Malachai's POV.
The air bites at my skin—cold, sharp, and unforgiving. Just the way I like it.
Storm clouds choke the sky above the hunter’s camp, a low growl of thunder rolling over the mountains like a warning. But there is no rain yet. No release. Just tension—thick, tight, and suffocating.
“Again!” I shout, my voice cracking across the training yard like a whip.
The boys—barely old enough to shave—stumble to reset their stances, panting, bleeding, shaking. They don’t complain. I’ve taught them better than that. The first one who does will learn what it means to bleed for real.
They swing their weapons, lunging at the dummies I built from straw and bone, wood carved with the snarling faces of wolves. Their hands tremble. Their feet slip in the mud. Pathetic.
“You think they’ll go
