The training ground was a scarred field at the edge of the forest, where grass gave way to packed dirt and claw marks crisscrossed the earth like old wounds. Torches burned along its perimeter, their flames guttering in the morning wind, as though the land itself braced for blood.
Aria stood in the center, her heartbeat loud in her ears, while the pack circled like spectators at an execution. Warriors leaned against wooden posts, arms crossed, eyes sharp with curiosity and judgment. Some smirked, expecting her to fail before she even began. Others watched with the kind of hunger that made her skin crawl—wolves who wouldn't mind seeing her broken.
Damian stood apart, arms folded across his chest, his presence so fierce the warriors kept their distance. He was not supposed to be here; council law demanded trials and training remain unbiased. But Damian was Alpha, and Alphas bent laws when they chose. His eyes never left her, dark and storming, and that gaze was both her anchor and her undoing.
"Again," Rowan barked.
Rowan, second-in-command and Damian's most trusted lieutenant, had been chosen to train her. Where Damian's presence was fire, Rowan was steel—sharp, unyielding, merciless. He had agreed only reluctantly, his loyalty torn between his Alpha and his disbelief that a human could stand where wolves had fallen.
Aria tightened her grip on the dagger, its weight unfamiliar in her palm. Her arms ached from hours of repetition, her breath came ragged, and her legs trembled from the relentless pace. Sweat streaked her hairline, stinging her eyes, but when Rowan lunged, she forced herself to move.
Steel met steel with a sharp clang. The dagger shook in her hand as Rowan's blade pressed harder, driving her backward.
"Your hesitation will get you killed," Rowan growled, knocking the weapon from her hand with a flick of his wrist. The blade spun into the dirt. "Pick it up."
Her chest burned. Her pride screamed. She bent, fingers closing around the dagger's hilt, and rose again. The whispers of the onlookers sliced through her resolve:
"She'll never make it."
"Pathetic."
"Alpha's blinded by the bond."
The words carved deep, but deeper still was the memory of the rogue collapsing at her command, her voice carrying power she hadn't understood. That power lived inside her, coiled and waiting. If only she knew how to wield it.
Rowan came at her again. This time, she sidestepped, dagger flashing. The blade grazed his arm, a shallow cut, but enough to draw blood. Gasps rippled through the circle. Rowan glanced down at the crimson line, then back at her, a flicker of respect—reluctant, but real—lighting his eyes.
"Better," he admitted. Then he struck harder.
The duel stretched into eternity, Aria's body pushed to its limits. Each time she stumbled, she forced herself up. Each time she faltered, she clenched her jaw and went again. Pain became her teacher, exhaustion her shadow. And through it all, Damian's gaze held her, burning like the promise of survival.
By the time Rowan finally lowered his blade, the sun had dipped low, painting the sky in bruised purples and blood-red streaks. Aria collapsed to her knees, chest heaving, arms trembling too badly to hold the dagger any longer.
Rowan looked down at her, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sharp nod, he spoke. "She'll live."
The words carried through the circle, silencing the whispers. Not approval, not acceptance—but acknowledgment.
Damian was at her side in an instant, kneeling, his hand steadying her shoulder. The mask he wore before the pack—Alpha, unshakable, untouchable—slipped for the briefest moment. She saw the fear in him, raw and unhidden, and it threatened to unravel her.
"You're done for today," he murmured, low enough only she could hear. "Any more, and you'll break."
She wanted to protest, to prove she wasn't weak, but her body betrayed her, trembling too violently to stand. When he scooped her into his arms, she didn't fight. She let her head rest against his chest, the steady drum of his heart soothing the storm inside her.
As he carried her away, whispers followed.
"She's tougher than I thought."
"Still not one of us."
"Let the moon decide."
The trial loomed closer with every word.
---
Back at the Alpha's house, Damian laid her gently on the bed. He crouched beside her, brushing damp hair from her face, his touch feather-light, as though afraid she might shatter.
"You shouldn't have pushed yourself that far," he said, his tone tight.
"I have to," she whispered, her throat dry. "If I can't survive training, I'll never survive the trial."
Damian's jaw clenched. His gaze dropped, shadowed with something that was not anger but desperation. "You think I don't know what they're doing? They want you broken before the trial even begins. And Rowan—he won't hold back."
She managed a weak smile. "Good. Neither will the trial."
His hand closed over hers, calloused fingers warm and grounding. For a long moment, silence filled the room, broken only by the rhythm of their breathing. The bond between them thrummed, alive, pulling her closer, demanding surrender.
When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, as though torn from him. "I can't lose you, Aria."
Her heart stuttered. The words hung between them, heavy and unguarded. She searched his eyes, finding no mask, no armor—only truth.
"You won't," she whispered back.
But even as she said it, she felt the weight of the moon pressing closer, a destiny that cared little for promises.
---
That night, sleep eluded her. She stood by the window, watching the forest sway beneath the silver light. Her reflection stared back—haunted eyes, tired face, the faint shimmer of something otherworldly beneath her skin.
She lifted her hand, and for a fleeting second, the air rippled. The same power that had frozen the rogue hummed, brushing her fingertips like static.
"What are you?" she whispered to herself.
Behind her, Damian stirred, restless in his sleep. His body shifted, the wolf in him straining against invisible chains. He had fought for control ever since the bond tied them together, but she saw now—it wasn't just control he battled. It was fear. Fear of losing her. Fear of failing his pack. Fear of a destiny he could neither fight nor escape.
Aria turned back to the moon, its pale face watching her like an unblinking eye. The trial was coming. Shadows waited for her blood. And though she trembled, though doubt gnawed at her, she whispered a vow into the night:
"I will survive. For me. For him. For us."
The forest seemed to stir in answer, the wind carrying the echo of wolves howling in the distance—an omen, or perhaps a warning.
---