The Lycan Princess and The Four Cardinals

Chapter Four: Combat Trials

POV: Malia Moon

The training yard was already full by the time I arrived, first years lined up in loose rows across packed dirt, the morning air sharp enough to sting. Banners from all five kingdoms hang along the fence line, the Royal Kingdom's crest set above the other four, snapping in the wind, and I notice for the first time just how many eyes seem to track new faces here, cataloging, comparing, deciding who matters before a single word has been exchanged.

I find a gap near the back and slide into it, grateful for once to be overlooked.

"You're new." A boy drops into the space beside me without asking if it's taken, golden hair catching the early light, an easy grin already in place like he's been wearing it since birth. "Word travels fast around here."

"Apparently everything travels here."

"Small academy, big gossip." He extends a hand like we're meeting somewhere far more civilized than a dirt training yard. "Wilder Forest."

I shake it, and his grip is warm, easy, nothing like the calculated weight of Vargus's attention yesterday. "Malia."

"I heard about the courtyard." He says it gently, none of the mockery I braced for. "For what it's worth, Reyes Colton has always been a coward who needs an audience to feel like he matters."

Something in my chest loosens slightly at that, an unexpected kindness I wasn't prepared to receive. "You don't even know me."

"I know enough to recognize when someone's had a bad first day." His grin softens into something more genuine. "Consider this me trying to improve your second one."

"And what makes you think I need improving?"

"I don't think it. I'm just an optimist." He glances toward the front of the yard where the instructor is beginning to organize the lines. "Fair warning, this instructor doesn't believe in easing new students in gently."

"I wasn't expecting gentle."

"Good. Because you're not getting it."

Before I can answer, the instructor's voice cuts across the yard, sharp and commanding, ordering us into pairs for combat assessment. My stomach tightens. I have spent years learning to fight in secret, alone, in a forest where no one was watching. I have never done this in front of an audience that already thinks I'm nothing.

The instructor is an older man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw, the kind of face that makes it clear he's survived far worse than a training yard full of nervous first years. He paces the lines slowly, calling out pairings with a tone that leaves no room for argument, occasionally stopping to correct a stance or bark a warning at someone standing too loosely.

"Pair with me," Wilder says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "I promise I won't make you look bad. Much."

I don't have time to argue before the instructor starts calling names, and somehow, whether by luck or Wilder's quiet maneuvering, we end up across from each other in the first round.

"Go easy on me," he says, dropping into a loose stance, still grinning despite the seriousness settling into his eyes. "I have a reputation to protect."

"You should have thought of that before challenging the girl nobody can sense."

Something flickers across his face, quick and curious, like I've said something more interesting than I meant to. "Is that really what you are? Nothing at all?"

"That's what everyone keeps calling me."

"I didn't ask what everyone calls you." His voice drops, quieter now, just for me. "I asked what you are."

I don't have an answer that's safe to give him, so I don't give one at all. Instead I settle into the stance my mother drilled into me a thousand times over, weight balanced, hands loose, eyes steady.

The instructor calls the start.

Wilder moves first, testing, not truly attacking, the kind of opening strike meant to gauge a partner's instincts rather than harm them. I sidestep easily, years of practice against an old oak tree translating instantly into something sharper against a living opponent. Surprise flickers across his face, there and gone, replaced quickly by genuine interest.

"Careful," he says, circling. "You're better than you're supposed to be."

"Supposed to be?"

"Girls without a trace of wolf in them aren't supposed to move like that."

He lunges again, faster this time, and I duck under his arm on instinct, sweeping low, catching his ankle just enough to unbalance him without dropping him completely. He recovers fast, laughing under his breath like he's genuinely delighted rather than annoyed.

"Okay," he says, resetting his stance, something sharper now beneath the easy charm. "That was not luck."

He circles again, more deliberate this time, testing angles instead of rushing straight in. I match him step for step, muscle memory taking over in a way that feels almost dangerous in front of this many witnesses, my body reacting faster than my mind can second guess it. When he finally strikes again, low and sudden, I catch his wrist and turn with it instead of against it, using his own momentum to pull him half a step off balance before releasing him.

Around us I notice a few heads have turned, other pairs slowing their own matches to watch. I feel the weight of attention settling over me the way it always does right before something goes wrong, and I force myself to breathe through it, to focus only on Wilder's next move instead of the eyes now gathering at the edges of the yard.

He comes at me again, faster, more serious now, testing in earnest instead of playing. I block, pivot, answer him with a strike of my own that lands closer than either of us expects. His eyes widen, something unreadable flashing behind the surprise.

"Malia." His voice has lost all its earlier lightness. "Where did you learn to fight like this?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might." He circles again, slower now, more careful, like he's recalculating everything he thought he understood about the girl standing across from him. "Most first years can barely hold a stance without shaking. You're reading my strikes before I've fully committed to them."

"Maybe you're just predictable."

"Maybe." A flicker of a smile crosses his face despite the tension building between us. "Or maybe there's a lot more to you than a letter of acceptance and a bad reputation."

I don't answer, too focused on keeping my footing, on matching his next strike, on not giving away more than I already have in front of an audience that's grown far larger than I realized. Around the edges of the yard, other pairs have slowed their matches entirely now, several instructors included, drawn by whatever spectacle we've unintentionally become.

That's when I feel it. A prickling awareness crawling up the back of my neck, the same instinct that once warned me of danger long before I could see it coming. I glance past Wilder's shoulder toward the edge of the yard, toward the small crowd that's gathered to watch, and my stomach drops.

Vargus stands at the front of them, arms crossed, dark eyes locked on me with an intensity that has nothing to do with casual curiosity anymore. His expression has shifted from yesterday's cold assessment into something closer to alarm, like whatever he suspected about me in that housing hall doorway has just been confirmed in front of an entire training yard.

Beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brush, stands another boy I haven't met, silver haired and tense, watching me with an expression caught somewhere between fascination and dread. He leans toward Vargus, murmuring something too quiet for me to catch even with the distance closing between us, and whatever he says makes Vargus's jaw tighten further. The silver haired boy shifts his weight like he can't decide whether to step closer or turn away entirely, and something about that indecision feels like it says more about him than any words could.

And behind them both, half hidden at the treeline where the training yard meets the forest, I catch a flash of familiar dark hair I recognize instantly, watching everything unfold with an expression I can't read from this distance.

Reyes.

He shouldn't be here. He has no reason to watch a first year training match unless something about it has caught his attention the way it clearly hasn't caught anyone else's, not like this, not with that particular stillness he's wearing.

My focus splits for exactly one second too long.

Wilder's fist catches my shoulder before I can react, the hit landing harder than anything before it, and I stumble backward into the dirt, the whole yard tilting sideways as pain blooms bright and sudden through my arm.

The last thing I hear before the world narrows to a ringing silence is Wilder's voice, sharp with alarm, shouting my name like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground.