Chapter 9
1622 Words
Lila
"When is your new trainer arriving?"
Kael drops heavily onto the couch beside me, the cushions dipping beneath his weight as though even furniture instinctively recognises authority when it sits down. As the eldest of my four brothers, by exactly four minutes, Kael has always carried responsibility like it was stitched into his bones before birth.
He is protective, controlled and unshakeable.
There is something ancient about Kael's presence. Something steady and immovable, like mountains carved from ice that have stood untouched for centuries. His dark hair falls loosely across his forehead, but nothing softens the intensity of his pale blue eyes. They are not simply light in colour, they are piercing, sharp enough to make even seasoned warriors second guess their words.
When Kael looks at you, it feels as though he sees through every excuse you could possibly offer.
He does not need to raise his voice to command obedience.
He simply exists, and others fall in line.
If the ancient stories of the Northern Kingdom are true, then Kael would have walked easily among them, wolves forged in ice and survival, warriors who endured brutal winters and harsher battles. They were said to be unbreakable, their loyalty as solid as frozen earth.
Kael carries that same trait, that same stillness.
That same strength.
That same patience.
He does not rush.
He does not react impulsively.
He calculates... and when he moves, things change.
I glance down at my phone just in time to see Rider leading yet another she-wolf through the house, laughter
trailing behind them like bad perfume rolling off a ballerina of the night.
Honestly, I have completely lost count at this point.
"At this rate, Rider should install a revolving door," I mutter.
Kael exhales slowly through his nose, the faintest flicker of irritation tightening his jaw. He has never approved of Rider's... lifestyle.
Where Kael is restraint... Rider is instinct.
Where Kael is winter... Rider is wild forest.
"Shouldn't be long now," I answer him. "Why? You interested in joining in on some lessons?"
He scoffs quietly.
"I think I'll survive without lessons."
Of course he will.
All four of my brothers were trained as future Alphas from the moment they could walk.
Combat, leadership, control, strategy and responsibility.
Each of them powerful... but powerful in very different ways.
Asher my second eldest brother prefers silence.
He is the most difficult to read, always watching, always listening, always thinking several steps ahead of everyone else in the room. Where others see conversations, Asher sees negotiations. Where others see conflict, he sees opportunity.
His eyes hold warmth in colour but not softness, a burn that reminds me of heat rising from desert sand.
The ancient Eastern Kingdom warriors were said to move like mirages, appearing where least expected and
disappearing before retaliation could begin. Their strength was not only in combat but in foresight.
Strategy was their weapon.
Patience their shield.
Victory their expectation.
Asher carries that same calculating calm.
He rarely wastes words.
But when he speaks... people listen.
Zane, my third brother, is different entirely.
Where Asher is quiet... Zane is movement.
Restless energy lives permanently beneath his skin, like lightning searching for somewhere to strike. Even when he
appears still, there is always some subtle shift, the roll of his shoulders, the tap of his fingers, the slight adjustment of his stance as though the world itself is never fast enough to keep up with him. His body resists stillness the way storms resist silence.
He feels everything intensely.
Emotion moves through him quickly, powerfully, but never lingers long enough to weigh him down. His temper
flashes hot and bright, sudden as thunder cracking across open sky, yet just as quickly the sound fades, leaving nothing but charged air behind. He does not hold grudges. He does not cling to frustration. Zane releases everything the same way storms release rain, fiercely, honestly, and without apology.
The warriors of the Southern Kingdom were known as storm runners, wolves said to move as swiftly as the wind
that shaped their lands. Their presence was often felt before it was seen, their howls carried across valleys like distant thunder, warning enemies that resistance would be pointless. They were unpredictable fighters, adapting mid-battle, never striking the same way twice. Where other warriors relied on repetition, the storm runners relied on instinct, speed, and fearless momentum.
Zane carries that same electric unpredictability within him.
He moves as though his body already knows the outcome before the fight has even begun. His reflexes are sharp enough to make even experienced warriors hesitate, not because they doubt their own skill, but because Zane refuses to be predictable. He does not follow patterns long enough for anyone to learn them.
His speed is not reckless, it is instinctive.
