Chapter 6 — Commanded

The morning of the shifting demonstration arrives like an execution date. I wake before the bell, before the dormitory stirs, before Tessa starts trying to convince herself that destiny loves her personally. My eyes snap open to the pale ceiling and for a moment I’m back home, back under my mother’s roof, listening for footsteps in the hall, bracing for the bitter mug.

Then I remember: I’m in the capital. No mug. No tonic. No acid burn forced down my throat.

Just the quiet hum of a compound full of wolves who can shift on command and a schedule that expects me to do the same.

My throat still carries the memory of the last dose, but the ache has faded into something manageable. What hasn’t faded is the knot behind my ribs, tight, stubborn, pulsing with dread.

I sit up slowly and press my hand to my sternum again, like I can coax my wolf out by touch alone.

Nothing. Still that empty silence. But… the silence is different here. Less suffocating. Like the air in my chest has room for something to return.

Tessa groans from her bed. “Please tell me the princes don’t watch the shifting demo,” she mumbles into her pillow.

Briar, already awake, answers flatly. “They watch everything worth exploiting.”

Tessa lifts her head, hair sticking up. “Briar, can you not say ‘exploiting’ before breakfast?”

“I can,” Briar says. “I choose not to.”

I rub my eyes. “Do we have to do this today?”

“Yes,” Briar replies instantly.

“No,” Tessa says at the same time. She sits up and looks at me with fierce optimism that borders on violence. “But you’re going to be okay.”

Briar’s gaze cuts to her. “Don’t lie to her.”

Tessa’s cheeks flush. “I’m not lying. I’m believing.”

Briar scoffs softly. “Belief doesn’t make bones shift.”

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my stomach rolling. “Stop. Both of you. I can’t handle a philosophical cage match before I’m humiliated in public.”

That shuts them up, mostly. Tessa crawls off her bed and comes to sit beside me, bumping her shoulder into mine.

“We’ll be right there,” she says quietly. “No matter what happens.”

Briar’s voice is lower, rougher. “And if someone tries something, I’ll break fingers.”

“I feel so supported,” I mutter.

But my chest eases a fraction anyway. Breakfast is worse than yesterday because everyone knows what today is.

The dining hall is a sea of carefully arranged confidence: girls with glossy hair and sharpened smiles, girls stretching their shoulders like athletes, girls whispering “don’t mess this up” under their breath like prayers.The air is thick with dominance hormones and perfume and fear.

I keep my head down, filling a plate with food I don’t want because I’ve learned that not eating before stressful events makes me shakier. Tessa takes extra fruit “for energy.” Briar takes nothing but water and keeps her eyes moving like she’s tracking threats.

We’re halfway through eating when Selena Crestwood glides past our table with her little orbit of admirers.

She pauses at my side.

“Abigail,” she purrs, sweet as rot. “Big day.”

I don’t look up. “It’s a day.”

Selena’s hand lands lightly on the back of my chair like she owns it. “I hope you don’t embarrass yourself. The capital has such a long memory.”

Tessa bristles. “Leave her alone.”

Selena’s gaze shifts to Tessa like she just noticed a fly. “And you are…?”

“Tessa,” Tessa says, chin lifted.

Selena smiles politely. “How adorable.”

Briar sets her cup down with a controlled clack. “Say what you mean, Crestwood.”

Selena’s eyes flick to Briar. The smile remains, but her scent sharpens, irritation edged with superiority. “I mean,” she says slowly, “that the unshifted should be careful. In times like these, weakness attracts… attention.”

My stomach twists.

Rogues.

She’s threatening me with rogues, wrapped in silk.

Briar’s gaze turns icy. “So does arrogance.”

Selena’s smile tightens. She leans down slightly, closer to my ear, and whispers so only I can hear: “If you can’t shift, you shouldn’t be here. Someone will make sure you understand that.”

Then she straightens, smooth as water, and walks away like she didn’t just push a blade between my ribs.

Tessa stares after her, outraged. “Did she, did she just?”

Briar’s voice is quiet. “Yes.”

I force myself to keep chewing, even though my mouth is dry. “Ignore her.”

Briar’s eyes cut to me. “That wasn’t an insult, Abby. That was intent.”

I swallow hard. “I know.”

Tessa reaches for my hand under the table. “She’s just trying to scare you.”

“Scared is already my default setting,” I mutter.

Briar leans closer. “Then upgrade. Be angry.”

Easy for her to say. Anger requires certainty, something solid to grip. Fear is what you get when everything is fog. Still, Selena’s words do something to me. They shift my dread into something sharper, something with edges.

Because I’m tired. Tired of being whispered about. Tired of being measured. Tired of my own body feeling like a locked door I lost the key to.

I want my wolf back.

And if I can’t have that today, then I at least want my dignity.

