The days bled together in sweat, bruises, and relentless repetition.
Every morning, Aria rose before the sun, her muscles aching from the day before, her knuckles raw from the grip of her dagger. Rowan's training was merciless, designed not to teach but to break. He hurled her into the dirt again and again, his voice a whip, his eyes sharp with measured cruelty.
"You don't fight to win," he told her as she struggled to her feet, blood dripping from her lip. "You fight to survive. And survival means refusing to stay down."
So she rose. Always. No matter how much her body screamed, no matter how much her pride shattered under the jeers of onlookers. She rose because she had no choice.
By the third night, her body was a map of bruises. By the fourth, her palms had blistered, her legs burned, and she had learned to move faster, to strike sharper. And by the fifth, something shifted.
It happened in the middle of sparring, Rowan's blade pressing her back against a wooden post. Desperation flared in her chest, the same spark that had once dropped a rogue to its knees. This time, she didn't run from it. She embraced it.
The air crackled. Rowan froze, his eyes widening as invisible weight pressed against him, forcing his arm to falter. For the briefest second, his blade trembled—not because of weakness, but because she had bent it.
Aria staggered back, her breath ragged, power humming under her skin like molten light. Rowan straightened, staring at her with something between awe and unease.
"You're learning," he said quietly, though his eyes warned her: this was not a gift easily trusted.
The pack had noticed too. Whispers followed her through the halls, half in fear, half in reluctant admiration. She was no longer the weak human clinging to their Alpha's protection. She was something else. Something older.
---
On the eve of the trial, Damian called an end to her training.
"You've done enough," he said, his tone final as he dismissed Rowan with a flick of his hand.
Aria wanted to argue, but the exhaustion in her bones told her he was right. When the training ground cleared, Damian crossed to her, his presence filling the silence. For days he had watched her from a distance, letting Rowan push her past every breaking point. Now, with no audience, the mask of Alpha fell away.
"You're hurting," he said, his voice low.
"I'm ready," she corrected, though her body trembled.
His eyes softened, but his jaw remained hard. "Ready doesn't mean safe."
She almost laughed, the sound bitter. "Safe stopped being an option the moment the bond chose us."
Something flickered in his gaze, a storm she had seen building for weeks. He stepped closer, so close she felt the heat radiating from him.
"You think I don't lie awake every night imagining the trial? The shadows you'll face? The blood that might be yours?" His hand hovered near hers, trembling with restraint. "You think I can stand there, watching, knowing the council would be just as happy if you didn't survive?"
Her throat tightened. For so long he had hidden behind walls—Alpha, protector, untouchable. But here he was, raw, breaking.
"I have to do this," she whispered.
His gaze seared into hers. "And if the moon decides against you?"
"Then at least I'll die fighting," she said, forcing her voice steady. "Not hiding. Not afraid."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the rush of the wind outside, the distant howl of wolves. The bond between them thrummed, alive, pulling them together like magnets.
Finally, Damian exhaled a ragged breath. His hand found her cheek, rough and gentle all at once. "You make me weak, Aria."
The words pierced her. "Or stronger than you've ever been."
And then, at last, the walls broke.
His mouth found hers, fierce and desperate, as though he could consume the fear, the doubt, the fate waiting beyond the dawn. His kiss was fire and fury, claiming and yielding all at once, and she melted into it, clutching him as though he were her only anchor in a storm that threatened to swallow her whole.
When they pulled apart, breathless, his forehead rested against hers. "Tomorrow, the moon decides," he murmured. "But tonight, you're mine."
---
That night, neither of them slept.
They lay tangled in silence, not speaking of trials or councils or curses. His heartbeat steadied her, strong and steady beneath her ear, and she thought—for the first time since this began—that maybe she belonged here, in this world of shadows and wolves.
But when dawn broke, pale light spilling through the windows, reality returned.
Outside, the drums began. Slow, steady, echoing through the forest. The pack gathered. The trial awaited.
Aria rose, her body sore but unbroken, her spirit alight with something fiercer than fear. Damian stood beside her, a shadow of war and devotion, his jaw clenched as though carved from stone.
As they stepped into the cold morning air, the whispers of the pack rose around them like smoke. Moon-Blessed. Cursed. Mate. Queen. Dead girl walking.
The full moon would rise tonight. And when it did, Aria's destiny would either begin—or end.
---