and Eryx. This isn't just a spar. It's a declaration—one I won't let end with me on my knees.
The match ends without a handshake. Eryx sets the sword back on the rack, gives me one last unreadable look, and walks off with Liora and Tirian at his heels. Their laughter fades as they leave the yard, the sound too light for the frost in the air.
I'm still catching my breath when Jarek steps into the circle. Up close, the scars across his forearms look like pale lightning, jagged and deep.
"You've got control," he says. "Too much of it."
I frown. "Isn't control supposed to be a good thing?"
"Not when it chains your instincts." He studies me for a long moment, like he's weighing the words in his head. "When you fight, you're waiting for permission to strike harder. From him. From the crowd. From… someone."
"I'm not—"
"You are." His voice is quiet, but the weight in it makes me close my mouth. "There's something in you, Kaelen. It's there in the way you move, the way you push past a hit. But you're holding it back."
I laugh, a short, dry sound. "If there's something in me, it's just stubbornness."
Jarek's mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Maybe. Or maybe you're more than anyone here realizes — including you."
A chill runs up my spine, and it has nothing to do with the cold. "What are you saying?"
He shakes his head, stepping back toward the fence. "Just… don't waste time trying to fight like someone else. When it's time, you'll know what I mean."
Before I can ask more, he's gone, the crunch of his boots fading toward the warrior barracks.
I stand there alone in the circle, my breath ghosting in the morning air, wondering why his words feel less like advice and more like a warning.