To Tame a Winter Wolf

3.

The quill stopped mid-stroke. For the first time, the man truly looked at me. His gaze swept over my frame- small, my height- little, my build- fragile, my hands that bore faint scars because I had only known labour for the last two years of my life.

“Fighting...” he repeated carefully.

“Yes.”

The young man behind me let out a low whistle.

“You’re so dead, Frostbite.”

I ignored him completely.

The registrar’s brows drew together slightly.

“You understand the rigor required? It is not symbolic training. It is physical. Strategic. Demanding.”

“I understand.”

Did I?

It didn’t matter.

“I still choose Fighting House.”

Silence stretched for a breath longer than comfortable. He dipped his quill again and wrote it down.

“Very well. You will be evaluated accordingly.”

He studied me for another moment.

“You are unfamiliar with the structure of the Houses,” he observed.

“Have you not attended preparatory gatherings before registration?”

I kept my expression neutral.

“No.”

His frown deepened slightly.

“You have lived in Skadi all your life?”

Careful.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“The eastern borders.”

That part, at least, was true.

Recognition flickered in his eyes. A faint huff left him, somewhere between disapproval and resignation.

“Border families.”

He shook his head slightly, though not unkindly.

“You will find the capital structured differently. Discipline is expected.”

“I expected nothing less.”

His gaze lingered. If he suspected anything deeper, he did not show it.

“Report to the lower western training caverns,” he said at last, pointing toward a marked tunnel branching off from the chamber.

“You will find the Fighting House instructors there. Evaluation begins immediately.”

Immediately.

Of course it did.

I stepped away from the table, pulse thrumming harder now. The tunnel marked for the Fighting House yawned ahead, darker than the others, echoing faintly with distant clangs of metal and the dull thud of bodies hitting packed earth. I did not look back at the line. I did not allow myself to think about how close I had come to choosing something safer. But I was done being guarded.

The tunnel to the Fighting House sloped downward before widening abruptly into something vast. I stepped fully into the cavern and nearly forgot how to breathe as my brain registered with what my eyes were seeing. The chamber was carved deep into the mountain’s heart. Torches lined the walls, their flames reflecting off racks of weapons—blades, spears, axes, training staffs. Several fighting circles had been marked into the dirt floor with chalk and ash. In each one, young men and women sparred under the watchful eyes of older warriors.

I had chosen this.

The lion’s den.

That was the only thought that came to mind. I had walked willingly into a place filled with future killers. And if they ever learned whose blood ran through me— I swallowed. They wouldn’t even hesitate.

“You look like you’re about to bolt.”

The voice came from my right. I turned sharply. A girl stood there, about my age, maybe slightly taller. Dark skin gleamed under torchlight, and long black braids were tied back tightly from her face. Her stance was grounded in a way that suggested she was accustomed to physical work. But her eyes—sharp, assessing—held something else. Amusement.

“I’m considering it,” I replied.

She snorted softly.

“Too late for that. Your name is on the list now.”

She shifted her weight, extending a hand without hesitation.

“Krystal.”

I stared at her hand for half a second too long. Friends were dangerous. But allies were also necessary. There was a difference. But I took a decision, and I took her hand firmly.

“Eira.”

Her grip was strong. Not crushing. Testing.

“Ever trained for combat before?” Krystal asked, glancing toward the sparring circles.

“I’ve… survived winter at the borders,” I said carefully.

She laughed outright at that.

“That’s something to start with.”

Her gaze flicked over me more critically now—measuring muscle, balance, stance.

“You don’t move like someone who’s never fought,” she observed.

“I’ve chopped enough wood to qualify as mildly competent. So I guess if fighting wood is acceptable, I'm a pro.”

“That’s once again, a start.”

I wrapped my arms loosely around myself, trying not to appear as unsettled as I felt. I should not get close to anyone. The thought pulsed steadily beneath everything else. The moment someone learns the truth, alliances will turn into accusations.

The Mad King’s daughter.

The living reminder of blood spilled.

But isolation here would be even worse for me. If I would remain alone, I would be easy prey, a target. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to be an easy prey, those days were over.

“I don’t know anyone here,” I admitted quietly.

“Now you know me,” Krystal said simply.

The straightforwardness of it startled me.

She followed my gaze toward a particularly vicious sparring match.

“My brothers were in Fighting House,” she said.

“Said it’s where the real strength is. The house that has the most respect. And pay, once we graduate.”

“And what about you?”

“I wanted to prove I could do it.”

A familiar chord vibrated in my chest.

“Yes,” I murmured. Because I understood.

I want to prove I can do it too...

A sharp whistle split the cavern air, slicing through the clash of steel. Everything stilled almost instantly. Not silence—but attention. An older man strode toward the cluster of newcomers near the entrance. He wore no visible rank insignia, yet space parted for him without question. His hair was threaded with gray, his expression carved from stone.

