All Chapters of Lexara Veyne - The Beta's Flame: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Lexara arrived at the packhouse before sunrise.The air smelled like wolfroot biscuits and woodsmoke, punctuated by the metallic tang of weapons being cleaned on the training terrace. Normal. Familiar. Too familiar, after the night she’d just had.She stepped into the dining hall and felt every eye turn before the door even clicked closed behind her.Not loudly. Not rudely.But in the way packs always shift around a new center of gravity.She had become that gravity — and they didn’t know what to do with it yet.Her mom was already seated at the far end of the long table, shawl draped loose over her shoulders, tea in hand, as if nothing had changed. She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. Lexara slid into the seat beside her."You slept,” her mom said softly.“A little.”“You dreamed.”Lexara didn’t answer.Across the room, Kael’s voice cut through the din. “If we don’t reinforce the west trail, we’re begging for another breach.”She didn’t even look at him. Not yet.The breakfast spr

The training yard was already in motion by the time Lexara stepped onto the overlook. From this vantage — the narrow stone rise above the northern ring — she could see every move on the sparring floor without being seen herself. She preferred it this way. Below, the pack worked in coordinated chaos. Kael was running drills with the inner patrol — barked commands sharp, relentless. Dain oversaw formation testing, eyes flicking across shoulders and blades like an instructor searching for cracks. Rurik sparred at speed, his movements whip-fast, half reckless. Bran offered guidance, careful words between strikes. Eamon lingered near the edge, gloves half-laced, waiting for a partner who never came.And Alaric Voss? Alaric stood at the center of it all, arms folded, not judging — measuring. Lexara didn’t move.The morning was cool, sun bleeding through cloud, and her boots scraped against gravel as she shifted her weight forward slightly to rest on the rail. The scent of sweat, dust, and s

Then — Lexara, Age 14There was frost on the pine roots and blood on her palms. She hadn't meant to tear the skin — she'd just overcorrected on the final swing. The grip was off. The impact jarred her elbow. The staff slipped, spun too wide, and her bare hands caught the brunt of the ground.Alone. Again.She sat in the clearing, jaw locked, body tense. The wooden training post she'd carved herself stood crooked in the snow, bruised from dozens of hits that morning. They hadn't let her train.“You're not sworn,” Kael had said.“You're not needed,” Bran had added, gentle but firm.So she stopped asking. And started building. A weighted staff. Pressure drills. Reflex training using weighted pouches tied to trees. Timed dashes across iced terrain in full shift. At night, she'd mimic Eamon's footwork. At dawn, she'd run Kael's patrol paths faster than his posted wolves.No one knew.No one saw.But Veyra saw.And that was enough.Now — The Training YardEamon was the first to speak.“She

POV MaeronMaeron didn’t move. The circle had emptied, the crowd broken apart, the air still carrying the bite of heat that came with control pushed to the edge. Lexara had already walked away — steady, silent, unbothered. She hadn’t looked back. Not at him. Not even once. He didn’t expect her to.Alaric Voss hadn’t spoken since leaving the ring. His pride had been peeled back in layers — not by brute strength, but by something far more dangerous. A wolf that never needed to shift to dominate.And Maeron had let it happen. Not because he wanted to see Alaric punished. Not because he needed Lexara to prove herself. But because… Because he needed to know. What she was becoming. What she was capable of. And most of all — what it meant for him.He could still feel her presence. Like mist that hadn’t burned off yet. Like heat that hadn’t cooled. Kaereth was quiet. Not subdued. Not uncertain. Just… listening.And that was what unnerved him most. Not what Lexara had shown. But what she hadn’

Packhouse, MorningThe smell of breakfast drifted through the hall — roasted squash, spiced meat, fire-warmed bread. Packhouse rituals were designed for unity. Familiarity. Repetition.Today, they tasted different.Lexara arrived early and silent. Not to command attention. To observe it. The energy had shifted since yesterday’s fight. She felt it in how the younger scouts moved out of her path — not out of fear, but something warier. Curious.And her brothers? Dain glanced once and looked away. Rurik gave a two-fingered salute, no smirk this time. Bran watched her like a rival politician. Kael stayed near Vanessa and spoke in clipped sentences. Eamon… kept looking toward her, unsure if he was allowed. She took her seat beside her mother as always — until a shadow fell across her place setting.Alaric Voss.He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask permission. He simply sat. In Kael’s seat. And the table shifted. Not with sound — but with instinct.Maeron looked up. His jaw didn’t tighten. Hi