Rise of the Underdogs: JACOB

Spirit Littermates

“I can smell them… the other leaders of the pack,” Valik said, holding up the sweater I’d worn on the journey. He sniffed again, tears coming to his eyes for only a brief moment. “Maria… Paul… Logan… Did everyone sleep with your coat or something?”

Was I about to lie? Hell nah.

“Yeah, well, they didn’t want me getting homesick or forgetting anyone. Heaven, in a last ditch attempt to gain independence, moved into the Howler packhouse. Ember gave chase not long after, so the whole team is now living on the top floor. You know, the floor your brother insisted on calling the Executive Floor.” I answered, shoving my gear under the only available bunk.

The frame was old—steel, scuffed, and etched with initials I didn’t recognize. One of the legs had a slight bend, like it had been kicked hard and never quite recovered. Above it, a narrow window let in a slice of light, the glass thick and slightly warped. Through it, I could see the edge of the camp: pine trees swaying like they were whispering secrets, and beyond them, the jagged silhouette of a mountain ridge cutting across the sky like a scar.

Glancing around confused, I looked over at him. “Four beds, but only three teammates?”

“Ja,” Peiter stated as he joined us. “Sam’s in the bathroom – you have been warned. We pick a fourth member when we return to our home. You must not say anything to anyone, but Sam and I would like to follow Valik. Would your Alpha take us?”

I didn’t answer right away.

Peiter’s words hung in the air like frost—delicate, but sharp. I glanced at Valik, who was still holding the sweater like it was stitched from memory, then back at the bunk, where my gear sat half-unzipped, waiting for a moment that hadn’t arrived yet.

The silence stretched, not awkward, but expectant.

“I’ll talk to Logan,” I said finally, voice low. “But if you’re serious, you need to be ready. My Alpha doesn’t take in strays. He takes in soldiers. Honorable ones.”

Peiter nodded once, solemn. “We are ready.”

The bathroom door creaked open, steam curling out like breath from a dragon’s mouth. Samara stepped into the room, her uniform jacket slung over one shoulder, damp strands of hair clinging to her neck. Her eyes flicked to me, then to Peiter, and something passed between them—silent, but solid.

“You told him?” she asked.

Peiter didn’t flinch. “Ja.”

Samara’s gaze settled on me, unreadable. Like she was still trying to figure me out. “Then I guess we’re all in.”

Valik finally stood, brushing gravel from his pants and tossing the sweater onto my bunk like it was sacred. Grabbing the bags of food, he divvyed it up before handing me my portion and sitting back down on his bunk.

“This is going to be fun,” he muttered, but the grin on his face said he meant it. “I mean, I know my brother has high hopes for me, so I’ll be bringing the possibly best trained team in the world to his fortress.”

I sat down on the edge of the bunk, the metal frame groaning beneath me. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window just enough to remind me: Camp Katya wasn’t a place for comfort. It was a place for clarity.

For hardcore training that allowed for no mistakes. Especially when those mistakes could cost you everything. Including your life.

“So, mock battles and fights happen all the time here,” Samara said, her eyes bright. “You handled yourself well today. That will keep you alive during your visit.”

“I like tempting fate,” I said, earning a round of laughter.

Valik tilted his head to the side, his smile freezing. “Incoming.”

“Quickly, Jacob,” Samara pulled me into a standing position, her grip firm but not panicked. “Remain steady for a beat until the inspection is over. It is a nightly ritual to ensure each team is resting in safe quarters.”

Nodding, I told her it made a world of sense to me.

The door opened with a sharp click, and the three trainees snapped to attention like clockwork—heels together, shoulders squared, eyes forward. I followed suit, letting instinct and training guide me into place.

The inspector stepped in without ceremony. No greetings. No hesitation. Just the sound of boots striking concrete and the faint rustle of a clipboard being flipped open. Their uniform was immaculate—pressed seams, polished insignia, and a belt that looked like it could cut glass. The kind of presence that didn’t need to raise its voice to command a room.

They moved with precision, eyes scanning the room like a scanner set to “unforgiving.” The bunk frames were checked for alignment, gear bags for proper stowage, and even the folded towels were scrutinized for symmetry. A flashlight beam swept under each bed, pausing briefly at mine. I felt the weight of that pause, like the light was asking questions it didn’t need words for.

The inspector stopped in front of Samara, then Peiter, then Valik. No words. Just a nod, a mark on the clipboard, and a glance that said you passed—for now.

