The training yard was quiet when I stepped outside.
Too quiet.
Afternoon light slanted between the trees, catching dust motes and the scuffed lines of last night’s drills. The usual chorus of teenage bickering was missing. So was Bryn’s sarcastic commentary.
My wolf lifted her head.
Then I heard it—a low, ragged sound, half-growl, half-breathless sob.
“Niko?”
He was in the center of the ring, alone.
No opponents. No spectators. Just a battered practice dummy at his feet and a spray of shredded sandbag guts around him like snow.
His hands were bleeding.
Not just the usual split knuckles. Deep, jagged cuts across his palms and fingers, as if he’d tried to claw something out of his own skin. His shoulders shook. His breathing came in harsh, broken gasps.
“Niko,” I said again, softer