The demonstration takes place in a training arena inside the compound, a wide oval ringed by stone seating. Guards stand posted at every exit. Council members sit in a raised area with clipboards and cold expressions. A few royal clinicians stand near the edge of the ring, their white coats bright against the dark uniforms around them.

My skin crawls at the sight.

Medicine shouldn’t feel like menace.

But it does.

The summoned females are arranged in lines, names called in order. When you’re called, you step into the center circle, shift, and then step out. Simple. Brutal.

Tessa bounces on her toes beside me. “Okay, okay, okay,” she whispers. “You’re going to shift. You’re going to surprise them all.”

Briar’s voice is almost inaudible. “Or you won’t, and we’ll survive that too.”

I glance at her. “You’re really selling hope today.”

“I’m selling preparedness,” she says.

The arena murmurs with anticipation.

Then the princes arrive. A ripple runs through the crowd, electric and immediate. Logan walks in first with Lia at his side; she looks calm and anchored, eyes scanning the arena like she’s watching not a performance but a battlefield. Liam follows, expression gentle, hands clasped behind his back. Nate comes in grinning like he’s about to watch fireworks.

Adrian steps in last.

He doesn’t look at the crowd. He looks at the exits, the guards, the council row, the clinicians. Like he’s mapping threats. His green eyes flick briefly to the line of females and land on me.

A heartbeat.

My pulse jumps like it’s trying to climb out of my throat. Then his gaze moves on, and I’m left with the stupid sensation that I’ve been seen in a way I didn’t consent to.

Tessa notices, of course. She leans into me and whispers, almost gleeful, “He looked at you.”

“He looked at the line,” I mutter.

“He looked at you in the line,” she insists.

Briar murmurs, “Focus. Not crush hour.”

I squeeze my hands into fists.

Right. Focus. The councilwoman from yesterday steps forward, voice amplified by the arena’s acoustics. “This is a mandatory demonstration for all summoned females. Shifting control is required for consideration of royal compatibility, guard safety, and realm stability.”

Realm stability.

Like my body is a political tool.

She gestures to the first name on her list. “Elara Vin.”

A tall girl steps into the circle. She closes her eyes, breathes, and shifts with a smooth roll of bone and fur that makes the crowd murmur appreciatively. A red brown wolf stands where she was, ears alert, tail steady.

She shifts back without hesitation, stepping out with a proud lift of her chin.

One by one, girls shift. Some are elegant, fluid. Some look like it hurts, grimacing, shaking, but still making it happen. Each successful shift is met with approving nods from council members and excited whispers from the seating.

And with every shift, my dread grows heavier. Because my turn is coming. I try to summon my wolf the way the elders taught: breathe deep, sink inward, reach for the heat in your blood, the wild in your bones.

I reach. And I touch nothing. Just the echo of myself.

A clinician scribbles something on a clipboard and glances toward me. My stomach flips. Tessa’s hand brushes mine. “Breathe,” she whispers.

Briar’s eyes are hard. “If anything feels wrong, say so. Don’t let them push you into panic.”

Panic is already sitting on my chest. Then the councilwoman calls: “Abigail Barns.”

The world narrows. I step forward. My legs feel too light, like they might float away. I walk into the center circle, the stone beneath my boots warm from sun and the shifting heat of other bodies.

Hundreds of eyes lock onto me. I feel them like weight. Like hands. Nate leans forward in his seat, grin bright as a knife.

Logan watches steadily, expression neutral but not cruel. Liam looks… worried. Soft eyed, like he wants to help.

Adrian doesn’t move. He’s still, but his gaze is on me, sharp, unreadable, intense in a way that makes my skin buzz.

The councilwoman’s voice is crisp. “Shift.”

The command hits like a slap. I close my eyes. I breathe in. I reach. Nothing. I try again.

I imagine claws, fur, the snap of bone that everyone describes like a familiar rhythm. I imagine the freedom of running on four legs. I imagine my wolf’s presence, the dark weight I felt at twelve, curled inside me like a second heartbeat.

I feel nothing.

My throat tightens. Sweat breaks across my back.

“Shift,” the councilwoman repeats, louder.

My eyes snap open. Heat crawls up my neck as whispers begin, soft at first, then spreading. I can’t hear the exact words, but I don’t need to. The meaning is a scent in the air:

She can’t.

Unshifted.

Why is she here?

My hands tremble. I clench them tighter, nails biting into my palms.

“Now,” the councilwoman says sharply. “Shift.”

I swallow hard and force every piece of myself inward. I push. I shove. I beg. A flicker, maybe. A pressure in my chest, like something heavy turning over in sleep. Hope spikes, sudden and bright. I push harder, trying to grab it.

And it slips away like smoke. My stomach drops. My vision blurs at the edges with humiliation and rage.

“I.” My voice cracks. I clear my throat, forcing it steadier. “I can’t.”

Silence hits the arena. Then laughter, one sharp bark of it.

