Aveline
I had grease under my fingernails and sweat sliding down my spine by the time Mila called for a break. We’d been training for hours—blades, footwork, balance drills, all of it designed to grind away any weakness. I wasn’t just sore; I was raw.
But I didn’t stop.
I couldn’t.
The Luna Trial wasn’t some ceremonial dance. It was war disguised as tradition, brutality cloaked in honor. The Bloodshade pack’s elders didn’t want a partner for their Alpha—they wanted a survivor, someone they could mold or destroy. Preferably both.
I slumped against the wooden beam in the center of the old training hall, its floor littered with shattered straw targets and dulled blades. Mila tossed me a rag, and I wiped my face before digging into my satchel.
“Is that… a wrench?” Mila raised an eyebrow.