“New assignments, move forward,” he said, voice carrying easily across the chamber. It was not a question. Krystal and I stepped forward, as well as maybe forty others. It was mind-blowing to see how many were able to try. As if somehow, this house gave way to fortune and fame.

The older man gestured toward a narrow corridor branching off from the main training cavern.

“You will all place your belongings in the intake room.”

I blinked.

“If you pass your first evaluation,” he continued evenly in a voice loud enough that everyone could hear,

“Your belongings will be moved to one of the dorm rooms within the Fighting House.”

“And if we don’t pass, Sir?” Someone asked it before I could.

His expression did not change.

“Then your belongings do not belong here.”

Not cruel.

Not dramatic.

Just simply fact.

“Go,” he ordered. Everyone obeyed without taking another breath.

Once our belongings had been stored away, we were once again gathered in the main hall. The cavern doors at the far end opened with a heavy scrape of stone. Conversation among students died instantly. The professor entered first—the same stone-faced wolf who had told us to get rid of our belongings. His presence didn’t dominate through volume but through certainty. Behind him walked four older students. Not instructors. Not yet leaders either. But close enough to be both. They spread out slightly behind him, silent and composed.

And that was when I saw him.

He stood to the professor’s right.

Tall.

Broad-shouldered.

And my mouth just... dropped.

Built with lean strength that didn’t scream power but promised it. There was no bulk to him, no unnecessary weight—just precision in every line of his frame. He stood at ease, arms folded over his chest loosely, posture relaxed without ever appearing careless.

Calm.

Contained.

Lethal.

The man’s hair was pale blond, the kind that caught torchlight and turned almost silver. It looked windswept, strands falling across his forehead as though the cold itself refused to leave him untouched because he was simply that handsome.

Handsome… f**k that.

Hot! That was without a doubt the hottest man walking around in a pack that was sitting in an eternal winter…

His face was striking in a quiet way. Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. Smooth skin untouched by visible scars. Not soft—just unmarked.

Gods... I wanted to touch it… feel it…

And his eyes. Even from this distance I could see them clearly. Glacial blue. Piercing. Intelligent. Observant. The kind of eyes that measured before deciding. That saw more than they revealed.

There was something almost unfair about how composed he looked in his black fighting leathers. Like winter had decided to take human shape and found the most elegant form possible. I realized, distantly, that I was staring at him like a fool. Krystal followed my gaze.

“Oh,” she breathed softly.

“You noticed.”

“Noticed?” I muttered.

“That’s Fannar.”

The name slid through me like a blade.

“Fannar?” I repeated quietly.

She nodded.

“Grandson of Alpha Jokul. Last-year student. Strongest in Fighting House, some say.”

My stomach tightened.

“Soon to be Alpha,” she added.

“Once Jokul lifts his title.”

Soon to be Alpha?

Shit…

The ice castle above the mountain flashed through my mind again. Of course someone important would be here. Of course the future Alpha would observe the new recruits who would be trained in order to fight for his grounds and pack.

“Don’t get any ideas in your head,” Krystal added lightly.

“He doesn’t look twice at anyone.”

I swallowed, dragging my gaze away— But it was too late. His eyes had already found mine. The shift was immediate. The faint softness at their edges vanished. What replaced it was unmistakable.

Recognition?

And beneath it—

Anger.

Not explosive.

Not uncontrolled.

But sharp.

Focused.

Cold.

Hate.

It struck me like a physical blow.

He knows who I really am...

The thought came swift and certain. My throat tightened, but I did not look away from his gaze. If he wanted to see fear, he would not have it so easily. The moment stretched too long. Then, deliberately, he shifted his gaze elsewhere. Dismissal. As if I wasn’t even worthy of his sight.

The professor stepped forward, breaking the tension like a snapped cord.

“You stand here because you believe you belong inside Fighting House,” he began, voice echoing against stone.

“Fighting House does not exist for pride. It exists because Skadi must be defended. Those who train here stand between this pack and annihilation.”

Silence settled heavily over us.

“You will not be tested on strength alone,” he continued.

“Nor speed. Nor how loudly you can shout or throw a left.”

A faint ripple of uneasy amusement moved through the group.

“You will be tested on survival.”

A murmur this time. He let it build for half a breath before continuing.

“Your evaluation is very simple. You will leave the capital before sunset. You will go beyond the outer perimeter. Into open territory.”

A few recruits shifted visibly now.

“And you will survive one night out there.”

The words dropped like stones into water.

“You will return to the front gate by first light tomorrow.”

His gaze swept across us.

“Those who stand at the gate when it opens will enter Fighting House and claim a bed.”

No embellishment. No dramatic threats. Just fact.

“And those who do not?” someone asked.

The professor did not hesitate.

“They have chosen poorly. And they do not belong in this house.”