The training grounds roared with the sounds of battle—clashing claws, snarls of dominance, and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the earth. The midday sun cast a golden hue over the warriors, illuminating sweat-slicked bodies and dirt-streaked faces as they honed their skills in combat. Draven stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed over his chest, his piercing brown eyes scrutinizing every movement with the precision of a seasoned warrior.
His pack was strong—one of the strongest in existence—but strength alone wasn’t enough. Strength without discipline was recklessness. Strength without control was destruction. And strength without purpose was nothing.
At the center of the training grounds stood his Gamma, Eryx, a towering force of muscle and primal might. Unlike Draven, who ruled with absolute authority and a keen mind, or Cyrus, who balanced reason with battle prowess, Eryx was pure aggression, the embodiment of unrelenting combat. He had shifted into his Lycan form—a monstrous, hulking beast with jet black fur, broad shoulders, and glowing hazel eyes that burned with untamed power.
Surrounding him were the pack’s warriors, their bodies tense as they prepared for the next round of training. One by one, challengers stepped forward, some shifting into their own wolf forms, others wielding their raw strength in human form. None of them, however, were prepared for Eryx’s sheer brutality.
The first warrior lunged, a younger fighter with impressive speed. He went low, attempting to sweep Eryx’s legs, but the Gamma anticipated the move. With lightning reflexes, Eryx sidestepped and drove his clawed hand into the warrior’s side, sending him sprawling to the dirt with a harsh grunt.
Another fighter charged, a larger male in wolf form, snapping his powerful jaws at Eryx’s throat. Eryx caught him mid-leap, claws sinking into thick fur before he twisted and slammed the wolf down with a thunderous impact. Dust erupted from the ground, and the onlookers flinched at the brutal display of dominance.
Draven remained still, watching with an expression of mild interest.
A third warrior tried his luck, a female Lycan with swift footwork and sharp instincts. She ducked under Eryx’s swipe, landing a solid punch to his ribs. A flicker of approval crossed Eryx’s eyes before he retaliated, catching her wrist in an iron grip. With a simple yet devastating motion, he flipped her over his shoulder, her back colliding with the earth with a painful smack.
And still, more came forward.
The cycle repeated—clashes of claws, raw power meeting resistance, warriors testing their limits against an opponent who had none.
Draven noted each fighter’s strengths and weaknesses. Some had potential, others needed work. He had no patience for weakness, but he had even less patience for arrogance. He trained his warriors to be efficient, deadly, and unwavering. Anything less was unacceptable.
As the battle continued, the scent of Cyrus approached. Draven didn’t turn, but he knew his Beta was watching with the same level of scrutiny. Unlike Draven, Cyrus didn’t demand perfection, but he had an eye for potential, which made him an excellent strategist.
“Alpha, come with me,” Cyrus said in a low tone, his voice barely audible over the sounds of combat. “There's something you need to see.”
Draven’s eyes narrowed slightly before he gave a small nod. Without a word, he turned and followed Cyrus toward a more secluded part of the training grounds, away from the ears of curious warriors. They moved in silence, the only sound between them being the rustling of leaves as the wind carried the scent of earth and steel.
When they were finally alone, Cyrus pulled a small parchment from his belt and held it out.
“Valerion wrote a letter to you.”
Draven’s entire body tensed. His eyes snapped to the parchment, studying it as though it might catch fire in Cyrus’s hands. He reached for it cautiously, his fingers brushing over the rough material.
“What does it say?” Draven asked, voice low and sharp.
Cyrus shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s enchanted. Only you can read it.”
Draven exhaled through his nose and broke the wax seal. The moment he unrolled the parchment, it appeared blank.
Then, the ink began to materialize.
Dark crimson letters bled into the surface, forming elegant, foreboding words. Draven’s eyes tracked each sentence, his expression shifting with every line.
At first, his brows furrowed in confusion. Then, his muscles tensed. And finally—his entire body stilled. His breath hitched, and his fingers clenched around the parchment so tightly that the edges began to crumple.
Cyrus watched closely, noting the shift from intrigue to shock.
Draven’s chest rose and fell sharply. His mouth opened slightly as if he wanted to speak, but no words came out.
For the first time in a long time, he was shaken.
Cyrus’s voice broke the silence, a single question hanging in the air.
“What does it say?”