Wolves in half-shifted form crossed the stone bridges suspended between towers, their eyes flicking toward
me with frank curiosity. No one bowed. No one stepped aside. In Silvermoon, even warriors had dipped their heads when I passed. Here, I was just another wolf walking through stone and shadow.
It stung more than I expected.
I followed the corridor downward, drawn by the scent of ash and iron until the passage opened into Blackfang’s lower training grounds. A cavern the size of a small city yawned beneath the citadel, its ceiling lost in mist. Warriors sparred in brutal silence, bodies crashing together with bone-jarring force. No ritual circles. No Moon banners.
Only raw power.
One of them was thrown across the sand, landing at my feet with a grunt. He rolled to his knees, blood at the corner of his mouth, then looked up at me.
His eyes widened. “You’re her.”
“I don’t know who you think I am,” I said.
He barked out a humorless laugh. “The Silvermoon Luna who cut her mate-mark and walked into Blackfang like she owned the mountain.”
That story had already spread.
Before I could respond, the air shifted. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. The cavern fell unnaturally still.
Nicero stepped onto the upper ledge.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“Continue,” he said simply.
The warriors obeyed at once, the tension breaking as sparring resumed. His gaze found mine across the cavern, and I felt the Moon-root’s lingering resonance hum faintly in my bones.
He descended with measured strides. “You shouldn’t wander alone yet.”
“I’m not wandering,” I replied. “I’m learning the terrain.”
“Good,” he said. “You’ll need to.”
He gestured to the far end of the cavern, where an older wolf lay propped against a stone pillar, chest bound in blood-soaked cloth. His breathing was shallow, ragged.
“Your first lesson,” Nicero said. “Blackfang does not coddle weakness. That warrior challenged a Frostborne marauder pack yesterday. He misjudged the terrain and paid for it.”
I stared at the man. “Is he going to die?”
“Possibly.”
“And you’re letting him suffer as an example?”
“No,” Nicero replied evenly. “I’m letting him choose whether he still wants to live.”
The wounded wolf’s eyes snapped toward us. Something fierce flickered behind the pain.
“I want to fight,” he rasped.