Chapter 33: Unleashed

Tempest blinked through Nuri’s eyes as the locker room door swung open.

The scent hit her first—sweat, adrenaline, and a metallic thread of blood. Wolves milled about, stretching, taping their wrists, testing claws. These were the top-ranked purebreds, the best of their age group. And they all turned when Nuri stepped inside.

“Didn’t think they’d actually let you run,” one girl muttered, her amber eyes flicking to Nuri’s still-bleeding shoulder. “Thought you’d be disqualified after the control test.”

“I would’ve been,” Nuri said coolly, brushing past her. “But I passed.”

Another scoffed. “Only because you have two brains to cheat with.”

Tempest bristled. Her claws ached under the skin, her lip twitching with the urge to bare teeth. ‘Say the word,’ she growled inside. ‘Let me show them what kind of wolf I am.’

But Nuri stayed calm, stripping down in silence as the others laughed among themselves.

“Half-human, half-wolf, but she still thinks she belongs here.”

“She’ll be lucky if she makes it past the first wall.”

Tempest's rage pulsed like wildfire. But she didn’t lash out—not yet. Not when the real challenge was just beyond those concrete walls.

Nuri pulled on the standard black uniform. It clung to her like second skin, already sticky with blood. She rolled her shoulder, ignoring the fresh throb. She didn’t understand why she needed to change her outfit when the last test was made for wolves.

‘They want a show?’ Tempest asked, her voice low and sharp. ‘Let’s give them one they’ll never forget.’

Nuri smirked faintly. ‘Unleash hell.’

‘We’re almost done,’ Tempest said, pride swelling in her chest. One final test remained—and this one was hers. Nuri had aced the written, the verbal, and the control exams. Now it was Tempest’s turn to prove that being half human didn’t make her half a wolf.

She was ready. Eager. Waiting for Nuri to let go.

‘Let them see who you are,’

‘They will see who we are,’ Tempest replied, her voice low and hungry. ‘Even injured, we’re going to crush this.’

Nuri let go.

Tempest surged forward, eyes shutting for a moment as the shift took hold. Her shoulder popped, the joint sliding back into place with a wet snap. The wound tore deeper—but pain meant nothing now. Not when freedom was this close.

Tempest stretched out her limbs, feeling the satisfying crack of real bones realigning. Her claws flexed against the padded floor, fur bristling with anticipation as she emerged in full.

The locker room disappeared behind her. All she could see now was the starting line—and beyond it, the infamous course. Steel scaffolding rose like a jungle gym from hell. Mud pits, flame walls, balance beams suspended over barbed wire, rope climbs soaked in oil. Designed to push wolves to their limits. Designed to weed out the weak.

But she wasn’t weak.

She stalked to the line, the buzz of the crowd just background noise under the blood rush in her ears. Somewhere in the stands, Kalmin was watching. Moira too, probably. Maybe even the Elders.

Didn’t matter. She lowered her stance.

A dozen other wolves joined her, shifting into their strongest forms, bristling with anticipation and testosterone. A few glanced at her—half smirks, half sneers. None of them thought she’d finish.

She didn’t need them to believe.

The whistle blew.

And Tempest launched.

Her paws pounded the dirt, her body a coiled spring of instinct and muscle. She didn’t hesitate at the first wall. She cleared it. Then the next, a higher one, with jagged metal at the top—she twisted midair, letting her claws dig in and flip her over.

A snarl echoed behind her. Someone was catching up.

Tempest didn’t care. She ducked low, skimming through a narrow tunnel half-submerged in sludge. Her fur was slicked with filth, but she was fast, faster than the wolf behind her.

Then came the flame wall. Heat licked her face, a towering wave of controlled fire set to flare in intervals. She didn’t stop to time it. She trusted—her eyes narrowed, her lungs compressed, and she burst through the gap a heartbeat before it closed.

Pain seared her side. Her shoulder wound flared.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Let them see what kind of wolf she was.

The next stretch was open ground—but laced with traps. Pits disguised by loose dirt, nets rigged to yank back limbs, sensors keyed to a wolf’s weight.

Tempest stayed light on her paws. She flowed like smoke, weaving through danger with an awareness that ran deeper than sight. This wasn’t just strength. It was instinct, precision, and control—everything they said a hybrid couldn’t master.

