The competition hall smells like sweat, metal, and a faint trace of pine drifting in from the open windows.
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It’s a chaotic symphony of sound: the clang of weapons being tested, the murmur of hushed strategies, and the occasional burst of laughter from cocky warriors who think they’ve already won.
My pack stands behind me like a wall of quiet resolve, their presence steady but not flashy. Windhowl doesn’t need flash.
We’ve always been about substance. But as I look across the room at Raiden, his arm slung around Lila like she’s some trophy he’s already polished, I can’t help the bitter twist in my stomach.
His gaze locks on me, cold and sharp, like he’s trying to peel away my skin and see the doubt underneath.
I square my shoulders, refusing to give him that satisfaction.
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My wolf stirs uneasily, pacing beneath the surface like a shadow I can’t quite catch. She doesn’t like Lila. She’s been growling about her ever since Raiden brought her into the pack. Something about her mark is… wrong. Twisted. But I can’t dwell on that now.
The announcement echoes through the hall. “Windhowl, prepare yourselves. You’re up next.”
My heart pounds once, hard and heavy.
The whispers start immediately, slithering through the crowd like snakes. I don’t need to hear the words to know what they’re saying.
My unconventional warriors–scarred veterans, silver–haired elders, and women who’ve fought harder than most men ever will–are not what the other packs expect. They want brawn. They want youth. They want perfection. And we’re not playing their game.
Lila’s laugh slices through the noise, sharp and cruel. “Look at Siena’s army of cripples! Is this what the great Windhowl has become?”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t react. Around me, my pack shifts uncomfortably, their confidence wavering under the weight of her mockery. I can feel the sting of it, like a slap across my face. My wolf snarls, but I shove her down. Now isn’t the time for anger. Across the room, Raiden doesn’t laugh, but he doesn’t stop her, either.
His silence is worse than her words.
I step forward, turning to face my pack. Their eyes are on me, searching for reassurance, for strength. I take a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs and steady my racing heart. My voice is strong when I speak, cutting through the murmurs like a blade.
“Strength isn’t measured by youth or perfection,” I say, my words deliberate and firm, “but by battles survived and wisdom earned.”
The whispers falter. I feel the shift in the air, subtle but undeniable.
My pack stands a little taller, their spines straightening as they absorb my words. I glance at Raiden, catching his gaze for a fleeting moment.
He’s watching me, his expression unreadable. For a second, I think I see something flicker in his eyes–uncertainty, maybe? Regret? But then it’s gone, replaced by that familiar mask of indifference.
“Windhowl, with me,” I say, turning away from him and focusing on the task at hand. My pack moves as one, following me toward the center of the hall where the competition will take place.
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08.37 Sun, 20 Apr
Chapter 23
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The space feels cavernous, the stone walls echoing every sound. The other packs are watching us, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright disdain.
I can feel their judgment like a weight pressing down on me, but I refuse to let it crush me.
The first trial is a test of strength. Simple enough in theory, but it’s designed to favor the young and unscarred. The judges explain the rules, t
