Elara’s POV

The training grounds smelled exactly the same. Sweat, iron, and ambition. Years gone, and nothing here had changed.

Everything else had.

My boots hit the packed earth, and the sound echoed through my chest like a drumbeat. Dozens of bodies moved across the sprawling yard—sparring, drilling, running formations. The clang of practice blades rang sharp in the morning air. Breath misted from exertion. Someone barked orders near the archery range.

Kaelen’s hand settled at the small of my back. Light. Barely there. A steadying pressure that said I’m here without words.

I hated that it helped.

I exhaled through my nose. Squared my shoulders. Kept walking.

The main training hall loomed ahead—a massive stone structure with arched doorways wide enough for three men abreast. Inside, the smell intensified. Leather and chalk dust and old blood ground into the mats. Sunlight fell in slanted columns through high windows, illuminating the floating particles of dust that danced like tiny sparks.

"I don’t believe my fucking eyes."

The voice boomed across the hall like thunder rolling off a mountain. I barely had time to register it before two enormous arms wrapped around me and lifted me clean off my feet.

"Marcus—"

"You’re back." He crushed me against his chest. The man was built like a siege wall—shoulders wide enough to block a doorway, arms thick as tree trunks, a jagged scar cutting across his left cheek from temple to jaw. "You’re actually back. After all these goddamn years."

"Can’t breathe," I wheezed.

He set me down. Held me at arm’s length. His scarred face split into the widest grin I’d ever seen on him. "Ela. Look at you." His eyes swept over me—cataloging the changes, probably. The harder edges. The new scars. The way I stood differently now. Wider stance. Lower center of gravity. Ready.

"You look like you’ve been through hell," he said.

"Something like that."

His grin didn’t waver. "Hell suits you."

Behind me, I felt Kaelen shift. A subtle territorial energy rolling off him like heat from a furnace. Marcus noticed. Gave a respectful nod. But his attention stayed on me.

"Come on." Marcus clapped a massive hand on my shoulder. "I’ve got news that’ll make the pups howl."

He led us to the center of the main hall. Training had paused. Bodies stilled. Eyes tracked our movement across the floor. I felt the weight of every gaze like pressure against my skin.

Marcus faced the assembled students. There must have been a large group of them—a mix of men and women, all young, all radiating the barely contained energy of wolves in their prime.

"Listen up!" His voice cut through the residual chatter like a blade. Silence fell instantly. "As of today, we have a new Head Instructor for the women’s combat division." He gestured toward me. "You’re looking at her."

Silence stretched.

Then a murmur. Low. Uncertain.

A young man near the front—broad-shouldered, arms crossed—spoke first. "Sir." His tone was respectful. Toward Marcus. "With all due respect... she’s mortal."

The word landed like a slap.

Mortal.

Not your highness. Not the empress. Mortal. As if that single word erased everything else I was.

More whispers. Rising now. Spreading through the gathered students like poison through water.

"—can’t even shift—"

"—heard she lost her wolf—"

"—supposed to train us?"

A tall figure stepped forward from the women’s group. Golden hair pulled back in a tight braid. Broad shoulders. Athletic build. The kind of body that moved with predatory confidence. Her amber eyes locked onto mine with open challenge.

"I’m not taking orders from someone who can’t shift." Her voice carried across the hall. Clear. Defiant. A declaration. "No offense. But how exactly does a mortal train wolves?"

I felt Kaelen move behind me. The air thickened. That dangerous weight of Alpha authority gathering like a storm.

I put my hand back. Pressed it flat against his chest. Stopping him.

He went still.

I didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. The tension in his body vibrated against my palm—barely restrained power, coiled and furious. But he stayed. He let me hold him there.

I stepped forward.

"Jessica." I said her name like I was reading it off a ledger. Flat. Unimpressed.

Her eyes narrowed. Surprised I knew it.

"You think shifting is the only thing that makes a warrior?" I swept my gaze across the room. Across every young, arrogant face staring at me with varying degrees of contempt. "How many of you agree with her? Show of hands. Be honest."

A pause. Then hands went up. More than half the women. Several of the men.

The silence that followed was heavy with expectation.

Something hot and familiar ignited in my gut. Not shame. Not anymore. I’d burned through shame years ago, in underground pits where losing meant dying. Where the crowd screamed for blood and the only thing standing between you and death was your own body, your own mind, your own refusal to stay down.

"Years." I let the words settle. "For years, I fought in the underground rings." My voice was low. Steady. Every syllable deliberate. "Not sparring. Not training. Fighting. For survival. Against wolves twice my size, with no claws, no fangs, no supernatural healing. And I’m still standing here."

Silence.

"I learned something down there that none of you have ever had to learn." I moved toward the training mats. The ones in the center. Stained and worn. "I learned what it means to fight when the odds are impossible. When your body is breakable. When there is no wolf inside you to fall back on."

I stepped onto the mat, claiming the center of the ring. "One on one," I declared, my voice steady. "No powers. No shifting. Just pure skill."

Jessica’s jaw was tight. Her chin still raised. Nothing flickered behind those amber eyes except mockery. No respect. No uncertainty. Just the arrogant disbelief of a wolf looking at a fragile mortal.

"So," my voice dropped, becoming more dangerous. "Who has doubts about me? Step up. Let’s have a match. Absolutely fair."