The air in the training courtyard was crisp, smelling of pine needles and impending snow. I stood in the center of the ring, the heavy, obsidian-forged practice sword feeling light and balanced in my hand.
I was no longer the frail, undernourished Omega who had cowered in the kitchens of the Bloodmoon Pack. In the six weeks since my awakening, my body had completely metamorphosed. The Lycan blood had woven dense, lethal muscle onto my frame. I moved with a fluidity and speed that felt supernatural.
"Again," Fenrir called out from the edge of the courtyard. He leaned casually against a wooden pillar, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His blue eyes were sharp, tracking my every movement.
I didn't hesitate. I dropped the sword, letting the human weapon clatter against the flagstones,
