Royal Academy: The Royal Lycans

Sparring

(Elara's POV)

Live sparring always told the truth. You could hide a lot in drills. You could fake confidence in formation work, bluff through theory, lean on rank or reputation long enough to convince people you were competent. But once two bodies were put in a ring with permission to hit each other—really hit—pretense burned away fast. That was why I liked it.

The training ring was already warm from earlier bouts, the stone floor scuffed and marked with the evidence of effort. Cadets ringed the space in loose rows, some restless, some focused, some trying very hard not to look nervous. I stood at the edge of the ring with my arms folded, eyes moving constantly. Not just watching technique—watching behavior. Who listened when instructions were given. Who tightened when pressure rose. Who watched their opponent instead of themselves.

I started calling out pairs. Names echoed against stone, boots moved, bodies stepped into the ring and squared off. Wolves against wolves. Lycan against wolf. Shifter against shifter. The matches were clean, controlled, and mostly predictable. Some were clumsy. Some were sharp. No one embarrassed themselves badly—yet.

Then I noticed Silas again. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Orla since breakfast. Not openly, not in a way he could be called out for, but the tension was there. Jaw set too tight. Gaze lingering too long. Irritation rolling off him in quiet waves every time she moved or laughed with someone else. That kind of energy didn’t go away on its own. It had to be burned off.

“Silas,” I said, loud enough to carry. “Orla.”

A few heads turned. Silas nodded immediately, jaw clenched. He didn’t argue. Didn’t posture. But I saw the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his spine locked like he was bracing for impact rather than preparing to fight. Good.

I stepped closer to the ring as they took their positions. Silas was capable. I’d never doubted that. He had strength, reach, and enough training to know what he should be doing. But ability and execution were two very different things. He’d never been exceptional in sparring—never hungry for it. The only ones who had ever truly pushed him were his parents, me...and his sister. Dessaria had surpassed him early. Not because she was stronger—she wasn’t—but because she wanted it more. She moved like Rayla, fluid and instinctive, but with Ryan’s certainty layered underneath. Her Lycan, Astraea, was practically a mirror of Soul wrapped in elegance. You wouldn’t know how dangerous she was unless you made the mistake of testing her.

Silas had grown up in that shadow. And he’d never decided what to do about it.

I smiled faintly as the last of the previous match cleared the ring. “Before we start,” I said, my voice carrying easily, “I’m going to make this very clear. Listen carefully,” my voice cutting clean through the space. “This is live contact, but controlled. No lethal force. No strikes to the throat or spine. No joint breaks.”

I stepped closer to the edge of the ring before raising my hand. I let my gaze move slowly between them—not lingering, not rushing. Orla stood alert, shoulders loose, weight balanced. Silas was already tense, jaw set, posture rigid in a way that suggested he was bracing for insult instead of instruction. I decided I needed to be more clear about something I said earlier.

“No shifter interference,” I continued. “At all.” I took one more step forward. “If I feel a Lycan, a wolf, or anything else pushing through—if instincts take over for even a heartbeat—you won’t be escorted to the infirmary.” The words hung there, intentionally wrong. “You’ll wake up there.”

The ring went still.

Orla’s reaction was immediate and subtle. Her breath slowed. Her shoulders dropped a fraction—not in fear, but in acceptance. She glanced at her hands, flexed her fingers once, and nodded. Not to me. To herself. I can do this, her posture said. I don’t need Elis.

Silas stiffened. Not outwardly—not enough for anyone else to call it—but I saw the flash in his eyes. Calculation. Anger. Something close to disbelief. He had heard threats before. He had rarely believed them. His fists clenched, then loosened. Good.

“Clear?” I asked.

“Yes, Senior Cadet,” Orla said immediately.

Silas hesitated just long enough to register as a choice. “…Clear,” he said.

I met his eyes for a moment longer than necessary. Faith stirred beneath my skin, pleased. He understands now, she murmured. Not the rule. The consequence. I stepped back and raised my hand. “Begin.”

Orla moved first. Not rushing—initiating. She circled lightly, testing distance, eyes never leaving Silas’s centerline. Her footwork was good. Not perfect, but thoughtful. She wasn’t wasting motion, wasn’t overcommitting. Silas waited, shoulders squared, relying on reach and strength. When he moved, it was decisive—too decisive. He lunged, aiming to end it quickly, power driving the strike.

Orla slipped past it.

Faith stirred approvingly inside me. He leads with force, she observed. Predictable.

Silas recovered fast, turning with a follow-up strike that clipped Orla’s shoulder. She absorbed it with a grunt, rolled with the impact instead of resisting it outright, and backed off just enough to reset. Good instincts. The match settled into rhythm—Silas pressing, Orla evading and countering. He landed hits. She landed fewer, but cleaner ones. His strength gave him control early, forcing her back, testing her guard. But the minutes stretched. Silas’s breathing deepened. Orla’s didn’t.

Stamina, Faith noted. He never builds it. He assumes fights end quickly.

Silas overextended again, frustration creeping into his movements. Orla capitalized immediately—ducking under his arm, pivoting, striking low at his balance point. He stumbled, recovered, but slower now. She was smiling. Not mocking. Focused. The smile of someone who had found the seam in an opponent’s armor.

There’s something there, Faith murmured. Tension. Pride. Challenge. An energy. I narrowed my eyes slightly.

Orla pressed, not with force but with persistence. She kept him moving, kept him turning, forced him to react instead of dictate. Each time he tried to overpower her, she redirected. Each time he tried to corner her, she slipped away.

Silas swung again—wide, tired.

Orla dropped her weight, swept his leg, and followed through before he could fully fall. He hit the ground hard, the air driven from his lungs in a sharp whoof. Silence fell over the ring. I raised my hand. “Stop.” Orla stepped back immediately, chest rising and falling now, sweat slicking her brow. She looked down at Silas, alert, ready, not gloating. Silas lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, shock written plainly across his face.

Downed by endurance, Faith said, satisfied. Not strength. Not skill alone. Discipline.

I crouched beside Silas and checked him quickly. Winded. Bruised pride. Nothing else. He sucked in a breath and pushed himself upright, eyes blazing. “I want a rematch,” he said immediately. That surprised me. I straightened slowly, studying him. “You lost,” I said evenly. “I know,” he snapped. Then, more controlled, “I want another round.”

The ring buzzed quietly. Cadets watched with renewed interest. I hadn’t expected that. Not yet. But I understood it. A female. A first-year. A shifter he didn’t even understand. Pride had taken the hit harder than his body. I held his gaze for a long moment. “We’ll see,” I said finally. “After recovery. After reflection.” His jaw tightened, but he nodded. Orla stood quietly to the side, eyes flicking between us, Elis coiled tight beneath her skin, alert but contained. She hadn’t won by accident.

Faith purred, satisfied. Good, she said. He finally wants to improve.

I turned back to the group, raising my voice. “Clear the ring. Next pair.” But my eyes lingered on Silas just a moment longer. For the first time since the Academy began, he seemed to be chasing something. And that was exactly where I wanted him.