Chapter 13 Grounding
[Nyx]
He thinks we're idiots, Sylva sneered.
I subtly changed my path, observing Seth's movements. He continued forward confidently, clearly expecting me to follow his "guidance." As he stepped on what looked like ordinary ground, there was a sudden snap of rope, followed by Seth's shout as he was hoisted upside down, dangling in mid-air.
"Damn it! Get me down!" he struggled futilely, his face turning red.
I calmly walked to the trap, looking up at the suspended Seth. "A hunter's most basic quality is observing the environment, not overconfidence." My voice was even and cool.
The other team members arrived and burst into laughter at the sight. Symone helped release him from the trap, her eyes clearly amused. "Seems we all underestimated Miss Verdant."
When Lysander returned and learned what had happened, he glanced at me, approval flashing briefly in his eyes before his expression returned to its professional mask. "Continue training," he said simply, but I could sense satisfaction in his tone.
By the end of training, the warriors' attitudes toward me had visibly shifted. Several recruits even approached to chat, asking about my academy days.
Lysander came to my side, offering a brief assessment: "Not a bad start. Same time tomorrow." His tone was neutral, but I heard the affirmation within it.
Aching but energized, I approached the manor grounds. As I reached the grand entrance gates to the Verdant estate, I found Isla standing there as if waiting for me, dressed in an evening gown. She wore perfect makeup and sparkling jewelry, clearly prepared for some social event.
She frowned, examining my mud-covered, sweat-soaked appearance. "What on earth have you been doing? No one knew where you were all morning."
"Training," I answered curtly, attempting to move past her toward my west wing residence.
"Training?" she repeated incredulously. "What training?"
"Warrior training. I've joined the Gamma squad's daily regimen."
Isla's expression transformed from surprise to anger. "Have you lost your mind? A Verdant daughter mingling with those crude warriors? What disgrace this brings to our family!"
I stopped, turning to face her. "My mother Diana was a trained warrior too. That never brought shame to this family."
Isla smirked coldly. "And look how she ended up. Do you want to follow her path?"
The comment stung like a knife to my chest. Before I could even think, I lunged forward and grabbed her expensive silk collar, yanking her closer to my face.
"Don't you DARE speak about my mother," I growled, my voice barely human. "You're not fit to say her name."
Isla's eyes flashed dangerously, not with fear but with triumph—as if she'd been waiting for me to cross this line. Her scent changed instantly, the sweet perfume giving way to the sharp notes of an angry Luna.
"Release me. Now."
The words hit me like a physical force. A splitting headache erupted behind my eyes, and my fingers uncurled from her collar against my will. I staggered back a step, grimacing as the Luna's command worked through my system, impossible to fight against.
"This is absolutely unacceptable," she snapped, smoothing her dress as she stepped closer. "You will cease this ridiculous warrior charade immediately. As Luna of this pack, I am ordering you back to your west wing residence to reflect on your inappropriate behavior."
Each command intensified the pressure in my skull, my body's automatic response to the Luna's authority. Sylva whined in distress within me, equally unable to resist.
I clenched my fists. "You can't—"
"I can and I will," Isla cut me off, her voice dropping to an icy whisper. "You are confined to your residence until the wedding. No more 'training,' no more embarrassing this family with your rebellious antics. If you defy me on this, I will speak to your father about reconsidering the entire arrangement."
Her threat hung in the air between us. She knew exactly what leverage she held — if the engagement was called off, I'd likely face exile. I stood frozen, fury burning through my veins but options limited.
"Now return to your wing immediately," Isla ordered, turning away dismissively. "You smell like a common foot soldier."
I wanted to scream, to challenge her authority, but years of conditioning won out. I stiffly walked toward my separate residence in the west wing, each step fueling my rage. Inside, I slammed the door so hard the hinges groaned in protest.
---
I stared at the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks in the plaster for the third time today. Forty-seven. Still forty-seven, just like an hour ago. Just like this morning.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, rolling onto my stomach on the plush sofa. The west wing apartment was luxurious by any standard—spacious rooms, elegant furniture, a private balcony overlooking the gardens—but right now it felt like the most sophisticated prison cell in existence.
I'd tried everything to keep busy. Yoga (gave up after fifteen minutes), reading (couldn't focus), even organizing my closet by color (surprisingly satisfying, but completed far too quickly). The Luna's command still buzzed at the base of my skull like an angry wasp, sending sharp pains through my head whenever I approached any exit.
Standing before the full-length mirror, I adopted Isla's perfect posture and condescending expression. "No, Nyx," I mimicked in a high-pitched voice, "A proper lady doesn't associate with those crude warriors! What would the pack think?" I followed it with an exaggerated eye roll.
That's actually a spot-on impression, Sylva commented, amusement coloring her thoughts.
"Thank you. I've had years of observation." I flopped back onto the sofa, kicking off my slippers. "What kind of psycho imprisons someone in their own home?"
A Luna with something to hide, Sylva suggested.
I nodded, staring at the ceiling again. "She's afraid. Tristan can't handle competition, and me showing fighting skills threatens her perfect little succession plan."
As the afternoon dragged on, I found myself crafting increasingly absurd escape plans, from bedsheet ropes to faking medical emergencies. Every attempt to approach a door or window resulted in stabbing pain behind my eyes—Isla's command working its magic.
"Twenty-first century imprisonment," I grumbled, watching the sun slowly crawl across the sky.