Nate.

“Really?” he calls, voice carrying. “That’s disappointing. I was hoping for claws.”

My cheeks burn. The councilwoman’s face tightens in controlled displeasure. “Abigail Barns, you will attempt again.”

I shake my head once, tiny. “It won’t.”

“Attempt,” she snaps.

I squeeze my eyes shut again, forcing breath into lungs that feel too small. This time I don’t even feel the flicker. Just empty effort. Like trying to punch through a wall made of air. I open my eyes.

My vision darts, searching for something to hold onto. Tessa stands in the line biting her lip so hard it’s gone pale, eyes shining with helplessness.

Briar’s hands are clenched at her sides, fury radiating off her like heat.

And Adrian.

Adrian’s gaze is locked on the councilwoman now, not me. His jaw is tight, the muscle there flexing once.

Then he moves. Not fast. Not dramatic.

Just a step, down from the royal seating to the edge of the arena floor.

A guard shifts instinctively, giving him space. Adrian’s voice cuts through the murmurs, quiet but carrying in that way true authority always does. “Enough.”

The word is not shouted. It’s worse. It’s absolute. The laughter dies. The whispers falter.

The councilwoman stiffens, turning toward him with forced composure. “Your Highness, this is procedure.”

Adrian’s eyes are cold. “Procedure doesn’t require public humiliation.”

Nate scoffs loudly. “Oh, come on, Adrian. It’s a shifting test. If she can’t do it.”

Adrian’s head turns slightly. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t glare theatrically. He just looks at Nate. Nate’s grin falters, a fraction. Something unspoken passes between them, brother to brother, power to power. Nate leans back with exaggerated innocence. “What? I’m just saying.”

Logan clears his throat, stepping in smoothly. “We’ve seen enough,” he says with an easy calm that steadies the arena. “Councilwoman, what’s the next step when a summoned female cannot shift on command?”

The councilwoman’s lips thin. She recovers quickly, because her job depends on not looking rattled. “Health verification,” she says. “To ensure there is no illness or suppression involved.”

Suppression.

The word spikes through me like a spark.

Adrian’s gaze flicks back to me. “She goes privately.” It’s not a suggestion.

The councilwoman hesitates, just a breath too long, then nods sharply. “Of course, Your Highness.”

A clinician steps forward, a man with silver rimmed glasses and an expression too bland to be comforting. “Abigail Barns,” he says. “Come with us.”

Us.

Two guards peel off from the perimeter and start toward me. Panic rises hot in my chest. My feet want to move backward. My mind flashes to Melody’s notes. To the vial in Mom’s hand. To Selena’s whispered threat.

Tessa steps forward instinctively. “I can go with her.”

“No,” the clinician says immediately, too quick, too firm. “This is standard procedure.”

Briar’s voice slices out, sharp as a snapped branch. “Standard procedure my ass. No one else is being escorted by guards.”

Murmurs ripple again.

The councilwoman’s eyes harden. “Silence.”

Briar doesn’t look at her. She looks at the guards approaching me. “Touch her wrong,” she warns quietly, “and you’ll regret having hands.”

One of the guards smirks.

Adrian’s voice drops into the space, controlled and dangerous. “You will treat her respectfully.”

The guard’s smirk dies. My pulse pounds in my ears. I’m suddenly aware of Adrian’s position, not just near the arena floor, but near me. Close enough that if I stumbled, he could catch me.

Close enough that if someone tried to drag me, he could stop it. He isn’t looking at me like I’m fragile. He’s looking at me like I’m a variable he refuses to let go unmeasured.

The clinician gestures toward the exit. “This way.”

My legs move because the alternative is collapsing in the center circle in front of everyone.

As I walk toward the edge of the arena, whispers chase me like insects:

“Unshifted.”

“Pathetic.”

“Maybe she’s sick.”

“Maybe she’s lying.”

“Why is Adrian involved?”

I keep my head up. Barely. The clinician leads me through a side corridor, the guards flanking me like I’m a criminal instead of a girl who couldn’t do what her body refused to do.

Behind us, Tessa’s voice calls, strained, “Abby!”

I glance back. She’s being held in place by the line formation and the weight of expectation, eyes wide with helpless anger. Briar stands beside her, rigid, furious, but not moving, because moving would start a fight she might not win in this place.

Adrian is the last thing I see as the corridor curves. He’s still on the arena floor. Watching me go.

His expression hasn’t changed, still that carved stone calm.

But his body is angled toward the corridor like a promise. Like if something goes wrong, he’ll follow. The corridor doors shut behind us with a heavy click. And for the first time since arriving in the capital, I’m not thinking about princes or mates or sabotage.

I’m thinking one brutal, terrifying thought:

If my wolf is being suppressed if Melody’s notes weren’t just notes, then today might be the moment someone finally proves it.

Or the moment someone makes sure I can’t.