Every shift of his weight, every turn of his shoulders, every step forward is guided by something deeper than conscious thought. He does not pause to second-guess himself. He does not overthink opportunity. He reacts with precision that appears chaotic to the untrained eye but reveals brilliance to those who understand combat.
He adapts in the space between heartbeats.
Where others commit to one strategy, Zane changes direction entirely.
Where others retreat, Zane advances.
Where others prepare for impact, Zane has already moved beyond it.
There is brilliance in the way he reads the flow of battle, finding openings where others see only obstacles. He thrives in pressure, sharpened by unpredictability rather than hindered by it.
Zane is dangerous because hesitation has never been part of his nature.
He does not wait for permission.
He does not pause for certainty.
He moves.
And by the time others realise what has happened... the fight is already over.
And Rider, the youngest of my brothers...
Rider feels the world differently.
Where the others analyse or react... Rider simply moves.
He is instinct in human form.
Confidence sits naturally on him, effortless and unforced. He does not question whether he belongs in a room, he
assumes the room belongs to him.
He laughs easily.
Fights easily.
Lives easily.
But when he is still... truly still... there is something deeper there.
Something rooted.
Something old.
The Western Kingdom was said to house the forest wolves, warriors who moved through trees like shadows and
struck with silent precision. They were protectors of balance, defenders of their lands, and known for instincts sharper than any blade.
They trusted feeling over logic.
Movement over hesitation.
Connection over control.
Rider carries that same grounded confidence.
He does not overthink.
He senses.
And somehow... he is rarely wrong.
I trained too... but not like them.
Not until recently.
Now that I am mated to Rowan, son of Beta Garrick of the Iron Claw pack, my father has decided I need to be
trained to the standard expected of a future Beta Female.
Exciting, but terrifying and most of all exhausting.
"I won't be staying long," Kael says, stretching slightly, muscles shifting beneath his shirt. "Got things to handle
in town."
"What about Asher and Zane?"
"With their girlfriends," he mutters, clearly unimpressed.
I gag dramatically.
Lucy and Sarah, two she-wolves who behave like engagement rings are already sitting on their fingers are just
waiting to walk down the aisle.
They have been clinging to Asher and Zane for over a year, acting like Luna titles are already promised.
Kael has never approved.
Unlike the others, he has refused every she-wolf who tried to warm his bed.
He insists on waiting for his mate.
Even after seven years.
People assume, because they are quadruplets, they might share a mate.
It happens sometimes.
But no one truly knows until she appears.
"I'm heading out," Kael says, pushing to his feet.
"Try not to die."
"So encouraging," I mutter.
Then I hear it.
The low rumble of an approaching motorbike.
I step outside just as the sleek black motorcycle glides up the driveway.
The engine quiets with a soft growl that feels almost alive.
Then I see the swords.
Two long blades strapped across the rider's back.
Both stained with drying blood.
My eyes widen immediately.
The rider swings her leg off the bike and removes her dark helmet.
A long dark braid with hints of silver falls down her back.
Female.
Definitely female.
A very dangerous female.
"Hey," she says casually. "You Lila?"
"That's me," I reply, stepping forward.
I offer my hand.
She laughs softly and lifts her gloved fingers instead.
Up close, I smell it.
Blood.
A lot of it.
But not hers.
"I'm Hailey," she says. "Sorry... ran into some rogues on the way here."
My spine straightens instantly.
"How many?"
"About eight."
Eight.
She says it like she stopped for coffee.
"They're all dead," she adds calmly.
"You killed eight rogues by yourself?"
"Yep."
She shrugs slightly.
"Haven't got my wolf yet... so I learned to fight with these." She draws one blade slowly from behind her back,
the movement smooth and practiced, like the weapon is simply an extension of her body rather than something
she carries. The steel catches the fading light, a cold shimmer running along its edge, revealing a weapon honed with care and used with confidence. It is elegant in its design yet undeniably lethal, the kind of blade meant not for display but for survival. Sharp enough to slice through hesitation, precise enough to end a fight before it truly begins, beautiful in the way dangerous things often are, and terrifying in the quiet certainty that she knows exactly how to use it.
"Oh wow," I breathe. "Can you teach me how to use those?"
She smiles but somehow looks both lethal and kind at the same time.
"I think that's the plan."
- Writer
