Chapter Thirteen: Trial by Fire
The morning sun cast long shadows over the training grounds as Giselle approached, her heart pounding in her chest. The open field buzzed with activity—pack members stretching, sparring, and exchanging banter. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what lay ahead.
As she stepped onto the field, conversations hushed, and all eyes turned to her. Whispers floated through the air, laced with disdain and suspicion.
"Look who's decided to join us," someone muttered.
"The rogue thinks she can train with us now," another sneered.
Giselle ignored the comments, focusing on the instructor at the center of the field. Sylah, a seasoned warrior with a reputation for toughness, stood with arms crossed, her gaze sharp and unyielding.
"You're late," Sylah said, her voice cold.
"Apologies," Giselle replied, keeping her tone steady.
Sylah's eyes narrowed. "We'll see if you can keep up, little rogue."
The training began with basic drills—push-ups, sit-ups, and sprints. Giselle wasn’t used to training so hard, but she pushed herself, muscles burning, lungs aching, refusing to falter in front of those that wish to see her fail.
During sparring sessions, no one held back. Each opponent came at her with full force, testing her limits. Bruises blossomed on her arms and legs, but she stood her ground, determination etched on her face.
Out of all of the wolves on the training ground, Sylah was the hardest on her, pushing her to her limits and then pushing some more. When it was her turn to spar with the aggressive wolf, Giselle could feel her nerves sky rocket.
The air was thick with heat and tension as Giselle stepped into the center of the sparring ring. Sylah was already there, circling like a predator, her eyes sharp and calculating. The moment Giselle dropped into a defensive stance, Sylah struck.
Giselle dodged the first blow, barely. The next came harder, faster—a punch to her ribs that knocked the wind from her lungs. Sylah didn’t let up. Fists, elbows, and swift kicks came in brutal succession, forcing Giselle to scramble just to keep her footing.
It wasn’t like the other matches. This wasn’t training—it was a message.
Sylah wasn’t just trying to win. She was trying to humiliate her. But Giselle couldn’t figure out what she could have done to upset the wolf so badly.
Giselle met her attacks with grit, refusing to yield. Though outmatched, she fought with everything she had.
“You think just because you’re the Alpha’s little stray you can stand with the rest of us?” Sylah growled between strikes.
Giselle blocked a punch and threw one of her own, catching Sylah on the chin, but it barely fazed her. "Is that all you've got?" she taunted in return.
“This feels personal,” Giselle panted, ducking under another swing. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”
Sylah’s eyes narrowed, fury flashing in their depths. “You don’t belong here.”
A moment later, Sylah dropped low and swept Giselle’s legs out from under her. The ground hit hard, knocking stars into Giselle’s vision. Before she could move, Sylah stood over her, victorious and breathing heavily.
“Stay down,” she hissed, voice dripping with venom.
Giselle lay there, chest heaving, sweat stinging her eyes. Her pride burned hotter than her bruises. Sylah turned away without another word, but Giselle’s gaze followed her, teeth clenched.
It wasn’t just personal.
Sylah had just declared war on her in front of everyone in the pack.
Giselle pulled herself to her elbows, spitting the coppery taste of blood from her mouth. The pounding in her ribs and the sting of scraped palms were nothing compared to the heat simmering in her chest. Humiliation clawed at her throat as murmurs rippled through the g
Rowan reached out, his fingers brushing the back of her hand. The contact was brief, but electric, sparking something inside her that she thought she’d buried.
“You’re not alone,” he said.
But as she watched him turn and walk away—no declaration, no claim, no announcement—Giselle realized that no matter how many times he said it, her place here would never be certain.
Not until she earned it.
Not until she stopped needing him to say it.athered wolves. Most turned away with smirks or amused glances, pleased that the rogue had been put in her place.
She blinked through the haze just as a familiar presence approached. The crowd parted without protest.
Rowan.
His scent hit her before she saw him—earth and pine and something uniquely calming—and for a moment, she wanted nothing more than to fall into him, to seek solace in the bond that tethered them. But she couldn’t. Not now. Not when it was clear he wouldn’t—couldn’t—claim her.
“What the hell was that?” Rowan’s voice was low but sharp, like a blade sheathed in velvet. His eyes scanned her face, landing on the bruise darkening her jaw.
Giselle forced herself to stand, wincing at the protest in her ribs. “Training,” she said, brushing dirt from her pants with shaking fingers.
“That wasn’t training,” Rowan growled, eyes flicking to Sylah, who stood at the edge of the ring, chest rising and falling but lips twisted into a satisfied smirk. “That was a beatdown.”
Giselle didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Not with the entire pack watching. Not when showing weakness might only make things worse.
Rowan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You shouldn’t have been paired with her. I’ll speak to—”
“Don’t,” she interrupted, her gaze flicking up to meet his. “If you step in now, they’ll think I need you to protect me. I can handle it.”
His jaw tensed. “You shouldn’t have to handle it alone.”
“Well, I do.” She bit down the bitterness in her tone. “Because as far as they’re concerned, I’m just a rogue with no place here.
Pain flickered in his expression, but he didn’t deny it.
They stood in silence for a breath. Then Rowan sighed, his voice softening. “You fought well. I saw it. You didn’t back down, not even when you should’ve. That means something.”
“It doesn’t feel like it,” she whispered.
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