Chapter 2: The Pack’s Training Grounds

RAVEN

The clash of steel on steel rings through the training grounds, sharp and relentless, followed by the unmistakable grunt of someone hitting the dirt. I don’t flinch out of sympathy for the poor bastard currently eating dust—I flinch because I should be out there.

My muscles tense, fingers twitching at my sides, my whole body itching to move. But I don’t. I stay seated on the cold stone, watching, always watching.

I’ve spent years memorizing their movements, breaking down their footwork, their mistakes, their victories. I see every opening before it happens. I can predict the outcome before they even step into the ring. And yet, I’m not allowed to fight.

Instead, I am stuck here. On the sidelines. Always on the sidelines.

Across the field, Kellan—the pack’s finest senior warrior—circles his opponent like a wolf closing in on a kill. His movements are calculated, patient, filled with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly how this fight will end.

His opponent, Garrick, a younger but eager warrior, scrambles to his feet, shaking dirt from his blond hair. His fingers shift against the grip of his blade, readjusting—nervous. He’s nervous.

I can already see the cracks forming.

His stance is too rigid. His shoulders are too high. His feet are planted too firmly.

He’s too predictable.

My pulse quickens as I lean forward slightly, anticipating the moment Kellan will strike.

And then—he does.

Garrick lunges, too fast, too desperate. His sword flashes in the morning light, but I see it before it even happens—the shift in Kellan’s weight, the almost lazy way he twists to the side, stepping just out of reach.

A heartbeat later, Kellan’s foot hooks around Garrick’s ankle, sweeping him off balance. The younger warrior crashes hard, dust kicking up in thick clouds around him.

He never had a chance.

Before Garrick can even react, Kellan’s blade is at his throat.

“You’re dead,” Kellan says, his voice cool, detached.

He doesn’t even linger to acknowledge Garrick’s frustration. Just sheathes his sword and walks away.

Garrick groans, rolling onto his back, staring at the sky with a mix of humiliation and exhaustion. He knows better than to argue.

The fight was over before it even began.

A slow smirk tugs at my lips. If he had shifted his weight, if he hadn’t been so tense, if he had just seen the opening before he attacked…

He wouldn’t have been so easy to drop.

I saw it coming from a mile away. If I had been in that fight—

“Oh, Moon Goddess, this is just sad.”

The words drip with mock pity, sharpened like a dagger meant to cut deep.

I go still.

That voice.

That obnoxious, smug, nails-on-glass voice.

I inhale slowly—one, two, three—before finally turning.

No need to let Seraphina think she caught me off guard.

And there she is.

Poised. Smirking. Dripping in wealth and cruelty.

Seraphina stands with her arms crossed, her golden curls gleaming under the sun in perfect, infuriating spirals. Her silk-embroidered bodice clings to her slender frame, and she wears a fur-lined cape despite the heat of the morning, as if she’s too delicate to be touched by something as common as sweat.

The contrast between us is laughable. She glows under the morning light, like some perfectly painted portrait of nobility. And me?

I’m still covered in dirt from scrubbing the floors at dawn.

Seraphina’s lips curl as she looks me over, as if I’m nothing more than a stain on her dress.

“I was wondering where my little stray had run off to,” she muses, her voice dripping with fake affection. “Did you miss your chores again?”

I exhale loudly, tilting my head in feigned regret. “I did. It was awful. The dishes started crying when they realized I wasn’t scrubbing them. You should have seen it. Absolute heartbreak.”

For a brief second—so brief that most wouldn’t have noticed—Seraphina’s smirk falters.

I smile. Got her.

She quickly recovers, flipping a lock of golden hair over her shoulder with an irritating, practiced elegance. “You really think you’re clever, don’t you?”

I lean back on my hands, grinning. “No, I think I’m hilarious.”

Her expression twitches.

I know exactly what’s happening inside her head right now. Seraphina is used to people shrinking under her gaze, trembling at her words, scrambling to please her or run from her.

But I’m not like them.

And I never will be.

She takes another step closer, lowering her voice. “You know, watching them fight won’t change anything. You’ll never be one of them.”

I arch a brow. “That’s a bold assumption from someone who has the combat skills of a decorative pillow.”

Her smirk falters.

There it is.

A small, barely noticeable twitch of irritation.

Seraphina has been trained in combat, sure. But only enough to look competent. Enough to stand beside a strong Alpha and pretend to be capable.

But she has no hunger for battle, no instinct, no drive to actually be strong.

She has other people to fight for her.

Seraphina’s blue eyes narrow. “I don’t need to fight,” she says smoothly. “I have warriors to fight for me.”

I place a hand on my chest, feigning realization. “Ah, yes! And here I thought warriors actually needed brains.”

That does it.

Her false poise snaps.

Before I can react, her fingers twist into the collar of my dress, yanking me forward.

I don’t flinch.

“Careful, dear sister,” she hisses, leaning in close, her breath warm against my cheek. “You keep talking like that, and you might find yourself—”

I laugh.

Loudly.

Seraphina’s grip tightens just slightly.

I meet her gaze with a mocking smirk, tilting my head. “You might want to think twice before finishing that sentence, Phina. You don’t handle losing very well.”

Her nails dig in.

But before she can snap back, a sharp horn blast splits the air.

The entire training yard goes still.

I barely have time to register the shift in the atmosphere before murmurs ripple through the warriors.

One word carries on the wind.

Stormfang.

My pulse quickens.

The Stormfang Pack.

Alpha Kieran Stormfang’s warriors.

Powerful. Relentless. Closing in on our borders.

The warriors snap to attention, muscles tensing, hands instinctively gravitating toward their weapons.

From across the field, Victor appears, striding toward the commotion, his expression unreadable.

Kellan approaches him first. “Scouts near the northern ridge, Gamma. Alpha Darius is calling a war council.”

Victor exhales like this is nothing more than an inconvenience.

“Then we handle it,” he says. “Ready the warriors.”

Beside me, Seraphina finally lets go of my collar.

I barely notice.

Because my focus is still on the warriors—on the organized chaos as they prepare for what’s coming.

This is real.

This is what I should have been trained for.

I should be one of them.

I will be one of them.

No matter what it takes.