The first time we took him to the training field, I almost called it off at the gate.
The space itself wasn’t threatening: a long stretch of packed earth and grass behind the palace, ringed by low walls and observation benches. Wood dummies lined one side; target posts and obstacle structures dotted the rest. Morning light painted everything in harmless gold.
The scents told a different story: sweat, steel, old bruises. Memories of drills I’d done here years ago; memories of walking past it as an exile who wasn’t supposed to exist.
My wolf paced, restless.
“Breathing,” Grace murmured at my shoulder. “In. Out. No circles. Just dirt.”
“El says there are no bad wolves here,” my son announced, squinting at the field. “Only jumpy ones.”
“Accurate,” Kae said, already out in the open, bounc
