The training hall door closed behind Lyra with a sound that didn't announce itself.
Not a slam. A seal.
As if the room had decided she was inside now and that was final.
The air was different here.
Dry. Clean in a way that didn't feel kind.
It smelled of old wood rubbed smooth by hands and years, of wax, of something faint and sour that lingered beneath it all.
Sweat, long gone, but not forgotten.
Morning light slipped in through the tall, narrow windows, slicing the space into pale, slanted bands.
Dust drifted lazily through them, slow and unbothered, as if it had all the time in the world.
The hall was larger than it needed to be.
Pale oak boards stretched wide, creaking softly when she shifted her weight.
A darker mat lay at the center, its surface worn dull by repetition.
The walls were empty except for a single rack of weapons arranged with a precision that felt less decorative and more disciplinary.
Swords. Staves. Knives.
Oiled. Balanced. Waiting.
Sion stood on the mat.
He wasn't dressed for ceremony. That version of him was gone.
What stood there now wore dark trousers meant to last, tucked into boots softened by years of use.
His shirt was black, sleeves long, but the buttons at the top were undone.
Skin showed. Not as display. As fact.
It wasn't unmarked skin.
Scars crossed his chest in pale lines that caught the light when he moved.
Blade work. Old burns.
And beneath them, ink.
Runes in a blue so dark it was almost black, etched along his collarbone and disappearing downward.
Lyra didn't know the language.
It felt older than the Academy. Older than the idea of walls.
These weren't symbols meant to be read. They were meant to endure.
This version of him felt more dangerous. Less composed.
As if the polish had worn thin and something sharper lived just beneath.
"Good morning, Lyra."
His voice didn't carry.
The wood absorbed it, leaving a low vibration that settled in her ribs.
He didn't smile. Didn't gesture.
He watched her, eyes moving over the heavy black dress, the way it sat on her shoulders, the way her hands stayed close to her body.
She stopped several steps from the mat.
Her fingers were cold.
Silence stretched, filled only by her breathing, which she became painfully aware was just a little too fast.
"You felt pain last night," he said.
No curiosity in it.
"You saw things. Memories that don't belong to you. Or to her."
His head tipped slightly, studying.
"The Scar answered. It carries power. The first kind."
He looked at her steadily.
"Show me."
The word landed wrong. Too simple.
As if this were a skill she could perform on command.
Lyra tried to speak. Nothing came.
Her mouth felt dry, unused. She swallowed.
"I don't… I don't know how."
The words sounded small even to her. Thin.
A confession she hadn't meant to make.
Sion didn't react the way she expected.
No disappointment. No irritation.
He stepped forward, leaving the light.
The space between them shifted, thickened.
His presence pressed in without him touching her.
His scent—pine, frost, something unmistakably human—grew sharper.
His stillness carried weight.
The Alpha pressure she'd always felt as background noise sharpened into direction.
Toward her.
"Not knowing is where it starts," he said.
His voice stayed low. Calm.
"Fear too. Fear tells your body there's a predator. It tells your soul to choose."
Another step. He stood at the edge of the mat now.
"You can't run," he continued.
"Not here. Not from me. So you fight."
Lyra stepped back. Her heel slid against the oak.
"I don't want to fight you."
A flicker crossed his eyes. Not anger.
Impatience, quick and controlled.
"This isn't about want," he said.
"It's about what you are. Something old is waking. A woman who knows how to survive. She hasn't forgotten how to fight. She's just been quiet."
He extended his hand, palm up.
Not touching her. Not quite inviting, either.
"Let me wake it."
Then he released part of himself.
Not all of it. Not the crushing force from the hall.
This was narrow. Focused.
Like heat forced through a small opening.
It hit her square in the chest.
It wasn't pain. It was violation.
His scent flooded her senses, no longer clean but sharp and feral.
The air went cold, charged, prickling her skin.
A low vibration filled her ears, something large and close, just beyond hearing.
And beneath it all came the pressure.
Commanding. Ancient.
Something that spoke directly to the body.
Lower yourself. Yield. Belong.
A rough sound tore from her throat.
Her knees weakened.
Her heart slammed hard enough to make her dizzy.
The thing curled deep inside her, the thing tied to the scar, twisted violently.
And then it turned.
Anger flared. Hot and sudden.
The scar burned.
Not remembered pain. Living heat.
Fear didn't leave. It changed shape. Compressed.
The panic of prey became something tighter, sharper.
She didn't decide.
Her body answered.
A low sound escaped her, rough and unmistakable.
Not loud. Not human, exactly.
A warning.
Her eyes snapped to his.
Sion's expression changed.
Not surprise. Recognition.
Satisfaction sharpened his gaze.
His lips parted slightly, and at the edges of his eyes something glinted—gold, brief and wrong, like light where there was no sun.
"Yes," he murmured.
"There you are. The wolf. She remembers."
He pulled his aura back.
The room exhaled. Air returned. Space widened.
Lyra staggered, breath tearing in and out of her chest.
The sound in her throat faded, but its echo stayed behind, vibrating in her bones.
The heat at her collarbone dimmed, settling into a steady ember.
Her hands clenched in her dress. She shook.
Shame rose hot and immediate. Fear followed.
And anger—at him, at herself, at the part of her that had answered so eagerly.
Sion watched her without moving.
His face closed again, but his eyes remained alert, intent.
"That's the beginning," he said.
"You don't call it. You let it loose. Fear opens the door. Anger gives it shape."
He turned toward the weapon rack.
"Tomorrow, you'll learn how to hold it."
Lyra didn't speak.
Her breathing was still uneven. Her thoughts lagged behind her body.
She had growled.
And for one brief, terrible moment, it had felt right.
Sion went to the window, his back to her.
"That's enough for today," he said.
"You'll be taken back. Eat. Rest. The Scar will take its due."
He paused.
"And Lyra—don't fight her. The harder you resist, the deeper she bites."
He didn't turn.
The door opened.
The guards were there, faces blank.
She knew they'd heard it. The sound she made.
Lyra followed them out, steps unsteady, body still humming with leftover heat and fury.
At the threshold, she looked back once.
Sion stood in the light, unmoving.
Not just her captor.
Not just her claim.
Her trainer.
And with a cold certainty settling in her gut, Lyra understood that he was trying to wake something inside her that might never go back to sleep.