Chapter 23

"The Trial of Heart will test what no sword or strategy can measure—your ability to hold a pack together when everything is falling apart."

Elder Maren stood at the front of the great hall, her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. Fifty competitors—minus the ones eliminated after earlier trials—sat in rows. The room was tense. After the wisdom trial's sabotage scandal and the "rogue wolf" attack, everyone was on edge.

"You will be presented with real diplomatic scenarios," Elder Maren continued. "Not written exercises. Live situations. Actors will play the roles of pack members in crisis. You will mediate. You will resolve. And you will be judged on empathy, fairness, and practical leadership."

Aria sat in the second row, her body still sore beneath her clothes. She kept her face neutral, her posture straight. Show nothing. Give them nothing.

Two seats to her left, Vivian caught her eye and gave a tiny, knowing nod. The nod of someone holding a loaded weapon and enjoying the weight of it.

Aria looked away.

The first competitor was called forward. A woman from the Northern Ridge Pack, tall and broad-shouldered. Her scenario involved a territorial dispute between two families within a pack, both claiming ownership of a hunting ground.

She handled it decently. Firm but fair. The judges nodded and scored.

The next few competitors ranged from awkward to adequate. One woman completely froze when the actors started yelling at each other. Another took sides too quickly and lost the trust of both parties.

Aria studied each one. Not to judge—to learn. Every scenario revealed something about what the judges valued. They wanted balance. Patience. The ability to listen before speaking and to find the thing both sides could agree on.

She knew this. She'd lived this.

Years of standing between her father and her brother. Years of calming arguments she hadn't started. Years of finding ways to keep a broken family from shattering completely. Every time her father came home drunk and started throwing things, it was Aria who calmed the servants. Every time Ethan and Cade fought over training schedules, it was Aria who found the compromise. She'd been a diplomat since she was old enough to talk.

She just never had a name for it before.

"Competitor Blackwood."

She stood. The hall went quiet.

Her scenario was brutal. Two pack families, longtime allies, torn apart after one family's son accidentally killed the other family's daughter during a training exercise. The dead girl's parents wanted blood justice—the boy's death. The boy's parents argued it was an accident and demanded mercy.

The actors were good. The mother of the dead girl wailed and screamed. The father of the boy pleaded with shaking hands. Other pack members chose sides, their voices rising, everyone talking over everyone.

Chaos. Just like home.

Aria let them scream for thirty seconds. Then she raised her hand.

"Stop."

Something in her voice—quiet but firm—cut through the noise. Everyone fell silent.

She turned to the grieving mother first. "Your daughter is gone. Nothing I say will fix that. Nothing anyone does will bring her back. And you have every right to your anger."

The mother's lip trembled. She nodded.

Aria turned to the boy's father. "Your son made a mistake that cost someone their life. That's not nothing. That weight will follow him forever, and he needs to carry it honestly."

The father looked at the floor.

"Blood justice won't heal this pack," Aria said. "It will split it in two. One family mourning a daughter, the other mourning a son, and everyone else forced to choose a side." She looked at both families. "What heals a pack is accountability. The boy faces a public hearing. He takes responsibility. He serves the dead girl's family—not as punishment, but as atonement. He works their land, protects their home, and carries the weight of what he did for a full year."

She paused. "And the pack mourns together. Not separately. Because grief shared is grief survived."

The room was silent.

The mother of the dead girl looked at Aria for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.

The judges scored. Aria couldn't see the numbers, but she saw their faces. They were impressed.

She returned to her seat. Luna squeezed her arm.

"That was unreal," Luna whispered.

"That was Tuesday in the Blackwood pack," Aria murmured back.

The trial continued through the day. More scenarios, more competitors, more drama. Vivian went in the afternoon round and handled her scenario well—she was smooth, charming, said all the right things. But Aria noticed something. Vivian solved problems from the top down. She told people what to do. She directed.

Aria solved problems from the inside out. She listened. She felt. She connected.

And the judges saw the difference.

By the time the day's session ended, whispers were already circulating. Aria Blackwood had delivered the strongest performance of the trial so far.

Darius's strategy said to hold back. Stay out of first.

But Aria's instincts had taken over in the moment. She'd done what she did best—what she'd been doing her entire life—and she'd done it brilliantly.

She walked back to her room that evening with a knot in her stomach. Being good wasn't safe anymore. Being visible wasn't safe. Every success painted a bigger target on her back.

But pulling back felt like betrayal. Not of the kings or the strategy—of herself.

She'd spent twenty-three years being told she was worthless. And now that she was proving otherwise, the world wanted her to stop.

She wasn't going to stop.

Whatever came next—Vivian's threats, Knox's schemes, her father's fists—she would face it standing up.

But even as she made that decision, a cold thread of worry wound through her chest. Because the Trial of Heart wasn't over. There were two more days of scenarios. And somewhere in those days, something would go wrong.

It always did.

And when it did, she'd need to be ready.

She found Luna in the dining hall, still buzzing from the day's events.

"Everyone is talking about you," Luna said, pushing a plate of bread toward Aria. "Even the judges. I overheard Elder Maren tell one of the assistants that your empathy scores were the highest she'd seen in twenty years."

"That's because I've had twenty-three years of practice dealing with people who hate each other."

"Most people would call that trauma. The judges are calling it talent."

"Same thing, different packaging."

Luna gave her a look. "Eat. You need to keep your strength up."

Aria picked at the bread. Across the dining hall, Vivian sat with a cluster of competitors from the Northern Ridge Pack. She wasn't eating either. She was watching Aria the way a hawk watches a rabbit—patient, focused, ready.

Their eyes met. Vivian raised her glass in a tiny, mocking toast.

Aria looked away.

"She's getting bolder," Luna murmured.

"She can afford to. She has leverage."

"For now." Luna's voice dropped. "I've been watching her like you asked. She keeps a journal. Writes in it every night. Takes it everywhere."

"What kind of journal?"

"Small. Brown leather. She keeps it in her bodice during the day and under her pillow at night." Luna raised an eyebrow. "If that journal contains what I think it contains..."

"Then it's a weapon pointed at all of us." Aria's mind was working. "We need to know what's in it."

"I'll work on it."

Aria shook her head slowly. Vivian was dangerous. Knox was dangerous. Her father was dangerous. But the Trial of Heart was also an opportunity—two more days to prove herself, two more days to build allies, two more days before the next crisis hit.

She would use every single one of them.

The bread was stale and the ale was warm, but she ate anyway. Fuel for the fight. That's all food was now. Fuel for the fight that never seemed to end.