Chapter 4 Ashmoore's Parcel

Ariya Froste knelt in the cold dirt, her hands tied behind her back, her lips trembling.

Her husband, Sergius was standing and staring daggers at her.

"I swear, I don't know where she is." she whispered for the fifth time.

Seragio stood above her - tall, sharp-jawed, eyes wild with fury. A coat of furs hung on his shoulders like the hide of something he'd conquered. His voice was low, but it bled violence.

"You think I'm a fool?"

"No no, please...." Ariya choked, her knees scraping the rocky ground as she shifted. "I swear by the Moon. I don't know where she ran to. I haven't seen her since dusk!"

"She's your daughter." Seragio snarled. "You'd feel her if she bled. You'd sense her if she fell.."

Ariya's breath caught.

He stepped forward, boots crunching on autumned leaves.

"The Witch." he spat. "The little swamp-girl."

He gripped Ariya's chin, digging his fingers in, forcing her face up. Her eyes shimmered with tears - not of pain, but of regret.

"Do what you must." She whispered. "But leave Mia out of this."

Seragio's smile was slow. Cold.

"Oh, I intend to do exactly what I must."

He pushed her back to sit.

"Lock her up," he commanded the wolves flanking him. "If she makes one sound about blood or bond, muzzle her."

Two males stepped forward and dragged Ariya away.

She tried to beg.

Sergius turned, inhaled deeply and let out a low growl that sent a flock of birds screaming and flying off from the trees.

"Find her." He said to the dark. "Find the girl. Bring her to me."

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The summoning ring was scorched.

The stone altar had cracked from the heat of the spell.

And Mia was unconscious.

Her body lay curled at the edge of the summoning ring, cloak soaked with sweat, fingers twitching like they were still weaving spells in her dreams.

A faint glow pulsed from beneath her - the herbs she'd used reacting to the strain of magic that bent time and memory and forged a fake prince out of nothing.

Tiny spirits fluttered around her body in forms of candlelight moths, whispering with concern.

"She bent too far."

"She risked too much."

"She will fade."

"No." one whispered. "She only needs time."

And outside the cave, the wind shifted eastward, toward Ashmoore's gates.

Toward Elowyn.

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Elowyn sat alone on the small settee in her room, her body tense, her hands clasped over the sealed academy parcel resting on her lap.

The package was thick. Tied with a silver cord. The Academy's insignia - a wolf's head wreathed in thorned laurel - glared up at her like it was warning her not to open it.

But she had to.

She undid the knot carefully and slowly. Every thread she pulled felt like she was unraveling herself too.

The first thing inside was the uniform.

Three folded tunics. All deep charcoal grey, with heavy collars and a silver-stitched crest on the chest. Alpha crest. No room for mistakes.

The trousers were stiff, thick with reinforced seams. Combat-grade. Made for someone far more muscular than she was. Her breath hitched.

She ran her fingers over the insignia, her fake clan name embroidered beneath it in sharp, clean thread.

Elyan Froste. Draven Lineage.

The name didn't feel like hers. Not really. But it had to be now.

She moved aside the clothes and picked up a tightly rolled scroll - her combat schedule.

It read:

ASHMOORE'S TRAINING ACADEMY - CADET TIMETABLE: SEMESTER 1

Dawn Routines – 5:00 AM: Morning Run / Blood Threshold Circuit

Combat Studies – 6:30 AM: Wolf Maneuvers (Pack vs Rogue Tactics)

Theories of Pack Politics – 8:00 AM

Survival & Stealth – 10:00 AM (Northern Forest Grounds)

Meal Hour – 12:00 PM

Scent & Resistance Testing – 1:00 PM

Evening Assessment Bouts – 3:00 PM

Meal Hour – 6:00 PM

Dormitory Curfew – 7:00 PM

Elowyn blinked.

Scent & Resistance Testing.

It was real. Not just a threat.

Oh dear....

She clenched the scroll tight until her knuckles whitened. She'd need another full flask by the time that session arrived. And Mia was unconscious at gods-know-where.

Beneath the scroll was a small black pouch. Elowyn opened it. Inside it were three silver ID crests.

One to pin to her uniform.

One to hand over for inspections.

One for identification during cadet trials.

Each one gleamed cold and official. Each one bore the same sigil and false name. She turned one in her palm slowly.

So much weight for something so small.

A final object lay inside the parcel - a thin, navy blue rule log, bound in hard leather. She flipped to the first page:

CODE OF CONDUCT FOR ALPHA TRAINEES - YEAR ONE

1. No cadet may alter or conceal their scent deliberately.

2. If any sign of a bond is felt, both parties must undergo public evaluation.

3. Dormitory infractions must be reported within 24 hours.

4. Failure to attend classes or trainings will result in class demotion and marking.

5. Fighting outside sanctioned matches is punishable by blood-for-blood trial.

6. No Luna-class allowed.

7. Disagreements may be settled through sanctioned physical combat.

8. No deliveries, illusions or contact with non-students.

9. Any false identity discovered will lead to exile.

Elowyn's eyes stung.

She closed the booklet quickly and pressed it against her chest, heart pounding.

This is it. The real fight begins here.

No more woods. No more sobbing mothers. No more caves with spell circles and candlelight moths.

She was in Ashmoore now. Surrounded by wolves.

Baron. Azpen. And a dozen more she hadn't even met.

She'd have to fight like a male. Move like a warrior. Think like someone who belonged.

And no matter how much it hurt and scared her, no one must know she was a girl.

Elowyn's lips shook and she ran a hand through her face.

She had to fight.