REJECTED BY THE ALPHA PRINCE

I hit the ground hard, back-first, breath knocked clean out of me. Again. Gravel scraped my shoulder as I rolled, springing up before the next strike could land. I kept my hands loose, stance low, the way old Toren taught us—if you can see your opponent’s knees, you can drop them. “Come on, Vale,” Rurik growled, circling like a mutt who’d tasted blood and wanted more. “Thought you were born for this.” I smirked. “And I thought you were done embarrassing yourself in front of your crew.” His eyes narrowed. The other rogues watching from the rocks jeered and hollered, enjoying the show. My half-brother wasn’t among them. Not that he’d ever waste time on the sparring pit behind our estate. This was the edge of noble territory, where the rules blurred and the estate guards turned a blind eye. Where I could breathe. Rurik lunged. He always did—heavy on speed, light on thinking. I ducked, letting his weight carry him past me, then pivoted hard and drove my elbow into his ribs. He grunted, stumbling. “Come on, big guy,” I said, backing up. “Try thinking with your fists and your brain.” He spun around, snorting like a bull. I saw the punch coming—wide, predictable—and caught his wrist mid-air. A twist. A shift of balance. Rurik hit the dirt. Flat. The crowd reacted, some hooting, others groaning. I didn’t wait for applause. I offered Rurik my hand. He stared at it like it was poison, then took it anyway. “You holding back again?” he muttered under his breath. I let his hand go. “What do you think?” His eyes flicked toward the house on the hill. The Vale estate. The sun hadn’t fully cleared the trees behind it, but the tall glass windows reflected everything, especially my shame. “Right,” he muttered. “Wouldn’t want Daddy seeing the real you.” I didn’t respond. Just turned, yanked my hoodie over my sports bra, and walked to the water barrel. My real strength—what I could do—wasn’t for them. It wasn’t even for me, half the time. It belonged to a version of Lyra that hadn’t existed in years. The girl who sparred with her mother before breakfast. Who wore iron-threaded gauntlets as a joke? Who once split a grown warrior’s staff with a wooden blade. The girl who died the day her mother did. I splashed cold water on my face, then leaned on the rim, fingers gripping the rough wood. Rurik’s voice drifted behind me, laughing it off. Sparring with rogues was risky—Dad would tan my hide if he knew—but they were the only ones who didn’t flinch when I moved too fast. Or pity me like I was broken. I’d learned to hide my strength in layers. Dull my footwork. Let hits land. Smile like it didn’t sting. "Vale!" someone shouted from up the trail. Not one of the rogues. Formal. Sharp. Estate guard. I wiped my face and turned slowly. Sergeant Tarris strode down the incline, armor clinking, face unreadable. Crap. "Lady Lyra," he said when he reached me, loud enough for the rogues to hear. "Your presence is requested. Now." Rurik muttered something about silver spoons. I ignored him. Tarris only called me "Lady" when it was bad. "Is it the council?" I asked as we walked up the trail. He didn’t answer. Just clenched his jaw. Worse than the council, then. My stepmother. Lady Saria Vale stood on the terrace like a statue carved from ice, her pale hair coiled like a crown. She didn’t turn as I stepped up behind her. Didn't need to. Her scent—lavender and venom—hit me before the wind shifted. “You’ve been training again,” she said. I said nothing. “Rurik’s bruises will be noticed.” “He started it.” She turned. Cold eyes scanned my bruised cheekbone, the scuff on my lip. “You let him mark your face?” “I didn’t let him. I let him think he did.” That got a twitch of her brow. Not amusement. Calculation. “You’ll stop,” she said. “Now.” I crossed my arms. “Why?” “Because your sister is being presented to the royal court next week.” Ah. There it was. "And the last thing we need,” she continued, “is for rumors about the other Vale girl to ruin her chances.” The other girl. That was always me. Second daughter. Half-blood. The warrior’s mistake. "You're afraid of what the nobles might think if I show up with a bruise?" I asked. "I'm afraid of what they’ll think if you show up at all." There was the truth, served cold. I should’ve expected it. It still hit like a punch to the ribs. "Selena’s been chosen," she said, fixing her gown like she was ironing out wrinkles that weren’t even there. "The court will favor her beauty, her breeding, her grace." "And what do I get?" She smiled faintly. "The honor of staying out of her way." Later that night, I found myself back at the edge of the woods, just beyond the estate’s reach. The air was cooler, cleaner. Trees whispered secrets I wasn’t allowed to hear in daylight. I sat on the low wall that marked the old boundary, where my mother used to say the real world began. Past the wall, you lived by instinct. By teeth. By truth. A wolf’s world. Mine. Footsteps crunched on the path behind me. Not heavy. Not Tarris. And not my stepmother’s minions. Selena. She sat beside me without asking, perfume clouding the air. "You're still mad," she said, like we were twelve and she’d just borrowed my tunic without asking. I didn’t answer. "I didn’t ask to be chosen," she said. "No," I said. "But you wanted it." She looked away, lashes low. "So would you, if you had any chance of being picked." "I did once." Her eyes snapped to me. "What?" "Nothing." I stood, brushing dust off my leggings. "Good luck at court, sister." "Lyra—" "Don’t," I said. "We both know what this is. You’ll go. You'll smile. You'll find some highborn wolf to fawn over you. And I’ll still be here. A shadow you’d rather forget." "You think that’s fair?" "No," I said, turning to face her fully. "But I stopped asking for fair a long time ago." I couldn’t sleep. The night pulled at me the way it always did. Not with magic. With memory. My mother’s sword still hung on the far wall of my room, hidden behind a torn banner from my first training match. I stared at it in the dark. I wasn’t supposed to touch it. I hadn’t in years. But something about tonight felt...off. Not dangerous. Not yet. Just wrong. Like air before a storm. I got up, walked barefoot across the cold stone, and ran my fingers along the blade’s edge. It was cool, smooth. Familiar. Outside, a low howl split the silence. I turned. That wasn’tthe the estate guards. Or ceremonial. That was a warning. Then came the second sound, softer. Closer. Footsteps. Not Selena’s. Not any nobles. I grabbed the sword. And then— A knock. Three raps. Then silence. I crossed the room, blade hidden behind my back. I opened the door a c***k. No one Just a scrap of parchment on the floor. I unfolded it. Five words, scrawled in smudged ink: The prince has chosen her. And beneath that, another line—smaller, fainter: You leave at dawn.