The training ground was silent, cloaked in the hush of early dawn. A thin mist lingered over the earth, and only the rhythmic clash of fists against the stone dummy broke the stillness. Draka stood shirtless, chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat and blood. The cool morning wind did nothing to ease the fire coursing through his veins.
He moved like a storm, each strike heavier than the last. His knuckles were raw, wrapped poorly in linen that now dripped red. Every jab, every kick, was an expression of fury, rage that twisted in his gut and refused to rest.
He was not a king right now. He wasn’t even Lycan. He was a wounded soul trying to fight the ghosts clawing at his mind.
The truth had changed him.
Lucas’s betrayal. The memories that had flooded back. The murders. The manipulati
