The Sentencing

The transport wagon lurched forward, its iron wheels grinding against the dirt path as the city walls disappeared behind me.

The chains binding my wrists bit into my skin with every bump, but I didn’t dare complain. The guards flanking me had already clarified that my comfort was not their concern.

Warborn Academy.

The name echoed like a curse in my mind.

The Warborn Accord was supposed to unite the kingdom, or so the propaganda claimed. Instead, it had become another weapon for the High Council to dispose of people like me. Unwanted. Unclean.

Disposable.

We weren’t soldiers. We were fodder.

Around me, other prisoners sat in similar binds—witches and werewolves alike.

Criminals.

Runaways.

Or just poor souls who’d been unlucky enough to fall out of favor. One girl couldn’t have been older than fifteen, staring blankly ahead as though her spirit had already broken. A boy across from me, a werewolf judging by the sharpness of his eyes, glared at me with quiet contempt.

We all knew why we were here.

Bait for the endless war.

I shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the horizon as the spires of the academy began to rise in the distance. Even from here, it looked like something torn from a nightmare—a fortress of black stone and jagged towers, wrapped in swirling enchantments that hummed like distant screams.

The closer we got, the thicker the air seemed, as if the land itself resented what this place stood for.

“You’ll love it,” one of the guards sneered beside me. “Plenty of friends inside. If you survive the first week, that is.”

I didn’t respond. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

The gates opened with a bone-shaking groan. Inside, the academy was worse than I imagined—cold courtyards, towering battlements, and training fields stained with old blood.

Armed instructors lined the walkways, their eyes following us like wolves watching fresh meat.

The wagon stopped abruptly.

“Out!” barked a voice.

We were unshackled and shoved into formation one by one. I stumbled slightly as the chain was removed, my legs weak from the hours-long ride, but I straightened my spine.

They would not see me break.

A figure approached from the main hall—tall, robed, and terrifyingly poised.

High Priestess Morganna.

Of course, she would oversee our arrival. Her emerald eyes swept over us, stopping briefly on me. I met her gaze, refusing to look away. A tiny smile curved her lips, as though amused by my defiance.

Beside her stood another figure, his presence colder than hers.

Alpha Lord Kael.

The werewolf leader was every bit the monster I expected—broad, predatory, with eyes like polished steel. His voice rumbled as he addressed us, low and dangerous.

“You are here because you have failed your kingdoms. But you are given one chance to prove your worth. Warborn Academy will train you, break you, rebuild you. Those who survive will become the next generation of warriors in our holy war. Those who fail…” His eyes narrowed. “Will not leave these walls alive.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Morganna stepped forward, her voice a soft, venomous whisper. “This is not a place for weakness. You will obey. You will fight. You will serve.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Welcome to Warborn.”

We were herded toward the inner courtyard, where instructors began separating us into groups—witches to one side, werewolves to the other. But even among my own kind, I felt no solidarity. I caught sneers and whispers.

Thornbrook.

Street rat.

Gutter witch.

I curled my fingers into fists. Let them talk. I’d survived worse.

The instructors assigned me to one of the lower combat classes. Of course they did. Low-blood trash didn’t get the privilege of proper training. We were here to fill graves, not ranks.

A sudden hush fell over the courtyard as I stood waiting for orders.

That’s when I saw him.

The Alpha Prince of Nethian.

Lucian Draxon.

He moved through the crowd like a shadow, tall and impossibly composed, his black hair gleaming beneath the pale sun. Tattoos coiled up his arms and neck like living vines, disappearing beneath his dark uniform. His violet eyes—unnatural and otherworldly—swept over the conscripts, cold and calculating.

The other werewolves bowed their heads as he passed. Even some of the witches averted their gazes.

But not me.

Our eyes locked briefly, and something in my chest tightened. His gaze was sharp, unreadable, as though he were dissecting me with nothing more than a glance. A chill crept down my spine, but I refused to look away.

A flicker of something crossed his face—amusement? Disdain?—before he moved on without a word.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

That was Lucian Draxon—the cursed prince everyone whispered about. The weapon-in-waiting. The wolf who carried darkness in his blood.

I hated him already.

The moment Lucian disappeared, the instructors barked orders again.

“Move! Into the cleansing chambers!” one snarled.

We were herded through the stone corridors like cattle, the scent of enchanted disinfectants burning my nose as we entered a cavernous chamber lined with black marble pools. Steam curled into the air, masking the faint glow of runes etched into the stone walls.

The guards snapped their fingers, forcing us to strip down under their watchful eyes. My fingers trembled as I removed my thin, filthy cloak, baring pale skin and sharp ribs beneath. Modesty had long ago been stolen from me, but standing vulnerable before strangers still twisted my stomach.

“In,” one growled.

The enchanted water was warm, almost painfully so, like it was trying to burn the filth of the streets off me. I scrubbed until my skin turned raw, as if I could erase the weight of my sentence and the dirt. Around me, others did the same — witches and werewolves alike, enemies reduced to nothing more than scared bodies in a cleansing ritual designed to strip away our old lives.

After the baths came the dining hall.

We filed into another massive stone room, illuminated by floating lanterns and watched over by more armed instructors. The scent of roasted meat and bread filled the air, making my stomach lurch with hunger and suspicion. I hadn’t seen a meal like this in years.

A trap, surely. Nothing came free here.

Still, my body didn’t care. I devoured the plate set before me — roasted fowl, root vegetables, a thick slice of soft bread that nearly made my eyes sting with unshed tears. My fingers trembled as I held the cup of water, half-expecting someone to snatch it from me at any moment.

But no one did.

We ate in tense silence, with instructors watching every mouthful, every glance, ready to pounce on the first sign of rebellion.

After the meal, we were led through another winding corridor and assigned to our barracks. My assigned room was a little more than a stone cell with a narrow bed, a thin blanket, and a single flickering lantern hanging from the ceiling.

But to me, it might as well have been a palace.

The first real bed I’d seen in years. Clean sheets. A door that closed. A roof that wouldn’t leak in the rain. My fingertips traced the coarse blanket as I sat on the edge of the mattress, disbelief knotting my stomach.

I crawled under the covers slowly, staring at the cracked stone ceiling above.

And then I waited.

Waited for the guards to return. Waited for the punishment to begin.Waited for someone to remind me that this was not mercy — that Warborn Academy was never meant to feel safe.

Because from where I stood, this wasn’t a sentencing.

It was heaven, and that terrified me more than any dungeon ever could.

Long into the night, as the distant sound of howling echoed beyond the walls, I lay beneath those scratchy blankets—eyes wide, breath shallow—waiting for the nightmare to begin.