The rhythmic sound of fists hitting flesh echoed across the training field — sharp, precise, almost musical in its brutality. Warriors sparred in pairs, their grunts and growls mixing with the heavy scent of sweat and dust. The sun sat low above the trees, a molten disk bleeding gold across the clearing.
Marcus stood near the edge of the field, arms crossed, watching as two young wolves circled each other. His sharp eyes missed nothing — a stance too open, a strike too slow, hesitation where there shouldn’t be.
“Left side, Philip!” Marcus barked.
The young warrior moved just in time to dodge a blow.
Marcus gave a curt nod. “Better.”
But his attention shifted as two older warriors nearby began murmuring, their voices low but not nearly low enough.
“I’m just saying,” one of them, Rylan
