Chapter 9 Bruises of Pride
[Lysander]
He blinked, immediately registering his mistake. "I was just—"
"Fifteen laps."
Seth sighed, handed his water bottle to Symone, and jogged toward the track. "This is what I get for looking out for you," he called back.
"Want to make it twenty?" I asked calmly.
He wisely turned forward and picked up his pace.
Symone stood beside me, her face impassive. "He means well," she said quietly, though her eyes remained on the training field.
"I know." I watched Seth begin his first lap. "But he doesn't know her like I do."
After Symone returned to her squad, I remained alone, my thoughts drifting to last night's combat with Nyx. Seth's gossip was just that—gossip. What I'd witnessed myself told me more than any rumors ever could.
What I'd seen in her eyes wasn't just anger but frustration—the reaction of someone whose body remembered greatness but couldn't access it. The Nyx Verdant I remembered from four years ago had been exceptional—a natural fighter with instinctive grace that couldn't be taught. Before I left for the border, she'd been on track to become one of the most formidable warriors in the pack's history.
My memories drifted further back, to the first time I'd ever seen Nyx Verdant. I was twelve, a warrior-in-training with callused hands and ambitious dreams. She was just six, a tiny silver-haired princess holding her father's hand as he toured the training grounds. Most of us had stopped our drills to bow to the Alpha, but I remember being transfixed by the little girl with curious eyes that seemed too wise for her age.
"Who's that?" she had asked her father, pointing directly at me.
Alpha Karl had smiled indulgently. "That's one of our future warriors, little one."
She'd tilted her head, studying me with those piercing gray-blue eyes. "He looks strong," she'd declared with childish certainty, making the other trainees laugh.
I'd felt my face flush but stood straighter under her assessment.
Years later, when I was twenty-one and she'd grown into a fifteen-year-old prodigy at the Academy, I watched her outmaneuver instructors twice her size. Her talents weren't limited to combat either—she consistently ranked first in the Economics Academy, mastering complex financial strategies that seasoned traders struggled to understand. The Alpha's daughter excelled at both physical prowess and intellectual pursuits, a rare combination that impressed everyone. That's when my admiration transformed into something deeper.
By sixteen, she was already being groomed as a potential heir, while I received orders to join the border patrol against the neighboring Jupiter Pack's territorial incursions.
That first year at the border cost me everything - both my parents died in a surprise attack while delivering supplies to our outpost. Three years of bitter fighting followed, three years of duty, watching the northern territories while she remained here, growing into the woman who now viewed me as an unwanted obligation.
As the training field emptied, I remained behind, running through last night's combat in my mind. Despite her weakened state, I'd recognized flashes of the old Nyx—precise counterattacks, moments of perfect balance, instinctive responses that spoke of deep training.
Two weeks until our wedding. Two weeks until she would be my wife. The thought filled me with anticipation, despite her resistance.
---
A week later
[Nyx]
A week had passed since my confrontation with Lysander. Seven days of relentless self-training with frustratingly little improvement. The morning sun slanted through the windows of my private training room in the west wing, highlighting the sweat that drenched my training clothes. I completed the seventh combination of movements, muscles screaming in protest.
"Damn it!" I hurled my boxing gloves at the floor, watching them bounce pathetically on the mat.
We need professional guidance, Sylva whispered in my mind. Pride won't make you stronger, only keep you stagnant.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror—the shadow of the warrior prodigy I once was stared back at me with accusing eyes. The bruises accumulating on my body were proof of slow progress. The thought of asking Lysander for help turned my stomach, but the memory of his effortless victory still stung.
"Tomorrow," I muttered. "I'll figure it out tomorrow. Today, I have Tristan's wedding to survive." I glanced at the clock, realizing I needed to prepare for my brother's ceremony. The thought of watching him marry Ophelia while pretending to be happily engaged to Lysander was almost as painful as my training failures.
---
Two hours later, I stood before my bedroom's full-length mirror while Ariel adjusted the complicated folds of my sea-blue gown. The silky material caught the light as she smoothed the last wrinkle.
"Mr. Crowley is waiting in the grand hall," she reminded me softly. "The Alpha has commanded you attend young Master Tristan's wedding together, as befits an engaged couple."
I arched an eyebrow. "A delightful first public date, isn't it?"
When I descended the stairs, I found Lysander waiting in the entrance hall. The formal groomsman attire he wore was a stark departure from his usual warrior's garb, the tailored suit emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist. When he saw me, something flashed in his eyes—surprise, appreciation—before it was quickly masked with composure.
He extended his arm professionally. "Ready?"
I reluctantly placed my hand on his forearm, feeling the tension crackle between us. "Remember, this is just a performance," I said under my breath. "Don't get too invested."
Lysander tilted his head, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "You have fresh bruises on your wrist." His gaze swept over several visible marks on my exposed skin. "You're training?"
I instinctively tried to hide the evidence, but it was too late. "Just some basic exercises," I mumbled.
Lysander nodded without pressing further. "If you need help, I can provide professional guidance." His offer held no mockery, only professional respect.
"I don't need it," I replied immediately, my pride not allowing me to accept assistance from him, especially after our earlier confrontations.