A dark-furred wolf to her left wasn’t so lucky. He stumbled, caught in a spring trap that snapped shut on his hind leg. He yelped, shifting violently—his form faltering in a burst of panic.

Tempest barely glanced back, but she caught it: the sudden change from wolf to naked boy, writhing in the dirt, clawing at the trap.

That’s why the black uniform. That’s why they all had to strip down—so when wolves failed, no one mistook it.

So everyone saw.

The message was clear: shift, or be exposed. Shift, or fall behind. Shift, or fail.

Tempest surged ahead.

More wolves started to drop back. Not all fell, but enough faltered—legs trembling, focus breaking, pain splintering through their minds.

But Tempest’s pain was a weapon.

She hit the climb—five stories of vertical ropes slicked with oil—and leapt without slowing. Her claws dug in deep. Her muscles burned. But every pull upward was a promise. See me. Watch me. Know me.

Another wolf tried to block her near the top—one of the girls from the locker room. Tempest didn’t hesitate. She used the girl’s shoulder like a rung, slammed past her, and vaulted to the platform.

The girl slipped.

Tempest didn’t look back.

She was already flying down the other side, landing hard, and rolling into a crouch as the final stretch came into view: a timed tunnel of electrified wires, weaving tight enough to force a crawl.

Tempest dropped low, her belly scraping the ground, every breath shallow, ears flat. One wrong move would fry her nerves.

‘You’re almost there,’ Nuri whispered from the back of her mind. The voice was soft, but proud.

Tempest growled low. ‘I was born for this.’

One wire sparked too close—her fur singed, but she didn’t cry out. Just pushed faster, a blur of black and rage and pride.

She burst out the other side in a full sprint, paws hitting packed earth as the finish line roared into view. The crowd—silent at first—rose to its feet.

She crossed it. Ahead of all of them, she crossed it.

The world slowed. For a heartbeat, there was silence. Not even the wind dared to stir.

Tempest stood at the finish, chest heaving, blood slick across her shoulder. The last sparks of adrenaline crackled through her nerves, but she held steady—head high, tail raised, eyes burning.

Then the roar hit.

It started with the young ones—those too new to the old ways to hate her for what she was. Then the noise spread like wildfire, rippling up through the ranks of trainees, then the instructors. Even a few of the purebreds who mocked her earlier were on their feet, their expressions stunned, shaken, unsure of what to feel.

Kalmin was already moving, forcing his way to the front of the crowd. His eyes locked on hers—bright, awestruck, and so damn proud. He didn’t smile. He grinned, like something feral had been waiting inside him for this moment, too.

She looked away only when a deeper silence fell over the crowd.

The Elders had risen. Ancient wolves in dark ceremonial robes stepped forward to stand beside the judges. None of them spoke at first. Their gazes swept the course, the wounded, the scattered.

Then, they looked at her. At them.

Tempest stepped back, letting the shift ripple away. Nuri surged forward in her place, staggering slightly on human legs—but she didn’t fall. She didn’t bow. She stood.

Her uniform clung to her skin, streaked in dirt and blood. Her hair stuck to her temples. Her shoulder was a ruin of red and torn fabric. And still, she stood.

“She completed the course,” one judge said, voice ringing out over the quiet. “In record time.”

“She remained in form the entire run,” another added.

“And she did it while injured,” came the third voice—surprised, almost reverent.

“She did what many full-bloods could not.”

A pause settled over the crowd.

Then the oldest Elder stepped forward—the wolf who had once led these lands long before Kalmin’s time.

“Hybrid,” his voice low and steady, “state your name.”

Nuri’s voice rang clear, unwavering. “Nuri Williamson of no pack.” She refused to hide her last name—the name known throughout the pack as the daughter of the Beta who’d fallen to an omega. She would not let their prejudices steal her pride. As her father’s daughter, as a proud hybrid, she would make them remember who she was.

The Elder nodded slowly. “No longer.” He raised his hand. “From this day forward, you are recognized—not as half, not as less—but as wolf. As sister. As pack.”

A howl tore through the air—Rian’s. Deep, sharp, raw.

One by one, others joined the chorus, their voices crashing across the field in a wild, electric wave of unity.

Tempest howled with them, the sound rising through Nuri’s throat—fierce and unshakable.

She had broken their rules.

And they had welcomed her anyway.