6|| The Training Ground

I do not stay in my quarters to mourn. I do not hide under warm furs, nursing the hollow ache in my chest, or weep over the shattered remnants of a future that was never truly mine.

That is what they expect me to do. They expect me to break, to lock myself away in shame until the grief humbles me enough to crawl back to Kaelen’s feet and beg for his forgiveness.

But I am Celeste Hart. I do not break.

The next morning, long before the first pale sliver of the sun even breaches the dark horizon, I am already out on the training field.

The grass is heavy with dew, clinging to the leather of my boots, and the air is so cold my breath rises in white, wispy plumes. Yet, my body feels lighter than it has in years.

I’ve been stripped of the heavy, suffocating expectations of being Kaelen’s future Luna—stripped of the constant pressure to soften my edges, to quiet my wolf, and to play the part of a graceful ornament at his side.

The emptiness where the bond used to be is cold, yes. It is a vast, quiet void that hums with a lingering, phantom pain. But it is also clean. There are no more lies occupying that space.

No more false promises. I can even say, with absolute certainty, that it feels better this way. I am no longer tethered to a man who wanted to anchor me to the ground.

I strike the wooden training dummy. The impact vibrates up my arms, a satisfying jolt of physical reality.

I spin on my heel, my shortsword cutting through the damp air with a sharp hiss, and slash across the dummy's chest.

I jump, planting one boot on the central wooden post, kicking off with explosive force, and flip backward, landing in a perfect, silent crouch on the dew-soaked grass.

"You're pushing yourself too hard," a voice calls out from the shadows of the pavilion.

I turn slowly, my blade still raised, to see Beta Hart—my father. He stands at the edge of the field, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks at me with a heavy mixture of pity and deep disappointment, a look I have grown all too familiar with over the years.

"Celeste..." he begins, taking a slow step forward, his boots squelching in the mud. "Kaelen is in absolute agony in his study. He hasn't slept, and he can barely hold down his food. The pack magic is completely unstable because of the broken bond. The warriors are anxious, and the elders are demanding answers. Go to him and apologize, Celeste. We can still patch this up before the damage to the pack is permanent."

"I am not apologizing for refusing to be a doormat, Father," I say, my voice steady and cold as the morning air.

"He is your Alpha!" my father raises his voice, his beta aura flaring in frustration, attempting to assert the authority of a parent and a commander.

"Yes," I reply, my eyes locking onto his without a single flinch. "But he was also my mate. He was the one who swore to protect my heart, yet he was the first to plunge a knife into it."

"This is bigger than your feelings, Celeste!"

"And I am his best warrior," I counter, lifting my sword and pointing the tip directly toward the ground between us. "If he wants me to respect his authority as an Alpha, he should have respected my strength as his soldier. He cannot steal my life and expect my loyalty as a reward."

My father sighs, a long, weary sound, and rubs his temples. He looks incredibly old today. The grey in his beard seems far more prominent under the dim, grey morning light, and the deep lines etched around his eyes speak of a man carrying a weight he cannot handle.

"You don't understand the complex politics of this, Celeste," he says, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper, as if the wind itself might carry his words to the rest of the pack.

"The Alpha King is demanding significantly higher taxes from the northern territories this year and we cannot afford to pay them. We need the Academy connection. We need Elara to go to the Capital, to charm the royal court, and to establish a network among the high-ranking lords. If she succeeds, she can secure our pack a vital tax exemption. It is the only way to save our finances."

"And you honestly think Elara can survive the Capital?" I ask, a dry, incredulous laugh escaping my lips. "She has never spent a single night away from her soft, feather bed. She cries when she scrapes her knee on the garden stones, Father. She cannot even handle the pressure of a basic shift. The Royal Academy is not a playground, it is a den of vipers. They will smell her weakness, and they will eat her alive within a week."

"She has Kaelen's backing," he says defensively, though his voice lacks real conviction. "And she has Miriam's family connections in the southern courts to shield her."

"Connections mean absolutely nothing when you are standing in the arena, facing a trial by combat," I say, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. I level the tip of my silver-hilted sword directly at his chest, the cold steel reflecting the dim light. "Let's spar, Father. Let's see how much you truly believe in your decision to favor weakness over strength."

He hesitates, staring at the blade, his jaw working. Then, with a grim expression, he draws his own wooden training blade from his belt. "Fine. If you need to vent your anger on me to get this foolishness out of your system, let's do it."

We clash.

The sharp, echoing crack of our training weapons ringing against each other shatters the quiet of the morning. He lunges forward, bringing his blade down in a heavy, overhead strike.

He is strong—he is a Beta, after all—but he is slow. He is weighed down by years of administrative work, soft living, and the easy peace we have enjoyed. I move like a shadow, my instincts honed by years of surviving on the freezing border. I easily slip past his guard, my movements fluid, precise, and completely effortless.

We exchange blows, the wood clattering in a rapid, rhythmic dance. But by the third exchange, I see the opening. I slide my blade up the length of his weapon, twist my wrist with a snapping force, and send his blade flying out of his hand. It clatters uselessly into the damp grass several feet away.

Before he can even blink, the cold metal of my shortsword is resting gently, but firmly, against his throat.

My chest rises and falls with shallow, controlled breaths. I look into my father's shocked, wide eyes.

"You see?" I breathe, the heat of my words warming the cold space between us. "This is what you traded away. You traded a warrior who can actually defend this family and this pack for a socialite who will bring you nothing but debt, failure, and ruin. Remember this exact moment, Father, when the bill finally comes and there is no one left to pay it."

I slowly lower my sword, stepping back to break the tension. I slide the blade back into its scabbard, turn my back on him, and walk away.

I leave him standing entirely alone in the damp, freezing grass, staring down at his dropped weapon with a silent, heavy, and crushing realization.

Good.

They should all suffer in that realization. They wanted a weak pack, now they can learn how much it costs to survive without the strong.