It had been five days since the ceremony, though it still clung to Celine’s skin like smoke. The air, the chants—all meant to call forth something sacred. And yet, when her moment came, nothing answered. No shift. No spark. Just silence.
The others had turned their heads politely. Some hadn’t bothered with that much.
Her parents remained in the packhouse afterward, citing protocol, as if they weren’t simply waiting to see her replaced.
The elders hadn’t been subtle. Sasha hovered in plain view, sharper than usual, a constant reminder of what the pack could have instead.
But Leon hadn’t chosen anyone. Not yet.
He’d said only one thing when pressed: It’s postponed.
Not canceled. Not redirected. Just paused. No one knew what to make of it—including Celine.
Now, five days later, the sky was still grey with early mist and the cold bit at her through damp sleeves. The training circle was quiet except for the wind and the distant rhythm of boots on gravel. Her shoulders ached from drills that had started before dawn. Her breath was steady but shallow.
Leon stood across from her, unmoving.
Without a word, he tossed her a sword.
She caught it—barely—and raised it just in time to meet the strike already coming down.
Steel rang out through the training yard, sharp and sudden. Celine barely caught the sword Leon had thrown her before his first strike came crashing down.
No warning. No pause. Just force.
She braced herself, parried, stumbled back.
He pressed forward without hesitation—calculated, aggressive. Not wild, not thoughtless. Each step he took forward forced her to retreat, her boots scraping across packed earth still damp from morning frost.
“You’re holding back,” he said, voice calm. Almost amused.
She adjusted her grip. “So are you.”
A flicker crossed his mouth—too fleeting to be a smile. Then he surged forward again.
Celine met him with everything she had. Steel sang through the air as she lunged, her blade angled just right, aimed for his side.
She almost landed the strike. Almost.
But Leon moved differently than anyone she’d ever trained with. Cleaner. More certain. He pivoted sharply, disarmed her with one brutal swipe, and shoved her backward with a flat palm to the chest.
She hit the wooden post hard, the breath knocked from her lungs. Her sword clattered somewhere to the side.
And then—he didn’t move.
He stood there, barely inches away, his breath even, his body still. His gaze slid over her face, deliberate, unhurried. Not hunting for weakness—just watching.
Taking her in.
She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She didn’t even breathe.
Because deep down, she had already surrendered something.
She would never shift. Her wolf wasn’t coming.
She wasn’t the girl the ceremony had promised, or the Luna the pack was waiting for. Just the one who stood there, pressed against splintered wood, pretending she wasn’t breaking.
Leon said nothing. His gaze dropped—her lips, her throat, the tension in her jaw. His fingers twitched at his side like they itched to reach for her. But they didn’t. He stepped back instead, slowly.
“Again,” he said, voice flat, as if nothing had happened.
As if he hadn’t just seen her fall apart and still decided to keep pushing.
Celine picked up the sword, hands trembling slightly, but her grip tightened until her knuckles blanched. She lifted her chin, eyes locking on his.
“Fine,” she said, voice rough. “But don’t go easy on me this time.”
Leon’s mouth twitched—just barely.
“I never do.”