Sylra's POV
The days blurred together in a haze of sweat, steel, and Caelen's relentless voice.
"Commit!" His blade crashed against mine, driving me backward across the training yard. "You hesitate at the moment of contact. Every. Single. Time."
I gritted my teeth and pushed back, forcing my weight forward instead of retreating. My sword caught his at an angle that sent vibrations shooting up my arm, but I held my ground.
"Better." He disengaged, circling. "Now do it again without thinking about it first."
We drilled swordwork until my shoulders burned, then transitioned to hand-to-hand combat that left me with bruises in places I didn't know could bruise. Tactical exercises followed, war games played out on paper maps where Caelen dismantled every strategy I proposed and made me rebuild them stronger.
"You're defending," he said during one session, shoving my troop markers aside. "Stop defending. What do you want? Take it."
"I want to protect my borders."
"Wrong answer." He leaned across the table, gray eyes boring into mine. "You want to win. Protection is a byproduct of victory, not a substitute for it."
Between sessions, I tried to crack the wall he'd built around himself. We sat on the stone steps of the training yard, catching our breath, and I asked where he'd learned to fight.
"Everywhere," he said, and offered nothing more.
I asked about his family, his pack, his plans for when his father stepped down as Alpha of Ironshade.
"Irrelevant to your training," he replied each time, his face giving away nothing.
But I noticed things he didn't say. A flask of water always appeared at the edge of the yard when I finished my drills, placed there by hands I never saw. When he corrected my stance, his touch was careful, almost gentle, at odds with the harshness of his instructions. And sometimes, when I was focused on a technique, I caught him watching me with an expression that vanished the moment I turned my head.
"You're staring," I said once, wiping sweat from my forehead.
"I'm assessing." He tossed me the water flask. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
His jaw tightened, but he didn't answer. He never answered the questions that mattered.
The council meetings were a different kind of battlefield, one where Caelen's lessons proved harder to apply.
I sat at the long table in the council chamber, surrounded by men and women who had governed this kingdom for decades. Lord Harren, with his silver beard and permanent sneer. Lady Voss, whose elegant hands were always folded precisely, whose smile never reached her cold blue eyes. A dozen others, all watching me with varying degrees of contempt.
"The princess proposes we reinforce the western watchtowers," Lord Harren read from my submitted strategy document. His lips twitched. "How very... thorough."
"The western approach is our most vulnerable point," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Scout reports indicate—"
"Scout reports." Lady Voss laughed, a delicate sound that cut deeper than any blade. "My dear girl, we've been reading scout reports since before you were born. Your suggestions are charmingly naive, but perhaps leave military strategy to those with experience."
Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table. Someone to my left whispered loud enough for me to hear: "The girl spent her life scrubbing floors at Blackmaw. What does she know of war?"
"Rovan is still her legal mate," another voice added. "Perhaps the throne would be better served by someone with actual leadership experience."
My hands clenched beneath the table. The old instinct surged, the one that told me to shrink, to apologize, to make myself small so they would stop looking at me with such naked disdain.
Then I heard Caelen's voice in my head, cold and certain: Stand your ground. Don't waver.
"I am learning." The words came out firm, cutting through the whispers. Every head turned toward me. "I have been here for weeks. I will be here for years. Decades." I met Lord Harren's eyes, then Lady Voss's, then swept my gaze around the entire table. "Question me again in a month and see how your doubts age."
Silence fell over the chamber. Lord Harren's sneer faltered. Lady Voss's perfectly folded hands tightened almost imperceptibly.
No one spoke for a long moment.
"Well." My father's voice broke the tension, and I caught the ghost of approval in his eyes. "I believe that concludes today's session."
The councilors filed out in stiff silence, and I allowed myself a single breath of relief before my father gestured for me to remain.
"Walk with me," he said, rising slowly from his chair.
We moved through the palace corridors, guards trailing at a respectful distance. My father's steps were slower than they'd been when I first arrived, his breathing more labored. The sight made my chest tighten.
"You handled the council well," he said. "But handling them isn't enough. You need to remove their weapons entirely."
"Their weapons?"
He stopped beside a tall window overlooking the moonlit gardens. "The bond, Sylra. Your informal rejection weakened it, but the legal technicality remains. In the eyes of ancient law, Rovan Dareth still has a claim to you."
My stomach dropped. "I rejected him publicly. Before the entire Blackmaw Pack."
"Public rejection means nothing without proper dissolution before the Moon Goddess." His voice was gentle but firm. "A priestess must preside. Sacred words must be spoken. Until then, your enemies will use this against you."
"How?"
He turned to face me, and the weight of his crown seemed to press down on him visibly. "If you die before taking the throne, the council chooses a new ruler. They will argue that your mate bond makes Rovan the natural choice. That through you, he has a legitimate claim to the crown."
The blood drained from my face. "They would put him on the throne? After everything?"
"They would put anyone on the throne who isn't you." My father gripped my shoulder, his hand trembling slightly. "Lady Vela has been whispering in ears for weeks. Half the council believes Rovan would be a more stable choice than an untested princess with no political experience."
"Then I'll dissolve the bond," I said immediately. "Publicly. Formally. Whatever it takes."
"It will require Rovan's presence." His eyes searched mine. "He must stand before the Moon Goddess and accept the severance. Can you face him again?"
I thought of Rovan's desperate eyes in the throne room, his voice cracking as he begged me to listen. I thought of three years of silence, of being made to feel worthless, of watching him choose everyone and everything over me.
"Yes," I said. "I can face him."
My father nodded slowly. "Then we send word to Blackmaw. The ceremony will be held at the next full moon." He paused, something dark passing across his features. "And Sylra? Be prepared. Rovan is first on the council's list if you fall. Which means someone will make very certain you do."