Chapter 2
1491 Words
The frost hadn’t even begun to melt when Arya opened her eyes.
No alarm. No knock. Just that same knot of urgency in her chest that had woken her every morning this month. She blinked up at the concrete ceiling, the chill already seeping through her sheets. Her fingers twitched for her hoodie before her mind even caught up.
She threw off the covers and swung her legs down. The cold hit her bare feet like a jolt of wire. She didn’t flinch.
Cold was constant. Like gravity. Like the rules.
She dressed fast. Black thermal. Combat leggings, threadbare in places. Thick socks. Her boots were lined up under the cot, laces loose but clean. She pulled them on in quick, practiced motions. Hoodie last. She didn’t need mirrors. Every bruise, every scar, was cataloged in muscle memory.
The halls of Ridgepoint Hold were still and shadowed. Only the dim blue light of the emergency strips lit the corridor edges. Pipes clanged overhead. The hum of old heat systems echoed like a slow heartbeat. She moved quietly down the main passage, past sleeping quarters, weapons lockers, reinforced doors with peeling labels.
On the right, just outside the mess, five old picture frames lined the wall—one for each supposed “pillar of the pack.” Arya didn’t stop to look, but her eyes flicked to the fourth one out of habit.
Keagan and Rion. Years ago. Post-spar. Both grinning like dumbasses, bruised, breathless, proud.
She looked away.
Outside, the wind cut through the trees like broken glass. The sky was bruised with early light, and her breath fogged in front of her as she stepped out. Pine needles crunched beneath her boots, and the trail leading down to the training pitch was laced with frost.
Her path was muscle memory. Down the slope, past the shattered gear shed, then left where the tree roots knotted like vertebrae. The clearing opened up ahead—a wide, worn circle of frozen dirt ringed by pine and rusted benches. No fences. No comfort. Just bare earth and expectation.
The others were already gathering.
Enforcers. Shadowfang’s elite. Blunt instruments with old grudges and fast hands. They didn’t line up. They didn’t stretch together. They sized each other up like always—narrow glances, short nods, bodies warming by moving, not talking. Elbows flying. Knees slamming into imaginary opponents.
At the far edge of the field stood Rion.
Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable. A wall of command in a thermal coat and combat boots. He didn’t shout orders. He didn’t need to. His presence had gravity.
Arya moved into her spot near the center and stretched in silence. One leg out. Hips low. Shoulders rolling. Breath even. Her muscles stung from yesterday’s drills. Good. That meant she was still here.
She didn’t look toward the trees.
Not right away.
She knew what she wouldn’t see.
Keagan hadn’t shown yesterday. Or the day before that. He’d missed four of the last six drills, each time offering less of an explanation. First a late council meeting. Then nothing. Just a nod, or worse—no eye contact at all.
Now, people were starting to notice.
Warm-up bled into contact drills like it always did. Someone threw a punch too wide. Someone else blocked it harder than necessary. Laughter broke out. Rion didn’t blink.
Arya’s fists struck cold air with surgical repetition—jab, jab, elbow, spin.
“You going to stare all day, or actually throw a punch, Blake?”
She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to.
Blake’s pride couldn’t let it go. He charged. Predictable. Heavy steps and lazy form.
Arya caught his wrist mid-swing, turned her hips, and drove him face-first into the dirt. The breath left him in a wheeze.
Laughter from the enforcers. A barked curse from Blake. Arya reset her stance.
Rion’s voice cut through the field. “Switch.”
They changed their pairs. Arya stepped in against Theo—quick, scarred, smug.
“Still not scared of me, huh?”
“Not even a little.”
They clashed. Her fist met his ribs. His elbow grazed her jaw. She ducked, pivoted, swept his legs. The sound of impact rang sharp.
Again.
Again.
Two takedowns in under sixty seconds.
Rion didn’t praise her.
“Reset.”
Theo muttered something under his breath as he stood up. Arya didn’t respond. Her eyes had drifted again—back toward the tree line.
No Keagan.
And the worst part? She didn’t know if he was late… or just not coming anymore.
She caught Blake staring again. He smirked. Theo raised an eyebrow. Even Mara, silent and steady, looked at her a little too long.
The air shifted.
Keagan’s absence wasn’t just noted—it was becoming an expectation.
She doesn’t know where he is. That was the message. And maybe she’s not as close to him as she thought.
Her stomach twisted, but her hands didn’t shake. She couldn’t afford that.
Rion called an end to the drills with a clipped wave. Breath steamed in the cold. The others peeled off toward the benches or the gear racks, water bottles shaking in bruised hands.
Arya stayed upright. Barely sweating. But her heartbeat had gone thin and fast in her chest.
Rion lifted two fingers and beckoned her over.
She crossed the field, hoodie hanging from one hand. Her shoulders tight. Her father—Beta Rion to everyone else—stood like a statue carved from old grudges and colder loyalty.
He didn’t ask how she was. He never did.
“You’re still a step behind,” he said.
Arya didn’t blink. “I took Blake down in under two seconds.”
“You were slow against Theo.”
“I still dropped him.”
“That’s not the point,” he said flatly. “You’re reactive. Emotional. You’re letting your focus slip.”
Her jaw tensed. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.”
She looked away, toward the trees. No Keagan. Again.
“I know what this is,” Rion said. “But if you’re going to stand in the circle on the day of the Hunt, I need you focused.”
Her head snapped back. “You think I’m doing this for him?”
He didn’t answer right away.
The silence said enough.
Arya felt the words rising—too fast, too sharp—but she swallowed them down. Rion didn’t respond to outbursts. Never had. Especially not from her.
“I trained harder than any of them,” she said instead. “I’ve been ready for months.”
Rion’s expression didn’t shift. “And if he doesn’t choose you?”
The question hit harder than it should have.
Arya straightened her spine. “Then I survive the chase. I stand unbroken. That’s the whole point, right? Prove we’re Luna-worthy?”
He didn’t nod. He didn’t say good. He just studied her.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter—but not softer.
“This is bigger than both of you now. Keagan’s not a boy running wild through these trees anymore. He’s going to be Alpha. That means he’ll need a Luna who can match the title. You want that place?” His eyes sharpened. “Then you come prepared to be chosen. Not pitied.”
Arya swallowed, hard. “I’m not asking to be chosen.”
“No,” he said. “You’re asking not to be left behind.”
That one cut deeper.
She turned her face away, eyes on the frostbit treeline. Her voice came out low. “You always pushed me harder than him.”
Rion exhaled through his nose. Not angry. Just tired.
“You’re my daughter,” he said. “That means I expect more.”
“No,” she said, finally looking at him. “It means you expect me to carry the weight so he doesn’t have to.”
He flinched. Barely. But it was there.
And she hated that it felt like a win.
“He has to lead,” Rion said, quieter now. “That was always the path.”
Arya’s throat tightened. “And I’m just... what? A tool for the legacy?”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t deny it either.
The silence hung like a blade between them.
When he finally stepped back, it wasn’t in dismissal—it was in resignation.
“You want him to see you?” Rion said. “Then don’t wait at the edge of the woods like prey. Hunt like you mean to win.”
Then he turned and walked away.
Arya stood there, hoodie clutched in one hand, breath shallow and slow. Her pulse thudded against the silence.
In three days, the Hunt would begin.
The mating ceremony.
The chase.
The choice.
And if Keagan didn’t see her by then… if he didn’t want her anymore—
She’d make damn sure he remembered why he once did.
- Writer
