The sun hangs low in its midday arc, casting long shadows across the pack's compound as I stumble back to my room, my body a map of aches and regrets. My arms throb like they've been forged in fire, heavy from the morning's brutal drills, and my ribs pulse with a sharp, insistent pain where Eryx's sword bit deep—deep enough to remind me of every failure, every almost. I strip off the sweat-soaked tunic, the fabric clinging stubbornly to my skin like a lover's reluctant goodbye, revealing the bruises blooming across my torso in ugly purples and blues. My muscles, honed from years of relentless training, stand out stark and unyielding, a body built for battle rather than beauty. I pull on a loose shirt, the soft linen a fleeting comfort against the raw heat of my skin, but it does nothing to soothe the storm raging inside.
The room carries that familiar, haunting scent of cedar from the old chest in the corner—my mother's chest, its carved lid etched with faded runes that whisper of a life cut short. I don't open it. Not today. Not when the memories threaten to spill out like blood from an old wound: her gentle hands braiding my hair, her voice warning me of the pack's cruel hierarchies, her final breath stolen by an illness that no healer could fight. The loss hits me anew, a sad, hollow ache that makes my throat tighten. She was the only one who saw me as more than the Beta's rough-edged daughter, the girl who fights like a man in a world where women like Liora win favors on their knees or with a flutter of lashes.
I'm halfway through retying my hair, my fingers trembling slightly from exhaustion, when a soft knock echoes at the door—like a secret waiting to be unleashed. My heart skips, a mix of hope and dread. Could it be Eryx, coming to apologize, or worse, to gloat? Or Tirian?
"Come in,"
I call, my voice steadier than I feel.
My sister, Sylva, slips inside, her movements fluid and graceful, like a shadow gliding through moonlight. She's always been the pack's darling—the one who never had to bleed for respect, her curves and smiles opening doors that my fists have to shatter. Her dark hair cascades in a glossy curtain over one shoulder, framing a face that's all soft angles and knowing eyes, and she's wearing that faint, calculated smile, the one she deploys when she wants to twist the knife without leaving a mark. God, she's beautiful, the kind of beauty that turns heads and starts wars, and in moments like this, I hate how it makes me feel—small, inadequate, like my strength is a curse rather than a gift.
"I heard you had quite a match this morning,"
she says, leaning against the bedpost with an ease that borders on arrogance. Her voice is warm at first, like honeyed wine, but there's an undercurrent that sets my teeth on edge.
"Eryx, wasn't it? Liora couldn't stop gossiping about how you two were locked in that circle, bodies clashing like lovers in heat."
I nod, forcing a neutral expression, but my pulse quickens.
"You hear everything, Sylva. Always have."
She shrugs, her eyes glinting with that familiar mischief—or is it malice?
"Perks of being the pretty one, I suppose. Liora told me all the juicy details. Said you were… intense. Sweaty, fierce, like a wild thing unleashed."
She pauses, her gaze raking over me from boots to hair, lingering on my broad shoulders and the way my shirt clings to the swell of my breasts, earned from push-ups rather than allure.
"It's admirable, really. But gods, Kael, you're so—built for it. All those muscles, that raw power. Not exactly the frame the Alpha's heir usually favors in his bed, is it? Eryx likes them soft, pliant, like Liora—easy to bend, easy to break."
The words slice deep, stirring a hot flash of anger that makes my fists clench. How dare she? I've bled for this body, forged it in the yard while she flirts her way through the pack's elite, trading whispers and touches for secrets and status. But beneath the rage, there's a sad empathy—I know she's speaking from her own scars, the way the pack values her beauty over her brain, reducing her to a trophy. Still, it hurts, making me question if my strength is a wall keeping me from the intimacy I crave, the kind that Eryx shares with others in the dark.
I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting blood, the metallic tang grounding me.
"I'm not training for anyone's favor," I retort, my voice low and edged with defiance.
"Least of all Eryx's."
"Of course not," she says, her tone shifting to that cloying sweetness, like sap that traps and suffocates. She perches on the edge of my bed, her skirt riding up just enough to hint at the games she plays. "Still, it's a shame. You and Eryx spend so much time near each other—sweating, grappling, breaths mingling. People might get the wrong idea. The pack loves its gossip, you know. Whispers about forbidden desires, stolen nights in the shadows."
My stomach twists, a tense knot of suspicion forming. "What idea?" I demand, turning to face her fully, my heart pounding like a war drum.
Her smile widens, predatory now, and she leans in, her perfume—a heady mix of jasmine and something darker—wafting over me. "That you're chasing him, Kael. Pining after the Alpha's son like a bitch in heat. Or worse—that he's chasing you, drawn to your fire despite himself." She laughs softly, a sound like silk tearing, as if the thought is absurd.
"Though with Liora always draped over him, her hands wandering where they shouldn't in public, I suppose you're safe from that rumor. She's got him wrapped around her little finger—or whatever else she uses to keep him entertained."
Safe?... The word lands like a punch to the gut, stirring a mix of anger and sadness. Safe from what—love? Desire? Or the pack's vicious judgment? I think of Eryx's gaze in the yard, that flicker of something real amid the rivalry, and wonder if Sylva's planting lies to isolate me further.
"Why bring this up now?" I ask, my voice trembling with restrained fury, empathy warring with the urge to shove her out.
"Oh, I just think you should know what people are saying," she replies, picking at an invisible thread on her sleeve, her fingers betraying a slight tremble—her own vulnerability peeking through, perhaps a fear of being overshadowed. "Tirian mentioned the same thing yesterday, laughing about it over mead. But maybe he was joking. You know how close he and Liora are—whispering in corners, disappearing together when the feasts get wild. Closer than friends, if the rumors are true."
I pause, the air between us thickening like smoke, tension coiling tight in my chest. "Close how?" The question hangs, heavy with implication—affairs, betrayals, the kind of pack politics that destroy lives.
She blinks, then smiles again—too quickly, too brightly, like she's hiding a dagger. "Oh, I'm sure it's nothing scandalous. They just… talk. A lot. When you're not around. Late nights, shared secrets. But who knows? Maybe they're plotting something fun—or something that leaves you out in the cold."
The words ignite a sad empathy for us both—sisters bound by blood but divided by the pack's games—yet the anger wins, making me want to scream at her for toying with me. The room feels smaller, the cedar scent choking, as doubt takes root: Are Liora and Tirian lovers? Schemers? And is Sylva warning me… or ensuring I fall?
She stands, smoothing her hair with a graceful flick, her composure cracking just enough to humanize her—a flash of envy in her eyes, perhaps resenting my freedom to fight while she's trapped in beauty's cage. "Anyway, I only stopped by to check on you. You look… tired. Worn down, like the yard's taking more than it gives."
As she opens the door, she glances back, her voice light but laced with venom. "Be careful, Kael. Sometimes the people you think are behind you are just standing there, knives ready, waiting to watch you fall—and maybe even help push you over the edge."
The door shuts with a resounding click, echoing like a final betrayal.
I sink onto the bed, staring at the grain in the wood, my mind a whirlwind of anger at her cruelty, sadness for the mother we both lost—who might have bridged this chasm—and a tense empathy for Sylva's own hidden pains. But the doubt festers, planting seeds that will grow in the coming days: whispers I'll chase, lies I'll uncover, perhaps discovering Liora's bed warmed by Tirian, or worse, a plot to undermine my place in the pack. I can't trust anyone now—not even blood. And as the shadows lengthen, I vow to turn the tables, no matter the cost to my soul...
I must.