Staying did not bring peace.
If anything, it sharpened everything—the sounds, the smells, the emotions clawing beneath my skin. The moment I made my choice, the fortress seemed to awaken around me, as if it had been waiting to see whether I would flee or fight.
Dawn arrived wrapped in steel.
I was escorted to the lower training grounds before the sun fully crested the mountains, the air crisp and biting. Warriors lined the perimeter—Lycans, wolves, creatures that carried power in their posture alone. Their gazes followed me openly, curiosity and suspicion warring in equal measure.
I lifted my chin and kept walking.
If I stayed, I would not cower.
Ronan stood at the center of the grounds, clad in dark armor etched with ancient symbols. He looked every bit the king they whispered about—controlled, dangerous, unyielding. When his gaze met mine, something passed between us, quiet and electric.
"From today onward," he said, voice carrying easily across the grounds, "Aria trains under my command."
A murmur rippled through the watchers.
I stiffened. Under his command.
I said nothing.
"You will learn combat, control, strategy, and survival," Ronan continued. "You will learn your limits—and how to break them."
His eyes lingered on me just a fraction longer than necessary. "And you will not leave the fortress without escort."
That part I expected.
What I didn't expect was the flare of heat low in my chest at the sound of his authority—or the way my wolf straightened, attentive rather than resistant.
I hated that.
Training was brutal.
Ronan did not go easy on me, nor did he allow anyone else to. I was thrown into drills meant for seasoned warriors, pushed until my muscles screamed and my lungs burned. Every mistake was corrected. Every weakness exposed.
"Again," Ronan ordered when I stumbled during a spar.
I wiped blood from my lip and rose without complaint.
Again.
By midday, my body trembled with exhaustion, sweat soaking through my clothes, but something else stirred beneath the pain—a deep, steady strength I hadn't felt in years.
"You're adapting faster than expected," Ronan remarked as he circled me.
"I don't have a choice," I replied.
"No," he agreed. "You don't."
That night, sleep came hard and fast—and when it did, it dragged me somewhere else entirely.
I stood in a vast clearing beneath a fractured moon.
Three shadows stood behind me, small but radiant, their presence pulsing with power. I couldn't see their faces, only the way silver light wrapped around them protectively.
A crown lay broken at my feet.
Blood soaked the earth.
And Ronan stood across from me, his gaze not commanding—but reverent.
"Choose," he said.
I woke with a scream lodged in my throat, my heart racing wildly.
My hands flew to my abdomen, breath shallow. The warmth was there again, faint but unmistakable, pulsing once… twice… three times.
I sat there shaking, staring into the darkness.
Three.
The number followed me into the next day.
Into training.
Into every moment of stillness.
Ronan noticed.
"You're distracted," he said sharply as my strike went wide.
"I didn't sleep," I admitted.
He studied me for a long moment. "Dreams?"
"Yes," I said quietly. "And I don't think they're just dreams."
His jaw tightened. "What did you see?"
I hesitated—then told him everything.
The shadows. The moon. The broken crown.
The number.
Silence followed.
When Ronan finally spoke, his voice was low and careful. "Prophetic dreams manifest when power awakens. Especially in those tied to ancient bloodlines."
I swallowed. "And the children?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"That part of the prophecy," he said finally, "has always been the most dangerous."
Fear coiled tightly in my chest. "Dangerous how?"
"Because heirs born of both wolf and Lycan blood don't just inherit power," he said. "They reshape it."
The weight of that settled heavily between us.
"You should have let me leave," I whispered.
"No," he said firmly. "I should have found you sooner."
The admission startled me.
Before I could respond, a horn sounded—different from the last one. Urgent. Sharp.
A guard rushed toward us. "My King. A messenger from the western packs."
Ronan turned cold instantly. "Bring them."
The messenger arrived bloodied and shaking.
"They know," he gasped. "The hunters. They've formed an alliance. They're calling it the Purge."
My heart slammed painfully against my ribs.
"They believe the prophecy is already in motion," the messenger continued. "And they intend to stop it—by killing the mother."
The world tilted.
Ronan's power surged, the air around us vibrating with restrained fury. He stepped closer to me, his hand hovering near my back—not touching, but shielding.
"No one touches her," he said quietly.
I looked up at him, fear and something dangerously close to trust twisting together.
"What happens now?" I asked.
Ronan met my gaze, golden eyes burning with resolve. "Now," he said, "the fortress prepares for war."
And for the first time since the betrayal that shattered my life, I realized something with terrifying clarity:
Staying had not made me safe.
It had made me a target.