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Harder training, my Lycan grumbles as I peer at my pack on the training field.

“Wait. Look.”

All except Darian. He stands his ground, chest rising with each breath, fists curling at his sides. His dark eyes met mine without a flicker of fear.

Then he steps forward. Gravel shifts under his boots. “I’ll spar with you, Alpha.”

Finally, my Lycan growls. Someone with a spine.

The pack exhales as one. Relief unfurls in the air, and soon others hustles to find partners before I change my mind. I fold my arms, smirk widening.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

We begin with careful probing, light jabs, quick feints, measuring Darian’s speed and reflexes. His shoulders tense and release like coil springs. But as my strikes press harder, I feel old flames of anger ignite, rogues slaughtered Elise, killed Selena’s parents.

“Rogues took them,”

Not this one.

I knew Darian wasn’t to blame, yet grief and fury leaks into every blow.

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he grins and answers in kind, his fist cracking against my ribs. The spar shifts into a brutal ballet, elbows hooking, kicks arching, counters executes with precision. Dust billows where our boots dug into the earth. Droplets of sweat and specks of blood glint in the morning light. One by one, the other warriors stop sparring and form a tight circle; their eyes lock on our duel.

Then Darian’s fist finds my jaw. I tumble back, my back slamming into the training logs. Silence roar in my ears. He stands over me, chest heaving, blood trickling from a split brow, that same triumphant smirk on his face.

Stop. Holding. Back. Fight.

I blink, tasting iron in my mouth, and then something shifts. The fury drains out of me, replaces by that familiar spark of competition. We both realize we won’t wilt under pressure or hold back. A laugh tears out of my chest. I grin up at Darian. His smirk widens.

Finally.

I spring up. From that moment on, we trade blows as if dancing, each strike met with a grin, each hit an invitation for more. Muscles burn, joints scream, but we roar in joy rather than pain. Finally, I manage to catch him in a tight arm lock, pinning him to the ground just long enough for the soft crack of victory. When I release him, we are both bleeding, exhausts, and laughing like maniacs.

Strong, my wolf says. Beta strong.

“I can’t have a former rogue as my Beta.”

He’s pack now.

“You don’t understand the politics of it.”

You humans make things so difficult.

I offer my hand; he takes it. I haul him upright, perception sharpen by adrenaline.

Again, my Lycan demands, practically bouncing beneath my skin.

“Again,” I pant.

The rest of the training session, I watch Darian pair off with other wolves. When he fought less season opponents, he temper his strength, guiding their movements, correcting mistakes with a guiding hand instead of crushing force. By the session’s end, I see wary glances turn into nods of respect, some even greet him with open curiosity.

I respect him too, but trust is built, not given. He’d already share tales of his old pack, his exile, how his family fell among rogues, the ranking politics in that settlement. I haven't known him long. I’ll verify every detail before I grant full faith, for the safety of Selena and Silver Moon.

During a water break, I stroll over to Darian. He looks stressed, as I reach him I ask, “Everything alright?“

He looks at me for a brief moment, and then says, “You’ll probably think it’s stupid.”

“Try me.”