7|| The Royal Envoy’s Arrival

Three days later, the carriage from the Royal Capital arrives.

The morning is crisp and clear, the ground still damp from the midnight dew, when the thunderous sound of heavy paws vibrates through the valley.

It is a grand, black-and-gold coach, armored in dark iron and bearing the glittering silver crest of the Royal Lycan Court.

Pulling this massive carriage are four colossal, dark-furred dire-wolves, their crimson eyes gleaming with feral intelligence and their jaws dripping saliva as they pull the heavy transport to a smooth halt in the center of the pack courtyard.

The entire Silver Crest Pack has gathered to send Elara off. The crowd whispers in hushed, anxious tones, a mixture of false pride and underlying dread rippling through the ranks.

Elara stands at the center of the attention, wearing a pristine, snow-white wool cloak lined with expensive rabbit fur. With her carefully curled golden hair and her fragile posture, she looks every bit the delicate, noble-born lady.

Kaelen stands tall beside her, his formal Alpha furs draped over his broad shoulders, but he cannot hide the physical toll of my rejection. His face is abnormally pale, and deep, dark shadows bruise the skin beneath his eyes—the lingering, exhausting agony of the severed bond.

He looks at me from across the crowd, his gaze heavy, pleading, angry, and utterly confused all at once. It is the look of a man who still cannot comprehend that a female had the audacity to write her own destiny.

I refuse to spare him even a fraction of a glance.

Instead, I stand with the elite pack warriors at the very back of the courtyard, where the shadows of the barracks fall.

I am clad in my dark, hardened leather armor, my twin silver-hilted blades strapped securely to my back. I do not look like a grieving, rejected female hiding from her heartbreak. I do not look like someone who has lost her future.

I look like a weapon, forged in the cold northern winters and waiting to be drawn.

The heavy carriage door swings open with a sharp, metallic click. The Royal Envoy, a tall, battle-scarred Lycan named Commander Sharon, steps out of the cabin.

His presence alone is suffocating, his massive frame is clad in the polished silver armor of the Royal Guard, and his aura as a high-ranking warrior of the Capital sweeps over the courtyard like a physical gale, forcing several younger pack members to lower their eyes.

Sharon looks at Elara, who is practically trembling under the weight of his entrance. Then, he looks down at the official transfer papers in his gloved hand. He frowns, his thick eyebrows knitting together in immediate disapproval.

"This is the applicant?" he asks, his voice like grinding stones.

"Yes, Commander," Kaelen says, his voice slightly strained as he steps forward, trying to project the strength of an Alpha despite the raw wound in his soul. "Elara Hart. We request the sponsorship be officially transferred to her."

Sharon snorts, a sound of pure, unadulterated disdain that makes Miriam stiffen in the crowd. He slowly walks a tight circle around Elara, his sharp, golden eyes evaluating her posture, her muscle density, and the faint, practically dormant aura of her weak wolf.

Elara shrinks back under his intense gaze, her face draining of color as she clutches Kaelen's arm for support, her manicured fingers digging into his heavy sleeve.

"She has absolutely no combat training," Sharon notes, his booming voice carrying the weight of a seasoned veteran who has seen a hundred battlefields. "Her stance is weak and her center of gravity is off. The Royal Academy is not a finishing school or a vacation home for pampered nobles, Alpha. It is a military institution. Why are you wasting our time with a weakling when your sector had such a promising, high-ranking trial winner?"

"Celeste Hart has been reassigned to vital border defense duties," Kaelen says quickly, his tone tight and defensive as he tries to maintain his composure. "She is highly skilled, and we determined she is more suited for local, hands-on operations. Elara's talents lie elsewhere."

Sharon's golden eyes scan the gathered crowd, searching, dismissive of the elders and the standard guards. Eventually, his gaze lands on me, standing in the shadows of the back row. He stops.

His nostrils flare slightly as he catches my scent—the metallic tang of my blades, the pine of the borderlands, and the raw, untamed power of my wolf, Lyra.

He sees the twin swords on my back, the dried mud on my combat boots, and the cold, unyielding fire burning in my single-focused eyes.

A slow, deeply respectful nod passes between us. It is silent and brief, but it is the unmistakable acknowledgement of two predators recognizing each other in a crowd of sheep.

"A pity," Sharon mutters, turning his back on Kaelen and walking back toward his carriage. "The Capital already has more than enough pretty ornaments decorating its halls. We need soldiers to hold the northern front, but if this is the foolish choice of the Silver Crest, so be it. Board the carriage, girl and try not to die in the first week."

Elara pales to a translucent white, her hands trembling violently as she lets go of Kaelen and climbs the iron steps of the coach.

The pristine hem of her white cloak brushes against the mud of the carriage wheel, staining it instantly. She looks back at the crowd one last time, desperately searching for the admiration and envy she had anticipated for years.

But she finds none. Instead, she only sees the worried, tense, and grim faces of the pack elders.

They are not fools. They know what the Capital is truly like. They know that without strength, she is not going to a prestigious school—she is going into a political and physical meat grinder.

They know that by sending her, the pack has just sent a lamb to represent them to the wolves of the high court.

I stand tall, my arms crossed over my chest, watching the heavy black-and-gold door slam shut behind her. The carriage driver cracks a leather whip, and the four massive dire-wolves let out a synchronized howl, leaping forward and hauling the carriage out of the courtyard in a cloud of dust and gravel.

I watch her go with a cold, detached satisfaction. She wanted my stage. She wanted my victory, my sweat, and my sacrifices handed to her on a silver platter. Now, she has to perform.

She has to survive the brutal trials, the toxic court politics, and the relentless training that I spent five years preparing for.

They should pray that her performance might even hold a candle to mine, because when she falls, and she will, there will be no Celeste in the Capital to catch her.