THE KING'S COMMAND

The Blood Moon rose swollen and red over the training yard, casting the world in the color of fresh wounds. The air was heavy with the musk of wolves running drills — a primal, electric charge that stirred my wolf under the suppressants, making it pace restlessly inside me.

Kael’s voice cut through the chaos like a war horn. “Southwood! With me.”

I fell in beside him, legs aching from the gauntlet hours earlier. The other recruits threw me glances ranging from pity to thinly veiled amusement. They knew what it meant to be singled out twice in one night. Kael wasn’t just pushing me — he was setting me up to fail.

“Blood Moon drills,” he said without looking at me. “You’ll run them until you drop.”

The drills were merciless. Ten soldiers at a time, moving through live combat scenarios under the Blood Moon’s gaze. Blunted blades could still break bones. Wolves in half‑shift lunged from blind corners, their claws wrapped in leather but their snarls real enough to freeze weaker hearts.

Kael didn’t go easy on me. Every time I stumbled, he barked an order sharper than the next strike. Every mistake, he doubled the punishment — more laps, more combat rounds, more weight to carry. My lungs burned. My arms screamed. My scent suppressants thinned further with every drop of sweat, and panic nipped at the edge of my focus.

“Again!” he roared.

I could barely hold my sword now. My knees threatened to fold under me. But I forced myself forward — because I knew that if I fell here, I’d never make it to the front lines.

By the time the horn signaled the end of the drills, I was sprawled in the dirt, chest heaving, vision spotted black.

Kael crouched beside me, his shadow falling over my face. “You’ve got heart, Southwood,” he murmured. “But heart doesn’t keep you alive out there.”

His voice was softer than before, almost thoughtful — but I didn’t miss the faint, unreadable look in his golden eyes before he turned and walked away.

Kael’s POV

The torches guttered low in the command tent as I strode inside. The night stank of sweat and wolfsbane, but another scent lingered — faint, but unmistakable. Royal.

The messenger knelt before me, holding a sealed parchment bound with crimson wax. The King’s mark.

I broke the seal.

> Commander Kael,

My son will serve in your ranks for no longer than three months. Push him to his limits. Break him if you must. I expect him returned — humbled, exhausted, stripped of his foolish notions of war.

He will fail. You will see to it.

– Aldric

I read it twice. Then once more. The paper crumpled in my fist, but not before I caught the glint of satisfaction in the messenger’s eyes.

The King wanted the boy broken. Not trained. Not tested. Broken.

I thought of the pale face in the torchlight tonight, the stubborn steel in his gaze even when his legs were shaking and his breath came in ragged pulls. He hadn’t given up. Not once.

A lesser wolf would have crawled back already.

I tossed the parchment onto the table and poured myself a drink, the burn of the liquor grounding me.

Three months. The King thought that was all it would take to shatter his son.

Lysander’s POV

I couldn’t feel my legs when I reached my bunk. Every muscle screamed mutiny. My hands shook as I unlaced my boots — the last thing I had left that felt like armor.

Sleep took me fast, but not before my mind replayed the look in Kael’s eyes when he’d said heart doesn’t keep you alive. Was it warning… or something else?

Kael’s POV

Hours later, when the camp was deep in sleep, I stood outside the barracks watching the moon sink low. My wolf stirred under my skin, restless.

The King’s words gnawed at me. I’d trained hundreds of soldiers, broken a fair share who didn’t belong. But none of them had worn their defiance like armor. None of them had that… spark.

If I followed Aldric’s orders to the letter, Southwood — Lysander — would be crawling back to the palace in less than three months.

But something in me wasn’t ready to see that happen.

Not yet.

I turned away from the barracks and stalked back toward my tent. Tomorrow, I’d push him harder than today. I’d see what he was really made of. And maybe, just maybe… I’d decide for myself whether he deserved to break.

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