Hunting My Outcast Luna

Five: Alpha Ronan

The morning air was sharp with the scent of sweat and churned earth as I moved across the training grounds, watching my warriors. The rhythmic sounds of fists meeting flesh, the scrape of boots against dirt, and the low, guttural grunts of exertion filled the space around me. Shadowcrest’s training grounds were alive with movement—warriors dodging, striking, and countering with precise, calculated force.

I stood in the center of it all, watching. Judging.

Shadowcrest wasn’t just a pack. It was a fortress. A pack built to be the strongest, the most disciplined. Our warriors were feared across Lykaeria, not just for their strength, but for their training. We didn’t just produce fighters—we created weapons. When my father was Alpha, we won countless Alpha Games. But those were gone now, abandoned under the New Alpha King’s rule. Instead, we shifted our focus. Other packs came to us for training. When rogues threatened their borders, we sent a hundred of our men, and the attacks stopped.

But something had changed. The rogues weren’t just desperate scavengers anymore. Their numbers were growing, their attacks more coordinated. It was as if something—or someone—was organizing them.

Every warrior here knew their purpose—to protect, to defend, to be stronger than whatever came for us. Other packs relied on brute strength alone. We honed our minds just as much as our bodies. Strategy won battles. Discipline kept you alive.

I scanned the grounds, noting every flaw in my warriors' movements. A hesitation here. A misstep there. They were strong, but strength alone wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

"Not good enough," I called out, my voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

Nearby, two warriors locked in a fierce spar, their movements quick but not sharp enough. One misstep, one hesitation, and the other fighter swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground with a heavy thud. Dust curled in the air as he groaned, coughing.

I folded my arms across my chest, tilting my head. "If that had been a rogue, you'd be dead. Again."

The downed warrior—Nathan, a promising but reckless fighter—gritted his teeth and pushed himself up. "I won the last round."

I gave him a flat look. "And yet, here you are, on your ass.” My gaze hardened. “Don’t assume an enemy will make a mistake. Make them make one.”

A few chuckles rumbled from the surrounding warriors. Nathan had potential, but cockiness was a weakness he hadn’t yet learned to temper.

Alex, standing beside me, let out a low whistle. "You think he'll ever learn?"

"Not before someone beats it into him," I muttered.

I crossed my arms, my gaze sweeping over the warriors who weren’t sparring. Some were in formation drills, running through the maneuvers we used in battle. Others were engaged in strength training, pushing their limits. Shadowcrest had no weak links. Weak links broke the chain, and I refused to let my pack shatter. We have a duty.

Alex smirked but said nothing. His stance was relaxed, but his sharp gaze never stopped scanning the field. His arms were crossed, the way he always stood when he thought I was being too hard on the warriors. He was taller than most, just shy of my height, with a build carved from years of battle. Broad shoulders, solid stance—he moved like a soldier, sharp and efficient, always ready to strike.

His dark hair was cropped short at the sides, slightly longer on top, though he never let it get long enough to be a problem in a fight. His features were sharp, defined, but not unkind—if anything, the faint crease between his brows made him look like he was always thinking, always planning his next move. It was what made him one of my best.

His eyes, a piercing shade of gray, were what set him apart. They were watchful, always scanning, always calculating. Some mistook his quiet nature for indifference, but I knew better. Alex wasn’t the type to waste words. When he spoke, it mattered. And when he fought, he ended things quickly.

“You’re harder on them than usual,” he muttered, not looking at me.

“You’re harder on them than usual.”

“They need it,” I said simply.

He sighed, shaking his head. “They’re already some of the best-trained wolves in Lykaeria.”

“Not good enough.” I looked toward the treeline beyond the training grounds, where the wind carried the faint, unmistakable scent of blood. Rogues had been circling our borders for weeks now, more organized than they should have been. Something was coming.

"Find Xzavier," I told him. "When I dismiss this group, I want you both passing out the meeting cards. We’ll go over lists one through four tonight."

Alex nodded without hesitation. "On it, Alpha."

