He hated mornings.
Not because of the cold, or the running, or the ache in his muscles—but because mornings were when expectations were loudest.
The young warrior stood at the edge of the Bloodstone training fields long before the first whistle blew, rolling his shoulders and breathing deep as the forest woke around him. Pine. Earth. Damp stone. The scents anchored him, steadied the tight coil of nerves in his chest.
Seventeen.
Too young to matter. Too old to be ignored.
He’d been told both.
“Focus,” he muttered to himself, adjusting the wraps on his hands.
His wolf stirred—not fully awake, not fully dormant either. A presence rather than a voice. Strong. Watchful. Waiting.
Soon, the wolf promised without words.
That word again.
Soon.
He joined the others as the pack assembled,