Then they turned to me.

“New arrival?” They said, voice clipped.

“Lieutenant Colonel Andrey, this is Jacob Grey,” Samara replied, her tone crisp. “He is a Delta-ranked wolf visiting from the Howler pack. His presence was cleared by Cadet Valik and approved by Lord General Blaze, Sir.”

The inspector’s gaze lingered for a second. Not because I stood out—but because I didn’t. That’s what always got them. The average build. The calm face. The quiet posture. It made them look twice, but that’s when they started finding out that I was a fighter.

Because the quiet ones don’t have to announce their presence. Their confidence and calm did that for them while making people like me seem like wallpaper: decorative and cute until it’s slicing your throat in battle.

“Evaluation standard tomorrow at 0600 hours. Be ready,” he scowled. “One moment for the newcomer. I must discuss with the General.”

A few minutes later, he turned back to me. “You may participate or not. General Lord Blaze has declared you are free range. You can go where you please within reason. Something about being a friend of the Harbinger.”

“I run in the upper echelon circles with Alpha Lord Logan Pierce, Second prince of the Werewolf House of Dane and a cousin to the Valencia Lords,” I rhymed off. “As for participating, I welcome the chance to spar with some of the trainees here.”

He looked me over, frowning in concern, “Yes, well. Do not die.”

With that, they turned and exited, the door shutting behind them with a finality that felt like a verdict.

Valik let out a breath. “Well. That went better than expected.”

Samara didn’t smile. “They’ll be watching him now. I have a feeling underestimating the visitor will cost some time in the infirmary.”

I glanced at the warped window, where the trees had gone still, as if holding their breath.

“Let them watch,” I said. Blaze has seen me fight before, but I was keeping that intel to myself. For now.

Looking inward, I watched Thorne’s tail twitch slightly. ‘Problem?’

His wolfish grin made me laugh. ‘No. Content to have Ehno nearby again. He is my spirit kin.’

‘Explain?’

‘Spirit kin are those of us often reborn to the same litter in Artemis’s garden when we return to her.’

“Well, then,” I said out loud without meaning to. “Yo, V? Ehno say anything about Thorne?”

He raised his deep blue eyes to me and nodded slowly, the light from the overhead bulb catching the faint flecks of silver near his iris. “He literally just told me they’re spirit littermates. How does that even happen?”

“It’s… rare. Extremely,” I whispered, taking a chugging swig of the soda that tasted remarkably like Root Beer. The bottle was slick with condensation, the label slightly peeling at the edges from the heat of my palm. I was staring at the Cyrillic script when Peiter gingerly plucked it from my grasp.

“Hey!” I barked, half amused, half annoyed.

He chuckled before handing it back, his fingers stained faintly with charcoal from the fire pit outside. “It’s called Kvass. Made from fermented rye bread, water, and yeast. Some versions include berries, herbs, or honey. It’s good, ja?”

I stared up at him, his eyes flashing with humor, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a grin. “Didn’t realize you were translating it for me. Thanks.”

Peiter stumbled backward, his eyes wide as he took in my relaxed stance. A moth fluttered past his shoulder, drawn to the low hum of the ceiling light. “Anyone else would have bitten my hand off.”

“Yeah, but Jake is a different breed,” Valik said, his voice muffled slightly by the burger he was demolishing. “Like me, he lets you screw up on your own, laughs, then, if you end up assaulting him, he’ll get you back just as good.”

“How, though? That’s not normal,” Samara said, joining the conversation after she finished braiding her hair into a tight, practical plait that gleamed under the low cabin light. A few wisps had escaped, curling at her temples like they had minds of their own. “Oh, the skewered meat is called Shashlik, by the way. That smaller container holds pickled veggies.”

Intrigued, I opened the container and let out a low whistle as the sharp scent of vinegar and dill hit me. “Toss me a fork.”

Peiter obliged, flipping one from the edge of the table with a flick of his wrist. Digging in, I sighed contently. The tang hit first, then the crunch—clean, cold, and oddly nostalgic. What they didn’t know was that Kaylene could cook Russian food with Romanian flair.

“I have a pretty big family,” I said, chewing slowly. “Mom, three sisters, three brothers, plus extended family. Three sisters-in-law and one brother-in-law.” I paused, letting the warmth of the food settle in my chest. “We don’t always get along, but we always show up.”