Page 28

Two winters had passed since Seren first stepped into the wolves' village. Now fourteen, she had grown taller, and sharper, her presence a blend of quiet steel and guarded distance.

Her birthday had been celebrated in the Alpha household, a gesture that Astrid insisted on every year.

The long table had been adorned with wildflowers and warm candlelight.

A soft lavender sweater, hand-knitted by the Oracle, rested over Seren's shoulders — the yarn still holding the scent of herbs and home.

Presents were piled in one corner of the room.

The Oracle had converted the small conservatory into a practice space, filled with crystals, herbs, and charms. There, Seren studied what the Crone had taught her — quiet magic, earth-bound rituals, small strength that pulsed beneath her skin.

Draken, for all his stoic bearing, had grown more perceptive in the years since her arrival. He wasn't blind to Lia's influence over his son — the cutting remarks, the jealous eyes, the slow twisting of Hagan's moods.

So, when he sent her away on an errand the day of the celebration, it was unspoken but understood: Lia wasn't invited.

Hagan had known. And he was furious.

He showed up sullen, jaw tight, arms crossed, his aura spiked with tension. Dain and Veyr followed — the former smirking, the latter, as always, unreadable .

As the white chocolate and raspberry cake was brought out, Astrid smiled and placed it before Seren. "Make a wish, darling."

Seren met Hagan's eyes across the room. Held his gaze for a heartbeat too long.

Then she blew out the candles. Astrid then cut the cake and handed it out.

Dain snorted as they began to eat. "Bet she wished for Hagan in a box, with a big red bow on top."

Hagan growled under his breath, loud enough for all to hear. "As if I'd ever let her touch me."

The laughter stilled.

The room fell quiet.

For once, Seren didn't stay silent.

She turned her head slowly, eyes cold. "You're no great prize, Hagan. Believe me, no one's asking."

The table froze. Even Draken blinked. It was the first time that Seren had spoken directly to Hagan.

Hagan stared at her like he'd never seen her before. Then, without a word, he walked out.

The sun was high when Seren dropped Clio to the mat. They had become regular sparring partners.

They didn't speak, hadn't ever been friends, but there was a kind of mutual rhythm between them now. An understanding formed through bruises and breathless dodges.

Silently, Seren offered her a hand up. Clio took it.

They were not friends, but they tolerated each other.

Then Garrik's voice rang out. "Next pairing... Dain. With Seren. "

A ripple passed through the circle.

Dain's grin was smug. But it didn't last.

Within seconds, he launched forward, his movements tight and practised. He opened with a teep kick, the ball of his foot striking Seren's abdomen, pushing her back. Before she could recover, he followed with a swift roundhouse kick, aimed at her side — she blocked it, barely.

Seren gritted her teeth and circled, light on her feet. But Dain wasn't done. He feinted with another teep, then came in with a sharp elbow strike, nearly clipping her jaw.

He was stronger, yes — and trained.

He was also the future Fang, the one meant to stand at Hagan's side.

But Seren was holding her ground, reading him, countering with smaller, tighter moves — knees into his thigh, subtle clinches that made him grunt.

When she countered with a particularly painful roundhouse kick that nicked his lip, he lost control.

His aura flared, and his wolf surfaced. His next elbow came with too much power, eyes briefly glowing, breath snarling.

Garrik's voice cracked through the yard

"Pull it back, Dain. Or you will be off training for a month."

Dain pulled away, panting, scowling.

Reluctantly, he reined himself in .

But now he was rattled.

Seren's chest rose and fell quickly, sweat slick on her skin. She saw her chance—

And she took it.

She slid in under a wild hook and slammed her knee into his gut, twisting at the same time to hook his leg and drop him flat to the mat. Quick as lightning, she pulled him into a headlock.

The yard went silent.

Dain wheezed, stunned on his back.

She had won.

She had just beaten the future Fang.

The yard went silent.

Seren stood over Dain, her breath coming in hard, measured bursts, the pulse in her ears louder than the noise around her. She offered him a hand.

Dain was still on the ground, staring up in disbelief, his chest heaving. He looked less hurt than shaken—not just by the loss, but by the fact that he'd underestimated her. He ignored her hand and got up on his own.

Seren stood tall, brushing sweat off her brow. Her eyes swept the circle, daring anyone to call it luck. She could feel the bruise that was going to form on her right cheek. Her left side hurt.

And then —

And then the whispers began.

Not spoken aloud, but flickering along the tribelink, and Seren felt every one of them like heat crawling under her skin.

"She beat Dain?"

"Hagan's not going to let this go."

Hagan, leaning against the rail, arms crossed, said just loud enough for all to hear:

"Someone check her pockets for charms."

Snickers followed.

Seren turned her head slowly toward him, eyes like steel.

"I don't need witchcraft to beat a weakling like you, Alphason."

