Chapter Nineteen

Lucian stood straight, his golden braid swinging slightly with motion. His wolfish grin stretched.

“Next time,” he said coolly, “Don’t play with me like you’re ready.”

The instructors didn’t even intervene.

Not yet.

The name Lucian Speare had weight. And fear.

He walked off like he’d brushed off dust.

Cadets parted.

Even senior wolves avoided his direct scent trail.

Elowyn had frozen in place, arms tensed.

She cringed.

But said nothing.

She looked like she'd faint or vomit.

Just took another step forward in line.

She had no time to flinch.

“Next pair! Froste—step forward.”

Elowyn stepped into the ring.

She didn’t recognize her opponent.

A wide-shouldered senior Alpha, face tight with boredom. Scars on his jaw. Already cracking his knuckles.

Her pulse began.

A shiver ran up her spine and cover her whole body as thousands of hysterical whispers for survival coursed through her wolf.

Her little wolf within.

“Seriously?” he muttered, looking her up and down. “They’re feeding us sticks now?”

A few chuckles. One whistle.

But Elowyn’s heart went quiet.

Her breath slowed.

She couldn't hear anyone.

The cloth on her ribs tightened—but she focused.

She braced.

“Begin!”

The Alpha lunged—a feint followed by a sharp palm toward her face.

She ducked. Fast. Sharp.

Everyone blinked.

He twisted and came again—fist aimed at her temple.

She moved left. Not just away—under, like she’d studied him.

Instinct.

No time to think.

He snarled and went in again—aggressive now—a blur of elbows and testing jabs.

She dodged them all.

Three.

Four.

Five.

On the sixth one, he slipped slightly and had to catch himself.

The arena went silent.

A few gasps.

One impressed grunt from the back.

Even Instructor Daviso and Instructor Ragio narrowed their eyes.

The cadet stepped back, stunned.

He hadn’t landed a single hit.

Not even grazed her cheek.

Elowyn didn’t smile.

She didn’t break form.

But her heart was pounding. Badly. She was trying to regulate her breathing.

People were whispering now.

“She dodged all of them…”

“Didn’t even flinch…”

“First year's stick insect?”

Elowyn’s eyes scanned briefly — Baron wasn’t watching. He was faraway from her. Working it out hard.

But someone else was watching.

Riven Thorney, still at the edge of the crowd, stared.

Not amused.

Not curious.

Just… processing.

Instructor Daviso raised a brow and said dryly, “Next.”

Elowyn stepped back.

Quiet.

Steady.

And for the first time, nobody laughed when she passed.

The ground buzzed as the announcement came:

“Alphas will lead their pack members tomorrow. Teach. Train. You’ll be judged before next trial. Keep it noted.”

The trainings continued.

★★★

★★★

The clink of the bell stopped the market breeze.

“Move aside,” grunted a marketer, elbowing past the fruit stalls.

But the old woman, sitting hunched beside a mound of red thread, didn’t flinch. Her fingers moved—looping, tying, pulling.

Crocheting.

Someone nearby whispered too loudly, drunk on sour wine, “—heard the Froste girl vanished. Bezus must be pissed. Bet Haspan won’t like that…”

The woman paused.

Just for a beat.

Her fingers, mid-loop, trembled. Then slowly.... she resumed.

A small crimson droplet stained the yarn. She had pricked her own finger.

By the time the whisperer turned, the woman was gone—only the blood-speckled yarn remained, curled like a question mark.

The market was alive with its usual clamor — rusted bells from the blacksmith’s booth, dry laughter from spice sellers tossing insults like flower seeds, and children weaving through stalls like wind through reeds.

Wren, hunched but sharp-eyed, tugged her shawl tighter against her shoulders as she inspected a sack of millet, her fingers rubbing over the grains as if they held secrets.

She never liked noisy places. Not anymore.

Still, it helped drown the echoes.

A vendor offered her a better price; she only nodded, passing a few copper coins with the slowness of one whose mind was elsewhere.

Her thoughts wandered like always — to a time when her bones were stronger, her hands younger, and her duties much more.... delicate.

“The Prince never smiled like that for any of the palace women." she'd once whispered behind a curtain, watching Prince Marihl Froste press a kiss to a maid's knuckles. Wren had seen many things she wasn’t supposed to. Remembered all of them too.

She saw the prince leave coded notes beneath silverwares for the maid. He taught the maid to read by candlelight when everyone else was deep in sleep. Prince Marihl sneaked books and kissed the maid's fingers.

Wren had never told a soul of such memories.

She still carried them under her tongue like a rusted blade, never fully swallowed.

Wren touched a stalk of dried lavender.

So young, that maid had been. Too brave, too clever. Always asking about books no maid should be asking about. Always sneaking bites of lemon rind and talking about freedom like it was something you could wrap in a scarf and carry under your blouse.

A burst of gossip snagged her attention near the vegetable stalls.

“—vanished,” a potbellied man said. “They say the girl went missing from the Somberwoke Village. Just poof. No trace.”

“Another runaway omega?” asked a woman with a basket of fish.

“This one’s strange. She’s.... Sergius' stepdaughter.”

"Oooh...."

Wren’s hand froze on a head of cabbage.

“Froste?” the fish-seller echoed, her voice dipping low. “Don’t say such names around here. You want your mouth sewn shut?”

The man laughed, nervous. “I’m only saying what I heard. Froste. A girl.”

Wren set the cabbage down.

Her chest felt suddenly too small for her breath. Not from fear. Not even surprise.

It was happening.

Her heart beat slower than the sound of the distant town bell. Something stirred beneath her ribs — a recognition she had long buried under years of silence and soup pots.

She picked up her basket and walked away before the gossipers noticed the shift in her eyes.

Some truths waited like seeds in a cold drawer, patient for the right season to bloom.

And Wren.... Wren had just heard the thaw begin.