Fraying Edges
The training grounds reeked of wet earth and sweat, the scent thick enough to cling to the back of the throat.
The sprawling field sat behind the pack house, surrounded by towering pine trees whose dark branches swayed under the restless morning wind.
Wooden training dummies stood scarred and splintered along one side of the clearing, while weapon racks lined the other—steel blades glinting faintly beneath the dull gray sky.
Morning fog clung low over the grass like ghostly fingers, curling around wolves gathered in small circles—stretching, laughing, shoving each other casually like any other ordinary day within the pack.
Their voices echoed across the grounds, blending with the distant clang of metal and the occasional sharp bark of an instructor.
But nothing felt
