Chapter 7
Abigail's POV
I stood and walked to the window, pulling aside the heavy curtains. Sunlight flooded the room at once, warmth falling on my face like a benediction. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back slightly, letting the light cover every inch of my skin.
How long had it been since I'd felt this temperature?
In my previous life, after my failed awakening, I'd been locked in that cold stone chamber, cut off from sunlight. After that, bound as a formless spirit to Nicholas, I'd wandered between shadows and moonlight, never again touching daylight's warmth.
And now, standing here in my seventeen-year-old body, I was almost drunk on this long-lost sensation. The sunlight was golden and alive, falling through the glass like flowing honey, and I wanted nothing more than to drown in it.
I needed to go outside. I needed to move, to get my body active, to constantly remind myself—I had truly returned.
I changed into a simple day dress and draped a light shawl over my shoulders. After confirming no one was watching in the corridor, I pushed open the door and wandered along the hallways of the Crimson Fang stronghold.
The Pack's territory sprawled across a valley ringed by low mountains, the main compound standing at its heart like a natural fortress. Rough stone buildings with steep roofs huddled together, connected by covered walkways and open courtyards.
Banners bearing the crimson wolf sigil snapped in the wind—everywhere I looked was orderly bustle: warriors sparring in the training grounds, children chasing each other through gardens, elders huddled in shaded alcoves smoking pipes and recounting old tales in low voices.
I walked unhurriedly, letting my feet decide the direction. The air carried the familiar scent of pine resin and damp earth, mixed with a faint musk—the smell of wolf, the smell of "home."
The path led me past the training grounds. I stopped at the edge of the open space, watching a group of warriors pair off for combat practice and shifting drills. The dull thud of wooden staffs striking and low growls intertwined, movements rough yet rhythmic, like a dance composed of violence—every step, every turn speaking to the wolf nature within.
A fiercely intense longing suddenly surged up, nearly choking off my breath.
Shifting... what would it feel like? Bones reshaping and reforming, sight, hearing, smell, and touch all amplified; running on four legs through the forest, wind rolling through fur, the world stretching out beneath claws—
I closed my eyes, forcing myself to suppress that longing.
I would know the answer. This time, I would awaken. Not just want to—I had to.
I resumed walking and soon was drawn by increasingly noisy clamor ahead. Rounding a wall corner, I saw a smaller secondary courtyard already packed with people.
They formed a semicircle, bodies pressed against bodies, shouts rising and falling in waves, the air itself churned hot. I could smell the sharp tang of adrenaline and aggression mixed together.
Curiosity drove me closer. I circled the outer edge of the crowd, trying to find a gap to see through. Most people were too focused to notice me, still staring fixedly at the courtyard's center, but some instinctively made way when they saw me.
Finally, I squeezed into a position where I could see clearly inside, and couldn't help but pause slightly.
A makeshift fighting ring had been set up in the courtyard's center, two fighters facing off—but this wasn't the usual sparring match. The male was tall to the point of frightening, easily a head taller than his opponent, muscles coiled like cables beneath his skin, his bare torso covered in old scars—the kind of warrior whose very appearance was intimidating.
Every step he took carried the certainty of never having been defeated, his eyes filled with a predator's arrogance and anticipation.
His opponent was a young woman, slender but solid, with short, practical hair and sharp fighting spirit burning in her eyes. She lowered her center of gravity into a defensive stance, and though clearly outmatched in size and brute strength, every muscle was taut, like a rapier already drawn from its sheath.
The crowd had completely erupted. Men and women alike waved their wagers—finely carved bone tokens, bundled strips of cured hide, even jingling coin pouches—shouting their bets to the bookkeeper at the ring's edge.
"Twenty on Garrick!"
"Thirty on the big guy! Bet he'll flatten her in under a minute!"
"Fifty says she won't last ten seconds!"
I scanned the crowd. Every single wager, without exception, was placed on the man. Not a single bone token was for the woman.
I studied her movements carefully, then compared them to Garrick's. The latter was textbook reliance on strength: obvious weight shifts before attacks, movements telegraphed, using size and presence to force opponents into mistakes, habitually crushing everything with overwhelming power. It was the kind of confidence that disdained technique, born from the laziness of winning too many times through brute force alone.
But the young woman's footwork was completely different. Her gaze tracked every twitch of his muscles, her steps light yet wasting no excess movement, always maintaining a distance just barely out of reach, neither meeting him head-on nor retreating unnecessarily.
She wasn't trying to match his strength—she was waiting. Waiting for an opening, a moment when that confidence would become a fatal vulnerability.
She was smart. And most of the people surrounding her only saw the difference in size.
After noticing my arrival, the crowd's noise involuntarily lowered somewhat. Several gazes sized me up from head to toe, eyes mixing curiosity with contempt. They were waiting, wanting to see what I would do—or rather, whether I would embarrass myself.
I stepped forward, letting my voice carry steady and clear.
"I want to place a bet too."
The bookkeeper was a gray-haired old wolf with one clouded, blind eye. He looked up, unable to hide his momentary stunned expression.
"Miss." His voice was hoarse. "Who would you like to bet on?"
I pulled out the small purse tied at my waist and poured a handful of silver coins into my palm. The cold metal glinted, immediately drawing many surrounding gazes—this was no small sum, equivalent to a month or even two months' spending money for most ordinary Pack members.
I raised my hand, shaking the silver coins in the air so everyone could see clearly, then pointed toward the young woman in the ring.
"All of it," I said, word by word. "On her."
After a brief silence, the courtyard exploded. Exclamations, snickers, and jeering mixed together.
"The Alpha's daughter's lost her mind!"
Someone else laughed so hard they couldn't straighten up, elbowing the person next to them, eyes full of the excitement of watching a spectacle.
I ignored them all, only staring at the bookkeeper. He was clearly still hesitating, his clouded eye moving back and forth between me and the stack of silver coins.
"Miss, are you certain? This is a lot of money to place on such a—"
"I'm very certain." I cut him off, tone calm.
I stepped forward and placed the coins firmly into his calloused palm.
"Mark it down clearly. All of it on her."
He was silent for a moment before finally nodding and recording it in his ledger. The crowd's murmuring rose in waves, and I could almost feel those gazes stabbing into my back like needles: mocking, confused, filled with the anticipation of watching a show.
Let them think what they wanted. Let them assume I was naive, impulsive, seeking attention.
I knew what I had seen. And soon, they would see it too.
I turned my gaze back to the female warrior. As if sensing something, she turned her head at that moment, her eyes briefly meeting mine head-on.
I gave her the slightest nod, no words necessary.
Then I stepped back a few paces to the crowd's edge, my heartbeat unconsciously quickening along with the surrounding clamor.
The fight was about to begin.