Chapter 175 – Voices of the Young

Chapter 175 – Voices of the Young
Raven’s POV

The training field rang with the sound of practice. Young wolves—gangly teenagers with bright eyes and twitching ears—darted across the clearing, their paws kicking up small clouds of dust. The late-afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the packed earth.

I paced the edge of the field, boots sinking slightly into the warm soil. Every thud of paws, every sharp breath, settled into a rhythm in my mind. Strength was not only muscle. It was focused. It was heart.

Kel barked a command. The pups dropped into formation so quickly that the echo of his voice still hung in the air when their paws stilled. Good. Discipline was the root of power.

“Again!” Kel called.

The line broke and reformed as they practiced the shift from wolf to human and back. Some managed smooth changes; others stumbled and shook, but all of them tried again. I felt a slow pride rise in my chest. These were the defenders of tomorrow.

Among the quiet watchers near the tree line, I caught a flash of red. Rayna’s hair, catching the last light like a small flame. Beside her stood Ryker, taller every week, eyes wide with excitement.

I raised a hand and motioned them closer. “You’re early,” I said when they reached me.

“We wanted to watch,” Rayna answered, her chin lifted as though she expected me to send her away.

Ryker nodded hard. “Kel said today you teach the running strike.”

I hid a smile. “Then watch closely,” I told them. “Real strength protects. It does not destroy.”

Rayna’s eyes shone. Ryker’s fists clenched with eager energy.

The lesson flowed around us. I guided the young warriors through drills, showing them when to push forward and when to yield. “Balance,” I said, stepping into a stance. “The strongest defense is calm. Rage makes you blind.”

Two older apprentices sparred nearby. I corrected their footing, then looked back at my children. They were focused, bodies leaning forward as if every move mattered.

Each step I taught was a memory of battles past—Nights when Umbra’s shadow clawed at our borders. Each word I spoke was a vow: You will learn to fight, but you will learn more to protect.

Kel called for a break. Pups flopped to the ground, tongues lolling. A few shifted back to human form, breath misting in the cooling air.

Rayna moved closer, her small hand brushing mine. “Papa,” she said softly, “why do they have to fight if the bad shadows are gone?”

I crouched so our eyes met. “Because peace is strongest when we guard it. We train so no darkness can catch us sleeping.”

She nodded slowly, thinking it over.

Ryker tugged my sleeve. “When can we join?” His voice carried both hope and stubbornness.

“When you’re ready,” I said, touching two fingers to his chest. “And readiness begins here.”

He blinked, then placed his own small hand over his heart. Rayna copied him, solemn as an elder.

“Not just strong arms,” I added. “A strong heart. A mind that chooses the right path even when it’s hard.”

They both nodded, faces serious. Pride warmed me more than the sinking sun.

The training ended with a long howl that rolled through the trees. Young wolves shifted back to human shape and stretched tired limbs. Kel dismissed them, and the field slowly emptied.

I walked with my children across the quiet clearing. Their chatter bubbled like a stream—every question a sign of growing minds.

“Papa, will you tell us a story about when you were our age?” Rayna asked.

I chuckled. “I was smaller than you, Rayna, and not half as brave.”

“That’s not true,” Ryker said with firm belief.

“It is,” I assured him, smiling. “I learned courage the way you will. One small step at a time.”

The sky was painted in soft pinks and golds as we reached the path to the pack house. Dawn waited by the gate, her hands earth-stained from the garden. A loose strand of hair brushed her cheek. When she saw us, her smile softened the whole evening.

“You three look like you’ve been chasing the sun,” she teased.

Rayna dashed ahead to hug her. “Papa showed us how warriors move. We’re going to be ready soon.”

“Not too soon,” Dawn said with a gentle laugh, brushing dirt from Rayna’s sleeve.

Ryker grabbed his mother’s free hand. “But we’ll be strong. Papa said strong hearts matter most.”

Dawn met my eyes over their heads, pride shining. “Wise words,” she said.

I shrugged, though warmth spread through me. “They listened better than most recruits.”

We strolled toward the house together. The smell of wood smoke drifted from the chimneys, carrying hints of supper—roasted roots and fresh bread. From the far courtyard came the sound of music: a single flute weaving a quiet tune.

Halfway home, Rayna pointed to the young apprentices still cooling down near the well. “Can we say good night to them?”

I nodded. She darted over, Ryker close behind. I watched as they offered shy waves and small words of encouragement to the tired trainees. The older youths smiled back, surprised but pleased.

Dawn slipped her arm through mine. “They already know how to lift others,” she whispered. “That’s a lesson some never learn.”

By the time we reached the porch, twilight wrapped the pack house in a soft blue glow. The twins raced up the steps, laughing.

Inside, Aunt Maris had set the long table. The smell of herbs and warm bread filled every corner. Warriors drifted in, their voices low with contentment. The twins took their places proudly, retelling every detail of the evening to anyone who would listen—how Kel shouted commands, how the young wolves ran like the wind, how their papa taught that real strength protects.

I listened in silence, letting their words wash over me. Their voices carried the promise I had long fought to keep: that our children would grow in a world where courage meant more than fear.

After supper, Dawn and I carried the sleepy twins to their room. Rayna murmured about the stars she had seen above the training field. Ryker’s last words before sleep were, “Strong hearts, Papa.”

When they were finally still, I lingered by the door, watching their slow, steady breathing.

Dawn touched my shoulder. “You look proud,” she whispered.

“I am,” I said simply. “This is the future worth every fight.”

We stepped into the hall. The house was quiet except for the soft creak of settling wood. Through the window I could see the training field in moonlight—empty now, but alive with memory.

I knew there would always be shadows beyond our borders, challenges waiting for the next dawn. But tonight, the voices of the young were stronger than any darkness.

And that was enough.