Chapter 737: Training Begins

The warriors had been divided into groups. They would be rotated amongst the best fighters in the pack, ensuring that everyone—whether seasoned or newly ranked—faced the kind of opposition that would sharpen them into something more.

Snow fell steadily, and the air was chilly, but no one seemed to notice, nor did they care. Every warrior present was too focused on what stood before them.

This was unlike any other training they had experienced.

This was a battlefield.

Fifteen warriors stood in formation at the edge of the grounds. They were a mix of guards and hunters, their breath fogging in the cold air, their grips tight around their weapons. Among them were Joren, Uther, Laia, and Cat.

Daniel stood at the center of the opposing group, his one hand resting loosely on the hilt of his sword. Despite the missing arm, he looked utterly unbothered by the cold. His hair was streaked with white, and his eyes, sharp and assessing, swept across the fifteen warriors before him.

Beside him stood Brynhild, her twin swords sheathed at her sides, her silver eyes fixed on nothing.

To her right, Vincent, a hunter, rolled his shoulders. He had a pink and white headband tied across his forehead. A smile played at his lips. A bow and a quiver of arrows were slung across his back, and a spear was strapped there as well.

Ellis stood at Daniel’s left, his body a roadmap of old scars. He wore three feather earrings in his left ear—red and pink, the colors of a hunter—and he carried an axe that looked like it had seen enough battles. Snow fell around him, dusting his shoulders and his close-cropped hair, but he didn’t seem to feel it. He didn’t even shiver. His gaze was fixed on the fifteen warriors before him, and there was something almost patient in his stillness, like he was waiting for the inevitable.

Four of them.

Against fifteen.

No one moved.

The fifteen warriors shifted their weight, exchanged glances, adjusted their grips. The tension was palpable. Every second that passed made the silence heavier.

Then Daniel barked a laugh, sharp and mocking.

"Are you not coming forward?" he demanded, his voice carrying across the grounds. "This is how you expect to fight the warriors Victoria would bring? By standing there like startled virelops?"

Still, no one made a move.

Brynhild tilted her head slowly from one side to the other, as if listening to something only she could hear. Then, without warning, she gripped the hilts of her swords.

And in the blink of an eye, she burst forward.

She crossed the distance between them in three strides, her movement so sudden and fluid that no one had time to react. Her fist slammed into Uther’s stomach before he could even blink, and the force of the blow sent him doubling over, gasping for air.

She did not wait, though. She was already moving to the next warrior.

And the next.

And the next.

Joren’s eyes widened as he watched her tear through their group.

"She’s taking out the archers!" he shouted.

He rushed after her, shortswords in hand, but Brynhild didn’t even turn. She was already three steps ahead, her body moving with a dancer’s grace and a killer’s precision. She anticipated his movement before he made it, pivoting mid-step to intercept him.

He swung, but she wasn’t there. She slid low, her leg sweeping through the snow to knock him off balance. He stumbled, and she used the momentum to kick him back.

Laia rushed forward to help, but Brynhild twisted and met her head-on. Laia was quick, her movements fluid and sharp, but Brynhild matched her stride for stride. She didn’t even draw her swords.

She attacked with her fists, her legs, her body—turning herself into a weapon. She tracked Laia through scent and sound alone, and she was relentless.

Laia held her ground, blocking and dodging. For a few precious seconds, she kept up with Brynhild, which earned her a tiny bit of respect from the captain, but that respect might just be Laia’s undoing.

Brynhild smiled at her and, in one seamless motion, unsheathed one of her swords.

The blade caught the sunlight, gleaming cold and sharp.

Cat saw that as an opening and ran toward Brynhild, hoping to catch her off guard. But she had barely taken two steps before Daniel intercepted her.

His one hand held his sword, and despite his missing arm, he moved with confidence.

He smiled at Cat, a grim, knowing expression.

"Brynhild isn’t the only one you guys are fighting," he said.

Then he moved, and Cat was forced to defend herself.

Uther recovered from the blow to his stomach, gasping for air. He straightened, drew an arrow, and loosed it toward Brynhild.

It never reached her.

The arrow was intercepted mid-flight—not by a blade, but by another arrow. It shattered against the shaft, the splinters scattering into the snow.

Uther’s eyes widened. He spun, looking for the source of the arrow.

But he couldn’t find anyone.

Vincent was missing.

Uther searched desperately, but he couldn’t find him. Then an arrow whistled past his face, so close it grazed his cheek. He flinched, stumbling back. A thin line of blood welled along his skin.

He looked around once more but saw nothing.

Joren recovered from Brynhild’s kick and pushed himself upright. He was about to charge again when his wolf stirred in the back of his mind, a sharp warning that someone was coming.

He turned just in time to escape.

An axe was flying toward him, its edge gleaming, a rope tied around the handle trailing behind it.

He dropped flat to the ground, feeling the wind of its passage against his back. The axe embedded itself in the snow behind him.

Ellis smiled from across the grounds, his hand still extended from the throw. The rope was wound around his wrist, and he yanked it smoothly, pulling the axe back toward him. It sliced through the snow and returned to his hand.

"This is the battlefield," Ellis said, his voice calm, almost conversational. "There are four opponents here, boy. You shouldn’t be focused on one alone." 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Joren gritted his teeth at that and surged forward toward Ellis, shortswords in hand, his boots kicking up snow. He dodged to the left, then to the right, trying to close the distance between them.

But Ellis was already moving, swinging the axe with the rope tied to it. It spun through the air, a deadly arc that kept Joren at bay. He ducked, rolled, tried to get inside the weapon’s range—

Another warrior saw an opening and charged at Ellis from the side.

But the man didn’t even pause. He sent his axe spinning toward the warrior, forcing him to scramble back, then yanked it back into his hand.

Joren tried to close the distance again, but Ellis was too fast. He pivoted, spraying snow into Joren’s face, then used the moment of distraction to put distance between them.

He tied the rope securely to a spot on his clothes, securing it to his body, and then shifted his stance to face the other warrior who had challenged him.

The warrior lunged.

Ellis met him, his axe singing through the air. The clash of steel rang out across the grounds.

Joren took a breath, saw his opportunity, and rushed forward. He closed the distance, shortswords raised, muscles burning—

But then Ellis shifted.