As he strode away, I turned back to the warriors in front of me. Some were bruised, others panting, but none had broken form. Even through exhaustion, they stood at attention.

"Enough for today," I said, stepping forward, making sure to meet as many eyes as I could. "Go home. Rest. You’ve earned a couple of days off. But don’t get complacent. I’ll see you all at the meeting tonight—no exceptions. Grab a card from one of the betas before you leave. Your number determines your session. Group one, you’re up first at sunset in the Community Hall.”

I paused, letting the weight of my words settle.

"You are dismissed.

There was no hesitation in their movements—each warrior clapped a fist to their chest in acknowledgment before dispersing toward Alex and Xzavier, who had just arrived. I caught a glimpse of Xzavier’s cocky grin as he handed out the cards, likely making some sarcastic remark.

Unlike Alex, who carried tension like it was part of his armor, Xzavier moved like he had all the time in the world. Loose, fluid, dangerous. He thrived in chaos, and worse—he enjoyed it.

He wasn’t as broad as Alex, but he was just as lethal. Lean muscle wrapped around a frame built for speed over brute force, his reflexes honed to a razor’s edge. His perpetually messy black hair framed a face that belonged to a prince rather than a warrior—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a grin that made it far too easy for people to underestimate him. Right up until he had a blade at their throat.

His eyes were the only real tell. A deep, golden brown that gleamed just a little too bright when he was up to something. And Xzavier was always up to something.

But I didn’t have time to deal with whatever mischief he was brewing. My work wasn’t done yet.

I turned toward the warriors still drilling in footwork, their movements sharp and disciplined. Beyond them, another cluster strained against the weight of heavy stones, muscles taut as they pushed themselves to their limits. We had about a hundred fighters left in rotation.

I found my two most trusted trainers, Hale and Gordon, watching their groups from the sidelines. As I approached, they straightened, waiting for instruction.

"That’s enough for today," I told them with a firm nod. "Dismiss them and send them to the betas for their cards. We have a meeting tonight—make sure they all show."

They nodded in unison and stepped away to deliver the orders.

The last group, however, I chose to handle myself.

The recruits.

These were the newest fighters—still green, but eager. They trained separately under Harvey, the best we had for shaping raw potential into something useful. He stood at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, his sharp gaze tracking their movements.

I walked up beside him, watching.

"How’s this batch?" I asked.

Harvey exhaled, rubbing a hand over his shaved head. "They've got fire, but not control. A few more weeks, though, and they'll be ready to move up."

"Good." I stepped forward, calling out to the recruits. "That’s enough."

They stopped immediately, snapping to attention.

"You’ve done well," I acknowledged. "But training isn’t just about brute strength. It’s about control, discipline, and knowing when to strike. Keep that in mind." I let my gaze sweep over them. "You’re dismissed. Go to the betas for your numbers, and I’ll see you all tonight."

As they filed away, Harvey let out a low chuckle. "You think any of them will actually make the cut?"

I glanced at the retreating recruits, then back at him. "They will if they want to survive."

He grunted in approval before heading off toward the barracks.

I lingered for a moment, scanning the emptying training grounds, watching as the last warriors collected their cards and disappeared into the village. The sky was darkening, the weight of the coming night settling over me.

Shadowcrest had strong warriors. Disciplined fighters. But as the wind shifted, carrying the distant scent of something I couldn’t yet name, unease coiled in my gut.

By the time I arrive at the Community Hall, the building is already packed. Conversations hum through the air—low voices murmuring concerns, the occasional hushed argument. The tension is tangible, thick like a storm cloud waiting to break.

This hall was never built to hold more than two hundred members, and with our growing numbers, it’s no longer enough. Even with the groups staggered, bodies press into every available space, warriors lining the walls, families seated close together.

I make a mental note—I need to move these meetings to the training grounds next time. Having to deliver the same speech four times is a waste of everyone's time.

As I step forward, the room falls into silence.

One by one, my pack bows their heads in submission.

"Thank you all for coming." My voice is steady, cutting through the heavy air. "I won’t waste time with formalities—we have more pressing matters to discuss."