Chapter 3 - The Weight of a Collar
1207 Words
Morning came in shades of gray.
No sunlight reached the lower east wing. Only the dull glow of sconces that never seemed to dim or brighten. Caelan woke to the sound of a key turning in the lock and sat up immediately, every muscle coiled.
The same beta from the night before entered, carrying a tray. Bread, cheese, a cup of thin broth. Nothing extravagant. Nothing poisoned, as far as he could tell.
“Eat quickly,” the beta said. “You are summoned to the training yard at the ninth bell. Dress in the provided garments.”
He set the tray on the small table and left without waiting for a reply. The door locked again.
Caelan stared at the food for a long moment before forcing himself to eat. He needed strength, even if every bite tasted like ash.
Beside the tray lay folded clothes: loose black trousers, a fitted gray tunic without sleeves, soft leather boots. No collar of rank. No insignia. Just enough to mark him as tribute, not servant, not noble.
He changed quickly, folding his old clothes neatly on the bed. The new tunic clung to his frame, exposing the lean lines of his arms and the faint scars that crisscrossed his shoulders, reminders of his pack’s discipline.
When the key turned again, he was ready.
Two guards flanked him this time, silent and stone-faced. They led him up different stairs, through corridors that grew wider and brighter with every level. The air warmed. Scents sharpened: sweat, steel, pine from the training yard beyond.
They emerged into open air.
The royal training yard was vast, ringed by high stone walls topped with iron spikes. Sand covered the ground, stained dark in places from old blood. Targets riddled with arrows and claw marks stood at one end. At the other, racks of weapons gleamed under the pale morning sun.
A dozen wolves were already present: guards in training armor, a few nobles sparring, betas barking orders. And in the center of it all stood Prince Rowan.
He wore only loose black trousers and boots, chest bare, copper hair tied back with a leather cord. A longsword rested casually against his shoulder as he watched two young alphas circle each other.
When he saw Caelan, Rowan smiled.
“Ah. Our guest of honor.”
The yard quieted. Eyes turned. Whispers followed.
Rowan gestured with the sword. “Come here, little omega.”
Caelan walked forward, keeping his steps measured. The sand shifted under his boots. He stopped a respectful distance away and bowed his head.
“Your Highness.”
Rowan circled him once, appraising. “You look less like a sacrifice in daylight. More like something that might actually survive a day here.”
He handed the sword to a nearby guard and stepped closer.
“Strip the tunic.”
Caelan hesitated only a heartbeat before obeying. He pulled the gray fabric over his head and dropped it to the sand. Cool air brushed his skin. Scars stood out starkly against pale flesh, thin white lines from whips, thicker ones from claws.
Murmurs rippled through the onlookers.
Rowan studied them without comment, then met Caelan’s eyes.
“Impressive work,” Rowan said quietly. “Your pack must have enjoyed teaching you obedience.”
Caelan said nothing.
Rowan stepped even closer, voice dropping so only Caelan could hear. “Lucien will see these eventually. He will want to know who put them there. And he will want to repay them in kind.”
A shiver ran down Caelan’s spine.
Rowan straightened and raised his voice. “Today you train. Not as tribute. As potential asset. If you prove useless, you return to the lower halls. If you prove useful…” He shrugged. “We shall see.”
He nodded to one of the sparring partners, a broad-shouldered beta with a cruel mouth.
“Pair him with Tobin. Light blades only. No claws.”
Tobin grinned, cracking his knuckles.
Caelan accepted the practice sword handed to him. Light, balanced, wooden grip worn smooth by countless hands. He tested the weight, shifted his stance.
The beta lunged without warning.
Caelan sidestepped, blade flashing up to parry. The clash rang out. Tobin pressed, forcing him back step by step. Caelan blocked, ducked, twisted, never attacking, only defending.
He had learned early: omegas who struck first were beaten harder.
But Tobin grew frustrated. “Fight, damn you!”
He swung wide. Caelan dropped low, swept a leg out. Tobin stumbled. Caelan rose and brought the flat of his blade against the beta’s ribs, not hard enough to break, just enough to sting.
Tobin snarled and charged.
Caelan met him this time. Blade met blade. He pivoted, used Tobin’s momentum against him, sent the larger man sprawling face-first into the sand.
Silence fell over the yard.
Rowan clapped slowly.
“Interesting.”
Tobin pushed to his feet, face red with fury. “He cheated—”
“Enough.” Rowan’s voice cut like a blade. “He used skill. You used rage. Guess which one wins wars.”
He beckoned Caelan closer.
“You’ve had training.”
“Some,” Caelan admitted. “My pack required it. Even from omegas.”
Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “And yet they collared you like cattle.”
Caelan held his gaze for the first time. “Collars can be removed.”
A spark of genuine interest flared in Rowan’s green eyes.
“Careful, little omega. That almost sounded like defiance.”
Before Caelan could answer, a shadow fell across the yard.
Every wolf froze.
King Lucien stood at the arched entrance to the training grounds, clad in dark riding leathers, cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. His presence sucked the air from the space. Guards straightened. Nobles bowed. Even Rowan stilled, though his smile remained.
Lucien’s gaze swept the yard once, then locked on Caelan.
Half-naked, sweat-slicked, wooden sword still in hand.
The king’s jaw tightened.
“Prince Rowan,” Lucien said, voice low and controlled. “A word.”
Rowan inclined his head. “Of course, brother.”
But before he moved, he leaned close to Caelan one last time.
“Remember my offer,” he whispered. “The king may claim you, but I can keep you alive.”
Then he strode toward Lucien.
Caelan remained where he was, chest rising and falling, acutely aware of every eye on him, and most especially the storm-gray ones that burned hottest.
Lucien did not approach. He simply stared.
And in that stare, Caelan felt the bond pull taut again, a living thread stretched between them.
The king turned abruptly and disappeared back through the archway, Rowan at his side.
The yard exhaled.
Tobin spat into the sand and stalked away. The others resumed training, voices hushed.
Caelan bent to retrieve his tunic, pulled it on with shaking hands.
He had survived the morning.
But the king’s gaze lingered on his skin like a brand.
And somewhere in the palace above, two brothers were now speaking about him.
One with hunger he refused to name.
The other with plans he had only begun to reveal.
Caelan tightened his grip on the practice sword.
He would need more than skill to survive what came next.
- Writer
