Chapter Eighteen

The wind in the Black Pine Hills sharpened.

The sun blazed above but it still seemed quite dark beneath.

Crows stopped cawing.

The cave mouth glowed faintly, like breath holding its breath.

Then—

Voices.

Not cadet voices. Older. Coarser.

Hunters.

Boots crunched over dead leaves. Soot reeked.

"You think we won't find her just 'cause she vanished?"

Another hissed in anger.

“She reeks of rebel magic. Cave-dwelling scum. The kind that births witches and traitors.”

Mia didn’t move.

Her chest rose slow. Her breath controlled.

She was still invisible. Masked in the old veil charm. But the spell was fragile — the tiniest stir could break it.

A rock clattered too close to her foot.

One hunter raised a torch. "We burn this whole forest if we have to."

"Dear Moon, I cannot die because of a mere, stupid witch!"

Her familiars — tiny creatures made of bark, moss, and bones — trembled in the shadows.

One climbed onto her shoulder, whispering faintly near her ear, “Don’t blink too much, Mia.”

Another curled beside her ankle. “Hold the magic. You’re stronger than you remember.”

Her pulse thudded in her wrist.

But Mia stared forward, eyes hard.

Let them yell.

Let them light fire.

Let them search.

She would not give herself up.

Not today.

They stopped outside the mouth of her cave. One raised a hunting torch.

“We know you’re in there, girl. You and your cursed mother’s blood. Show yourself or we’ll burn everywhere instead. Make the forest scream.”

Mia didn’t move.

Her body was trembling — not from fear, but from magic friction.

Her tiny familiars — one perched above her head like a crown of bramble, another at her foot like a twig-legged fox — whimpered quietly.

“You’re stronger than them,” one whispered, curling its wooden tail around her wrist.

“Don’t flinch,” another said. “You are the forest.”

The hunters waited.

Growled.

Then—

“Let’s get out of here.”

They retreated. One spit on the earth. “We’ll be back."

Silence.

Mia blinked once. Let out the breath she’d been holding.

The veil still held.

Her familiars whispered joyfully, “You did it.”

And outside, the leaves whispered her name.

★★★

★★★

They lined up again — shoulder rolls, lunges, body alignment. Instructor Yeren barked the command.

“Next set — shoulder holds. Hands up. No breaking. No shifting. Tease those muscles!"

Elowyn stood near the end of the row, jaw tight.

Her balm had helped. A little.

The binding herb was in her satchel, tied in place.

She didn’t know why she looked towards it.

But she did.

“Begin!”

They lifted their arms.

Held them out like wings.

Time crawled.

One minute.

Two.

Elowyn’s arms burned. Her back screamed. Her wrists shook.

Others remained still.

Elowyn gasped.

She fell into a squat, exhausted.

Until....

Footsteps.

Boots. Sharp. Grounded.

Baron.

He didn’t speak.

He just moved — behind her.

Elowyn flinched inside. But didn’t move.

He walked past her once.

Then stopped.

And turned back.

A pause.

Then—

Up.”

His voice.

Low. Dangerous.

She obeyed.

Pain bloomed instantly.

“Up.” He said again.

She gritted her teeth.

Lifted her arms.

Her shoulders screamed.

Her eyes blurred.

The others were watching now.

Even Instructor Yeren stopped counting.

Baron stepped closer, his breath just behind her neck. “What are you without effort, Froste?”

She didn’t respond.

“Raise it. Or I break it.”

She screamed — inside.

But her arms lifted.

Beyond the limit.

Beyond anything she thought she could do.

Sweat dripped from her jaw. Her body trembled. The sun felt like fire.

But her arms stayed up.

Until finally—

Baron stopped.

Stepped back.

And said only “Better.”

He walked away.

Elowyn dropped to her knees.

But she didn’t cry.

She just breathed.

Shaky. Deep.

Alive.

Still here.

And somehow...

She felt it again.

A silent echo in her chest — like something far off had cheered.

But there was no one there.

Only the scent of green things.

The faintest trace of wildflowers and the gazes of curious cadets.

Elowyn’s knees hit the ground hard. She stayed down, arms limp, ribs pounding with each breath.

Behind her, some cadets burst into snickers.

“Did you see that tremble?”

“Thought she was gonna piss herself.”

“Charity case thinks raising arms is courage now?”

More laughter rolled.

Baron didn’t defend her.

He had already moved on.

Not a glance.

Not a pause.

Only the echo of his boots fading into dust.

Instructor Yeren cleared his throat. “Next. Ground pulse drills.”

Cadets groaned — some in tiredness, some in readiness.

They dropped low.

Palms flat on earth. They had to hold their weight up while pushing force into the ground — until the feel of energy could be felt from beneath their hands.

It was strength. Focus. Grit. Instinct.

Elowyn pressed her hands down.

It hurt more than it should.

Still, she tried.

Around her, wolves panted and grunted.

Then came the sound of a scuffle.

Fast. Sharp.

A clash.

“Get him off—!”

CRACK.

Everyone turned.

Elowyn hurriedly went on all fours.

Riven Thorney stood over his opponent — a second-year — now bleeding from the nose, lips split, clutching his side.

“Break it up!” Instructor Yeren barked, but Riven had already stepped back, calm.

His opponent didn’t rise.

A hush fell.

Then murmurs. Tension.

Riven’s eyes were blank. Cold. Not angry. Not proud.

Just.... still.

“Was putting his leg in his face.” someone whispered.

“Didn’t matter,” someone else muttered. “Thorney’s not normal.”

No one laughed now.

Not anymore.

The injured cadet was dragged off.

Riven didn’t explain himself.

He just waited.

Like he hadn’t done anything at all.

Instructor Yeren wiped his forehead. “Right. That was a bad case.”

He blew his whistle.

“We’ll switch it up. Dodging drills — body anticipation. Newbies. Step up. Other Cadets, off to your assessments.”

Groans.

Gasps.

Then stillness.

“You’ll be paired with an opposite pack member. If you get hit, you lose. If you flinch, you lose. If you cry…” He smirked. “You leave.”

Elowyn’s stomach twisted.

One by one, cadets stepped forward.

Opponents chosen.

Eyes watched.

The line moved.

And Elowyn’s name was almost up.

Pairs were already squaring off. The air was thick with adrenaline, dust, and the sour tang of sweat.

Then the crowd shuffled backward in alarm.

A crack echoed.

“Ahhhh—!”

Everyone turned.

Someone had just snapped a cadet’s wrist cleanly — bone pressing against skin.

It was from the far end where third-year cadets were sweating profusely.

It was Alpha Lucian Speare again.

Without waiting, he grabbed the cadet by the collar, raked him backward, and slammed his head against the stone floor.

The thud silenced even the boldest mouths.

The injured boy didn’t move.