A fresh wave of murmurs surged through the air like the stirrings of a coming storm.

Even Garrik stiffened.

"Seren," he warned. "That's enough."

But the gauntlet had already been thrown. No alpha born would back down.

Seren didn't look away.

But Hagan's pride had already taken the blow .

His eyes narrowed. "You want to challenge me?"

"She didn't say that," Garrik started—

But it was too late.

Hagan uncrossed his arms, pushing off the post he was leaning against. His gaze was cold. Focused.

"You sure you want to find out what it takes to beat me?"

Her silence was all the answer he needed.

Her refusal to back down was answer enough.

And so — the Alphason stepped into the circle. Seren could see Lia's sly smile over his shoulder. The whispers in the wind restarted.

"He'll put her in her place."

"About time someone taught her a lesson."

"She's too proud."

"Watch—Hagan will break her."

Hagan didn't hold back.

He came at her fast, striking like a storm—sharp, brutal, relentless. Seren dodged, blocked, and landed a few precise hits that might've made someone else stumble, but Hagan absorbed them like they were nothing.

He was stronger.

He was a wolf.

And his anger boiled over into something feral the longer she stayed standing.

But Seren—

She refused to yield .

They moved around each other in a blur of motion—kicks, elbows, sweeps. Her heel caught his thigh. His shoulder slammed into hers. She ducked under a strike and hooked behind his knee, almost bringing him down—almost.

Every time they collided, something sparked.

A current, electric and confusing, where skin slid against skin.

A pulse that distracted him, made him feel like something inside him was unfurling.

The press of her palm against his chest.

Her fingers brushing his forearm during a block.

Her breath, ragged and close. Her scent like night-blooming jasmine.

It wasn't supposed to feel like this.

It threw him off.

As they circled, she kept her stormy gaze sharp, her breathing steady, watching more than just his face.

And then—she saw it.

A slight hesitation in his movement.

A faint limp, almost invisible to anyone else.

He was favouring his right leg.

She didn't hesitate.

She feinted left, then darted in low, slamming her shin into the side of his weakened leg, following up with a swift push kick to his abdomen that sent him stumbling back.

That just made him angrier .

So, he drove harder.

Faster.

More savage.

Until finally—he got her in a lock.

His arm twisted hers back, her body pinned beneath his weight, chest to chest, breath to breath.

And still—she fought.

Still—she wouldn't stop.

"Yield," he growled, voice rough in her ear.

Her silver eyes burned into his, wild and furious.

"No." she ground out through clenched teeth.

"Yield, Seren."

"Never."

His grip tightened.

And then—he felt it.

The snap.

Followed by her sharp gasp—cut off like a choked sob.

He looked down—

And froze.

Bone protruded from her arm, pale and slick with blood, her body trembling beneath his.

A jolt of horror surged through him.

"Seren—" he breathed.

He pulled back as if burned, hands lifted from her like he couldn't believe they were his.

She didn't cry .

She only looked at him, eyes glassy and filled with a pain so quiet it made his stomach twist.

"You won," she said hoarsely.

And then she slumped.

All around them, no one moved.

Garrik was already kneeling beside her, barking orders. Cleo knelt next to Seren's prone form but her eyes were on Hagan with an expression close to disgust.

"Someone call the healer—NOW!"

Hagan stepped back. His breath came in short, disbelieving gasps.

He hadn't meant to do this.

He didn't even know when it happened.

One moment she was fighting him like fire.

The next...

"How?" he whispered to no one. "How did this happen?"

And then—

A flare of presence through the tribelink.

Astrid.

She came running down from the Longhouse, skirt flapping around her legs, boots pounding the dirt. Her face was pale, her mind wide open with panic and fury.

She pushed through the crowd without hesitation.

"Move!"

She dropped to her knees beside Garrik, one hand on Seren's pale forehead, the other already pressing fabric to the bleeding limb .

Her voice trembled, though her hands didn't.

"She needs the healer now. Go, Garrik."

Garrik nodded and lifted Seren in his arms, cradling her like something precious and shattered.

Astrid turned toward her son—

And her expression was not kind.

"What is happening to you, Hagan?" she said in a voice like ice.

Hagan said nothing. He couldn't.

His throat was tight with something hot and wrong.

His mother's gaze lingered a moment longer—full of disappointment—before she followed after Garrik.

And Hagan just stood there, surrounded by silence, the coppery scent of blood still thick in the air, his hands stained. The blood had seeped through his shirt to stain his chest.

Lia stepped up to Hagan's side, touching his arm. "It's not your fault. She should've given in," she whispered.

But Hagan shrugged her off.

He didn't feel victorious. He felt sick.

Veyr stepped forward, his stare like ice.

"There is no honour in what you did," he said quietly.

Hagan didn't answer.

Veyr's gaze followed the path Garrik had taken. Without another word, he turned and followed.