Page 5

Hagan

The training field stretched wide under the sweltering noon sun, a vast expanse of packed dirt and scattered obstacles.

The boys ran in a staggered formation, their breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps as they carried sloshing barrels of water on their backs.

The weight was punishing, pressing down on their spines with every step.

"Ten laps," Garrik had said, his tone brooking no argument.

He showed no mercy, watching them like a hawk as they lumbered forward, their muscles burning with the effort.

"This is your fault," Dain huffed, sweat trickling down his forehead as he shot Hagan a glare. "Last time. Never again."

"We both know you'll do it again," Hagan shot back, though his voice was strained.

"I hate that you're right."

Veyr, the only one not complaining, grunted in response, his face set in determination. He ran without argument, focusing on pacing himself, his barrel barely shifting with each step.

Dain groaned. "You could at least pretend to suffer with us."

Veyr's only response was another grunt.

By the eighth lap, Dain had started muttering darkly under his breath. "We shouldn't have been caught. That's the real injustice."

Hagan let out a breathless chuckle. "If you were any quieter, maybe we wouldn't have been. "

Dain scowled. "You were the one staring at the girl like some lovesick idiot."

Hagan nearly tripped over his own feet. "I was not—"

"Don't bother denying it."

"Shut up and run," Garrik's voice rang across the field, cutting through the bickering like a blade.

By the time they collapsed at the finish line, their legs felt like lead. Hagan lay flat on his back, the sky spinning above him.

Then, Garrik's shadow fell over them, and they knew the worst was yet to come.

"You think this is a game?" he barked. His sharp gaze cut through them, but it landed hardest on Hagan. "You think being a prophecy child makes you untouchable? That you're different?"

Hagan's stomach twisted. He did not like to disappoint.

"You could die just as easily as any other werewolf," Garrik continued, his voice like iron. "The Forsaken wouldn't care who you are. If you go sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, you'll end up nothing more than a corpse in the dirt."

The words stung, but Hagan swallowed back his retort. He had learned long ago that Garrik's lectures were not just for discipline—they were meant to keep them alive.

Still, as Garrik turned to walk away, Hagan pushed himself up on shaky arms and asked, "What happened to them? The woman and the girl?"

Dain turned his head slightly, interest piqued.

"They looked hungry," Hagan added, wiping sweat from his brow .

Garrik paused, then exhaled through his nose. "I'm not heartless," he said. "They've been given a flat in communal housing and food. The Tribemother saw to their comfort herself."

Hagan straightened at that. His mother had intervened? That meant she'd seen something—felt something.

Garrik gave them a final look. "Stay away from them," he ordered. "That's not a suggestion."

Which, of course, only made them more interested.

That night, despite their exhaustion, the boys found themselves creeping toward the communal flats.

"Just looking," Dain whispered.

"Just looking," Hagan agreed, though his pulse quickened.

But no one came out.

The windows were dark, curtains drawn tight. The air carried no hint of movement, no sign of life beyond the distant hum of voices inside.

Disappointment settled in Hagan's chest as they slunk away, quieter than before.

Back home, his mother, Lunara Astrid, was busy managing his younger brothers, ensuring they finished their meals and didn't kill each other before bedtime.

Hagan leaned against the doorframe for a moment, just watching her.

She was fair, her long dark blonde hair cascading down her back like silk. Her smile lit up the world, bright and warm, a beacon of kindness. But it was her green eyes, sharp and knowing, that had always struck him the most—eyes that only Renna had inherited .

As for him, he was his father's son through and through.

Unlike Astrid's lightness, Hagan's father was all dark hair, darker colouring, and piercing blue eyes—the same as his own.

They were opposites in every way, his father was rough around the edges, hardened by battle and duty, while his mother was like a river gliding around a pebble—unyielding, but smooth and steady, shaping everything in her path.

Their love was palpable to all who saw them, a bond unshaken by time or war.

It had always made Hagan wonder if he would ever have something like that.

She barely glanced at him when she slid his plate in front of him, her gaze sharp with unspoken words.

"I heard Garrik had words with you."

Hagan sighed. "Yeah."

She raised an eyebrow. "And?"

He stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth and muttered, "I get it. Stay away from them."

She didn't look convinced.

His siblings weren't much help either. They spent dinner snickering and nudging him, whispering exaggerated versions of his punishment.

"So, what happens when you don't listen?" Renna grinned. "Another ten laps?"

"More like twenty," Jorik grunted around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Maybe we should start counting now."

Hagan rolled his eyes, shoving another bite of food into his mouth just to keep himself from snapping back. It was worse when his mom did not scold him but was clearly disappointed .

Eventually, Luna Astrid silenced them with a look.

"Enough. Time for bed. You've got school tomorrow."

Grumbling, the younger ones shuffled away, leaving Hagan alone at the table with his mother.

She studied him for a long moment, then finally said, "Be careful with strangers."

Something about the way she said it made him pause.

"I had a dream," she added, voice quieter now.

Hagan tensed.

His mother's Sight was never something to ignore.

"I won't go near the borders without permission again," he promised.

She sighed, then pulled him into a brief but firm hug. "Good."

She didn't say anything else, but he knew she was waiting for his father.

The network connection was poor where he had travelled, but he had sent a message earlier in the evening—negotiations were going well. He would be back in two days.

Hagan wasn't sure why, but something about the way his mother lingered at the door that night made his skin prickle.

A tinge along his spine told him something was about to change.