CHAPTER 17
1285 Words
Adrian’s POV
The blade rang against my forearm guard hard enough to rattle my bones.
I twisted at the last second, redirecting the strike past my ribs, and rolled my shoulder through the motion, so the impact carried away from my center. The young warrior in front of me recovered quickly, feet shifting, breath sharp but controlled. Good instincts. Better discipline than last week.
“Again,” I said, already stepping back into range.
He attacked without hesitation this time. Not reckless—decisive. I met him halfway, parrying once, twice, then let my guard drop just enough to tempt him forward. He took it.
I swept his footing cleanly.
He hit the ground with a grunt and lay there for half a second before pushing himself up, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with determination rather than embarrassment.
“Where did you lose balance?” I asked, offering my hand.
He took it without pause. “I leaned too far into the strike.”
“And why did you lean?”
“Because I wanted to finish it.”
I nodded. “Finishing comes after control. You had control. You gave it up.”
He absorbed that, jaw tightening, then nodded once. “Again?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Again.”
Around us, the training grounds moved in a coordinated rhythm. No shouting. No chaos. Instructors corrected quietly. Warriors sparred, paused, reset. When someone went down, they got back up with help if needed, never mocked, never rushed.
The pack breathed together.
I felt it even as I moved—this steady undercurrent of trust that allowed action without panic. When mistakes happened, they were addressed. When strength showed itself, it wasn’t celebrated loudly; it was expected.
A horn sounded at the edge of the ground—short, controlled. Not an alarm. A signal.
I stepped back, lifting a hand to pause the drill. “That’s enough for now. Cool down. We’ll review after council.”
The young warrior bowed his head briefly, then jogged off to join the others. As I turned, my father was already approaching, his stride unhurried, eyes taking the ground with practiced ease.
“You pushed them early today,” he said.
“They’re ready for it,” I replied. “And the weather won’t give them mercy later.”
He glanced at the sky, already brightening. “True.”
We walked side by side toward the council chamber, our pace naturally aligned. There was no need for guards between us here, no formality layered over familiarity. My father didn’t lead me. He walked with me.
Inside the chamber, the discussion was already underway. Maps lay spread across the central table, markers indicating patrol routes and supply points. A patrol leader spoke as we entered, finishing a report without breaking cadence.
“…so we adjusted rotation to overlap at the river bend. It slows response time by minutes, but coverage improves.”
“Approved,” my father said simply. “Document it and inform the scouts.”
The leader nodded and moved to make the note.
I took my place without announcement, leaning over the table to study the map. “If the river rises again tonight, that bend will shift,” I said. “Have the scouts mark alternative crossings.”
“They will,” the mapkeeper replied. “Already prepared the tools.”
Discussion flowed smoothly from one point to the next. When someone disagreed, they explained why. When an idea fell short, it was reshaped rather than dismissed. No one fought for dominance in the room. Authority existed, but it didn’t need to be displayed to be felt.
When the council adjourned, my father lingered.
“You’ve been spending more time on the ground,” he observed as we stepped back into the daylight.
“They learn faster when they feel seen,” I said.
He nodded once. “And you?”
I didn’t pretend to not understand the question. “I’m learning too.”
A faint smile crossed his face—not pride, not approval. Recognition. “Good.”
We parted without ceremony, each moving toward our responsibilities. I headed for the river paths, where a group of apprentices waited with packs slung over their shoulders. They straightened when they saw me, attention sharp but not stiff.
“Walk,” I said, and set off without waiting to see if they followed.
They did.
The trail wound along the water’s edge, damp earth soft beneath our boots. I let them move ahead, watching how they read the ground, how they adjusted to uneven terrain. When one faltered, another steadied him instinctively.
We stopped where the river narrowed.
“Tell me what you see,” I said.
They spoke in turns—about current speed, about erosion, about where a crossing might fail under weight. One of them hesitated, then added quietly, “The water’s louder here. It might mask movement.”
“Good,” I said. “What do you do with that?”
Silence followed as they thought.
“We don’t rely on sound alone,” one said finally. “We watch the surface. The birds.”
“And each other,” another added.
I nodded. “That’s the point. No one here scouts alone, even when they walk ahead.”
They remembered that.
By midday, the pack had shifted into its next rhythm. Some trained. Some worked. Some rested. No one stood idle because they were afraid to stop moving.
Near the healer’s lodge, I saw a familiar scene play out. An older omega struggled with a crate of herbs. Before I could intervene, two warriors approached from opposite directions and lifted the load together without comment, walking it inside as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The healer glanced up, smiled briefly, and returned to her work.
I continued on.
That evening, as the sun dipped low, and the pack gathered near the communal fires, I sat with them—not above, not apart. Food was passed. Stories shared. Laughter rose and fell without restraint.
A young child climbed onto my knee uninvited, clutching a wooden carving he’d clearly been working on for days. “Look,” he said proudly.
I examined it seriously. “You made this?”
He nodded. “It’s the river.”
I traced the uneven lines with my thumb. “You captured how it bends,” I said. “That’s not easy.”
He beamed.
When his mother came to retrieve him, she didn’t apologize. She thanked me for listening.
As night settled, I finally retreated to my quarters, muscles tired, mind clear. I lit a lamp and sat at my desk, the quiet around me deep but not empty.
The day replayed itself in fragments—sparring under the open sky, council decisions made without friction, apprentices learning to trust their judgment, a child’s pride over a simple carving.
This was Riverline.
Not perfect. Not gentle. But deliberate.
I picked up my pen and began to write, not to explain who we were, but to show it through moments that mattered. Through the way leadership felt when it was shared. Along the way, strength lived in patience and action rather than display.
When I sealed the letter, I felt a steady certainty settle in my chest.
This was the life I had been shaped by. The kind of pack that did not demand loyalty through fear, but earned it through consistency.
Tomorrow will bring more work. More decisions. More responsibility.
And I would meet it the same way Riverline always did—moving forward together, without needing to announce our strength to anyone who cared to look.
- Writer
