MOONBOUND THE LAST ALPHA

The rain starts before dawn. By midday it's settled into a steady, stubborn drizzle, the kind that turns the training grounds into a field of churned mud and makes everything smell like wet pine and bad decisions.

I'm flat on my back, staring at the clouds. They stare back. Gray. Unbothered. At least they're consistent l everyone else in my life keeps changing their mind about me.

A ring of faces blocks out the sky above me. Some look amused. Some look embarrassed on my behalf. A few don't bother hiding the disappointment. I'm getting good at reading disappointment well I've had a lot of practice.

"Again."

Of course it's Garrick. Training Master Garrick has exactly three moods; angry, disappointed, and disappointed while angry and today he seems determined to hit all three before lunch.

I let out a breath through my nose. My ribs ache. My shoulder is filing a formal complaint. For one glorious, tempting second I consider just staying here. Let them build a monument. Here lies Kael. He tried.

Then I picture the lecture that'll follow if I don't, and drag myself upright instead.

Across the ring stands Tomas he is Fifteen, Broad-shouldered and confident. Trying very hard not to smile. That last part somehow makes it worse.

I wipe rainwater out of my eyes. "Go ahead," I say. "You can laugh."

Tomas blinks. "What?"

"You've knocked me down three times."

"Four."

"See?" I point at him. "You were counting."

A few spectators chuckle. Even Tomas looks guilty about it. Garrick does not.

"Enough talking." He folds his massive arms. "Again."

I pick up the wooden practice sword lying nearby. It feels heavier than it should. Or maybe I'm just tired the afternoon's already consisted of getting thrown into the dirt by people younger than me, and my body is starting to lose enthusiasm for the whole arrangement.

Rain drums softly against the pines. The crowd steps back. Tomas raises his blade. For a second neither of us moves.

Then he lunges fast, too fast.

I react a fraction too late. Wood cracks against wood, the impact rattling up my arms. I stagger, adjust, try to counter and he sweeps my legs out from under me before I get the chance.

The world tilts. Mud rushes up to meet me. Again.

Silence settles over the field. I stare up at the gray sky. At least the clouds are consistent. They always seem happy to see me.

"Match." Garrick's voice carries across the ring, and just like that, the world moves on without me conversation returns, training resumes, life keeps happening somewhere above my head.

I stay down for a few seconds longer than I need to.

Then a familiar face blocks out the sky. Silver-gray eyes. Dark brown hair in a loose braid. An expression caught somewhere between concern and amusement.

Lyra.

"Comfortable down there?"

I groan. "Thinking of building a house."

"Bit muddy."

"I'll call it rustic."

A laugh escapes her before she can stop it. There it is. That laugh. I like that laugh not that I'd ever admit it. Especially not to her.

She holds out a hand. I take it after a beat, and she hauls me up like I weigh nothing.

"You know," she says, brushing rain off her sleeve, "most people try not to lose to younger trainees."

"That's because most people lack my commitment to consistency."

"That's your excuse?"

"It's my latest excuse."

"How many do you have?"

"An impressive collection."

For the first time all day, I smile. Only slightly. But enough.

Lyra notices. She always notices. Unfortunately.

"You're doing it again."

The smile drops. "What?"

"That thing where you pretend everything's funny."

I look away, out over the training grounds warriors sparring in one corner, young wolves practicing tracking near the tree line, pack members moving between the wooden buildings beyond the clearing. The village is alive despite the rain. It should feel like home.

Most days, it doesn't.

"Everyone loses sometimes," Lyra says quietly.

I let out a short laugh. "Sure."

She waits. When I don't say anything else, she nudges my shoulder. "You know that's not what this is about."

Of course she knows. Lyra has an irritating talent for seeing exactly the things I'd rather keep buried.

I watch Tomas rejoin the older trainees. They welcome him instantly patting his back, laughing, folding him in like he's always belonged there. He shifted for the first time at thirteen. A year early. People still talk about it.

People admire strength. Strength earns respect. Strength earns loyalty. Strength earns a place at the table.

I know this because I've spent seventeen years watching it happen to everyone but me.

"I should've shifted by now."

The words are out before I can stop them. Rain taps softly against the rooftops. Neither of us says anything for a moment, because we both already know the truth: most wolves find their wolf between thirteen and fifteen. Sixteen is late. Seventeen doesn't even have a category. There isn't supposed to be a seventeen. Not in living memory. Not in Blackthorn Pack.

And yet — here I am. Kael Blackthorn. Son of Alpha Darius Blackthorn. The only wolf in the territory who's never actually become one.

Maybe not a wolf at all. Just Kael. A boy stuck somewhere in between.

Lyra crosses her arms. "Maybe your wolf's just stubborn."

"Maybe my wolf took one look at me and left."

"That's not funny."She says sternly. "It was a little funny."I replied chuckling. "It wasn't."

"Fine."

She shakes her head, rainwater scattering from loose strands of hair. "You know nobody important thinks less of you."

I raise an eyebrow. "Nobody important?"

"Exactly."

"What about my father?"

The question lands harder than I mean it to. Lyra's expression softens, and that tells me everything I need to know.

Across the training grounds, under the wooden shelter, Alpha Darius Blackthorn watches the warriors train. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Imposing enough that people give him space without thinking about it. Leadership sits on him like it was tailored.

He isn't looking at me. He hasn't looked at me once, the entire session.

That hurts worse than the bruises. I wish it didn't. It does anyway.

Eventually he turns and disappears into the rain. No word. No glance. No son.

I stand there a moment longer, watching the empty space where he used to be. Something twists in my chest; the kind of disappointment that's easy to shrug off when it comes from strangers, harder when it comes from family, and hardest of all when it comes from yourself.