Twenty of us stood crammed together in a space that barely deserved to be called a room. "Room" suggested comfort, walls that offered breathing space, a place to exist. This was nothing of the sort. It was little more than a broom closet, and in the dark, pressed shoulder to shoulder, it felt smaller still. I couldn't tell whose arm Nobrushed mine or whose uneven breathing stirred the air beside me. The only thing I knew for certain was that the silence between us was thick enough to choke on.
The man next to me might as well have been carved from stone. His body was rigid, every muscle held taut as if strung on a bowstring except for his fingers, which betrayed him. They twitched against his thigh in a nervous rhythm, brushing against my leg whenever he moved. He didn't seem to notice, but I did. Years in the U.S. Special Forces had burned that habit into me: awareness. Always aware, always attuned. I couldn't simply stand still anymore; I catalogued every shift in movement, every breath, every tremor.
If I survived this, if the agony of waiting and the terror of what came next prepared me for the Trials ahead, then the suffocation of this moment would be worth it. Because there would be no start-overs,no mercy, no second chance if I failed.
My eyes fixed forward, over the crowd of heads gathered before me, into the rectangle of light spilling from the open doorway. That glow was both invitation and threat, a boundary between what we were now and what we would become. In three lunar cycles' time, only two of us would remain. That reality carved itself into my chest with every beat of my heart. I aimed to be one of them.
Anticipation drew shallow, ragged breaths from those around me, but I held myself steady, my body sliding into its default stance: weight balanced on the balls of my feet, shoulders squared, hands loose at my sides, ready for what was coming. It was the posture of someone who could not afford to be caught off guard. I hadn't been able to truly relax in years, not since the military had rewired me to see danger in stillness. Now, waiting in that suffocating dark, I let my instincts settle me into readiness.Because whatever awaited us beyond that doorway was the unknown and in the unknown, only vigilance survived.
My hands were loosely clasped behind my back, the strain of the posture gnawing at my shoulders, but I forced myself to ignore it. The woman beside me had a fierce expression carved into her face, eyes hard, chin lifted as though defiance itself ran through her veins. She strode with confidence when her name was called, disappearing through the door with not so much as a backward glance.I inched closer to the threshold, peering out for the first time at the world beyond our cramped prison of a room. It was no larger than a servant's closet, attached like an afterthought to the grand ballroom of Weiss Tower. Since the moment we had been herded inside, silence had been our shield, pressing us tighter together, shoulder against shoulder, breath against breath, as if the very closeness could lend strength.
When the voice rang out again, sharp, commanding, impossible to ignore it cut through the stillness like a blade.
"Tucker, Zoe."
The name was followed by the scrape of shoes against the floor as she moved forward, tall and striking, built like an Amazon. She brushed past me without hesitation, her blonde hair coiled in a strict, utilitarian bun, her presence leaving a brief vacuum in her wake. One by one, the others were called out. Some stepped out with steady determination, while others faltered blanching, pausing, before forcing themselves through the door. Each departure stretched the silence further, until the walls seemed to close in on those of us who remained. I caught glimpses of murmurs from the other side of the doorway, but no matter how I strained my ears, the words slipped away like smoke.
When Andrews, Mark was called, he shuffled forward, shoulders hunched, as though trying to shrink from our collective gaze. The group instinctively edged back, parting around him as though his uncertainty were contagious. He vanished through the doorway, and just like that, the space he left behind was swallowed up as the rest of us pressed closer still. With each name spoken, the air grew heavier. A few among us released involuntary sighs, their tension escaping in the smallest betrayals of sound. How many even realized they were holding their breath until it left them in a rush? The woman on my other side stiffened suddenly, every muscle drawn taut. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the briefest flash of fear across her face a blanching pallor, chased almost immediately by a flood of color as she mastered herself once more. When her name was called, "Baker, Amy," she gave a curt nod, then forced her way through the cluster of bodies, pushing past us with brisk determination.
Time moved strangely. The room that had first seemed suffocatingly small now felt cavernous as our numbers reduced. What had been twenty was halved, and when only three of us remained, the space stretched out around us, vast and empty, amplifying every beat of silence.
Beyond those doors lay the unknown, the trials, the testing ground that had drawn us all here. Weiss Tower, the tallest building west of the Mississippi when it was built in 1902, loomed over the city as the proud headquarters of the Winter's Hollow Pack. Once dismissed by the public as mere rumor, its purpose had since been revealed. And now, one by one, we were being delivered into it, our futures waiting on the other side of the ballroom's echoing doors. Financial firms had been the first to react, but soon the entire public sphere shifted once the general population discovered the truth, shifters existed. From that moment, secrecy was no longer necessary, and the hidden world of werewolves stepped boldly into the open.
The ballroom, drenched in warm yellow light, glittered as though it belonged to another age. Massive crystalline chandeliers, which had adorned the ceiling for over a century, spilled bright sparks of white across the crowd. Round tables filled nearly every corner of the room, each set for twenty, though not all were occupied. Close to a hundred people milled about in clusters, talking quietly among themselves, sneaking glances at their phones, or feigning interest. If someone had stumbled in without context, they might have mistaken the gathering for a tedious corporate banquet instead of what it truly was. The Trials.
At the very center of the room stood a banquet table left empty of guests. In front of it, a petite woman held her ground with a stance that spoke volumes. Feet planted shoulder-width apart, arms clasped firmly behind her back, she radiated discipline and control. She looked unassuming, ordinary even, but her posture betrayed her combat experience. This was no meek participant; she had been trained. And though she tilted her head down in a gesture that could be read as submission, the sharp gleam in her eyes revealed defiance. She wasn't one to bend easily. Rules and orders would chafe against her. My attention shifted toward the stage above her. There, a man led Zoe Tucker forward. The local media adored Zoe's Seattle darling of the pack and her picture surfaced in every article the alpha allowed.
Yet tonight she wasn't simply a face on a magazine cover. She was here in the flesh, moving with a quiet confidence. At her side walked a man shorter and slighter than she, but the way he carried himself betrayed undeniable strength, the kind that demanded respect without words. He had to be her werewolf sponsor; no outside human was ever permitted into the Trials.
The two of them halted at the edge of the stage. Neither moved toward the stairway that would lead them up to the platform.
Instead, silence claimed the room for the first time, drawing eyes forward. From the stage, a woman in command of the gathering let her voice cut through the air: "Kane Evans," she called, her gaze sweeping the crowd before fixing on the sponsor. "Who is it you have brought for the Trials?"
"May I present Ms. Zoe Tucker?"
The formal announcement drew my attention at once. I leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing as I studied the exchange unfolding. Zoe's gaze wasn't on the speaker, nor the crowd. Instead, it was locked on a fixed point behind him, as though she dared not meet the eyes of anyone present. The man she stood before, her sponsor, cut an imposing figure. His dark brown hair, nearly black under the low light, framed a face carved with sharp lines and shadowed by a scruff of stubble. Even when still, his presence radiated danger. There was no need for overt aggression; it was in the quiet way he carried himself, the predator's ease that lingered in the air around him.