Oliver
The oval smells like fresh earth and effort. It’s not subtle damp soil turned over only days ago, the faint metallic tang of sweat already worked into the mats, the distant hum of generators from the IT hub bleeding into the quiet like a reminder that this place is alive, growing, becoming something real.
Ace lifts his head in my mind, alert and satisfied. Ours.
The recruits are scattered across the perimeter, some leaning against the rail fencing, others seated on the grass or kneeling at the edge of the mats. Warriors from Charwood, Liverpool, Riverview, Dartmoor. Different scents. Different postures. Different instincts.
One purpose.
Zander steps onto the central mat opposite me, rolling his shoulders once, twice, loosening muscle and tension alike. His wolf flickers behind
