Chapter Eleven – Ronan’s Test.

The dawn after Malachai’s test bled gray and cold across the Academy grounds. The courtyard, once a battlefield of whispers and crimson echoes, now seemed too still—as if the stones themselves were holding their breath.

Lyra hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Malachai’s expression just before he’d walked away—the faint crack in his composure, the truth that lingered behind his warning.

My blood already belongs to you.

The words refused to fade.

By the time she reached the training grounds that morning, her pulse was already unsteady. The message summoning her had been brief:

“South Arena. Noon. Bring your focus.”

Ronan was waiting.

He stood in the center of the arena, stripped of his uniform coat, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was damp from the mist, his expression set in that familiar line of command. He looked less like a mentor, more like judgment made flesh.

“You’re late,” he said without turning.

“I didn’t know it was a crime to breathe before a fight,” Lyra muttered, stepping onto the stone floor.

“This isn’t a fight.”

He turned then, gray eyes locking onto hers. “It’s a test.”

“Of what?”

“Of whether you can control yourself.”

***

The wind cut through the open-air arena, carrying the smell of steel and rain. Two wooden practice swords waited between them. Ronan picked one up and tossed the other toward her.

Lyra caught it awkwardly. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

Their gazes held. The weight in his tone wasn’t lost on her—it wasn’t just about sparring. It was about what happened under the Red Moon, what Vale had seen, what the Council now feared.

Her mark pulsed once under her sleeve, like it recognized his challenge.

Ronan circled first, steady, measured. “You rely too much on instinct,” he said. “Power without restraint is destruction. Show me you’re more than that.”

Lyra tightened her grip. “And if I can’t?”

He didn’t blink. “Then I’ll stop you.”

The first strike came fast.

Wood cracked against wood, the impact jolting her wrist. Ronan’s movements were clean, brutal, precise. Each blow tested her reflexes, her patience, her control. He wasn’t trying to win—he was trying to break her rhythm.

“Again,” he ordered as she stumbled back.

Lyra’s lungs burned. Sweat dampened her collar, her mark prickling faintly with every pulse. She struck again, harder this time, forcing him back. His expression shifted—something between approval and warning.

“Better,” he said, parrying easily. “But anger doesn’t make you strong. It makes you sloppy.”

Her temper flared. “Maybe anger is all I’ve got!”

The ground trembled beneath them. A low hum spread across the arena—the same resonance that had followed her awakening. The air thickened.

Ronan’s next strike met something invisible between them—a shockwave that sent both their swords flying.

They stared at each other, breathing hard.

The hum didn’t stop. It grew louder.

“Lyra,” he said slowly, voice strained, “you need to pull it back.”

“I can’t—” She pressed her hands to her chest. The mark beneath her skin blazed, tendrils of light creeping up her throat. “It’s not listening!”

Ronan moved closer. “Then listen harder. You command power, not the other way around.”

His hands caught her wrists—not harshly this time, but firmly. The instant his skin touched hers, the energy snapped between them like lightning.

Lyra gasped.

The world tilted. His heartbeat thundered against hers, syncing, matching rhythm for rhythm. For one dizzy moment, the mark dimmed, pulsing in time with him.

Ronan’s eyes widened. “What—”

Then the connection deepened.

She saw flashes—not memories of her own, but his. A boy standing under a blood-soaked sky, claws and tears, a promise whispered to a dying Alpha: I’ll protect them, even if it kills me.

Lyra staggered back, gasping. “What was that?”

Ronan didn’t answer. He was staring at her like she’d peeled back his entire soul.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Doesn’t matter.” He stepped closer, the air between them trembling with static. “Whatever that was—it wasn’t power. It was a bond forming.”

Her breath hitched. “A bond?”

Ronan’s jaw tightened. “When an Alpha’s power syncs with another’s, it means recognition.

Submission. Or something worse.”

He looked away, chest rising sharply. “You need to stay away from me.”

Lyra’s pulse spiked. “You think this is my fault? You dragged me here, you wanted control—”

“And I lost it,” he snapped.

The storm in his eyes was more dangerous than any mark. He turned his back to her, fists clenched at his sides. “You don’t understand, Lyra. Every instinct I have tells me to keep you close. And every rule in this cursed place says if I do, I’ll destroy you.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence felt heavier than any blow.

Finally, Ronan exhaled. “The test is over.”

She swallowed hard. “Did I pass?”

He hesitated, then glanced over his shoulder. His expression softened, almost imperceptibly. “You survived me. For now, that’s enough.”

***

Lyra didn’t see the shadow watching from the gallery above.

Malachai leaned against the railing, eyes sharp and calculating. He’d seen the surge of power, the flicker of light, the moment their energy had entwined. He said nothing as Ronan left the arena, but his gaze lingered on Lyra long after she’d gone.

“She’s syncing,” he murmured to himself. “Just like the First.”

He turned, disappearing into the misted corridor before anyone noticed the faint trace of frost where his hand had rested.

***

That night, Lyra sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her palms. The mark had faded again—but her heart hadn’t slowed since the fight.

Every time she blinked, she felt Ronan’s touch, the echo of his heartbeat in her chest. It wasn’t just attraction. It was something deeper. Ancient.

Uninvited.

Her reflection in the window flickered once, and a whisper brushed her ear.

Three have felt the pull.

Her breath caught. “Who’s there?”

The whisper smiled. And the fourth waits in shadow.

The window cracked from the inside, spiderwebbing outward before the whisper faded completely.

Lyra pressed a trembling hand to the glass.

“Fourth?” she whispered.

And somewhere in the distance, the bell tolled once—low and heavy.

The mark on her skin burned back to life.