My stomach dropped. That… wasn't possible. I blinked, dragging my eyes away from the wolves. "We don't qualify."
"What do you mean?" Roan asked, brows pinching.
"I mean," I said, trying to keep my voice low, "we don't have the requirements. No military experience. No medals. You need at least two years in service or a gallantry award. We have neither."
Marco turned toward us. "Wait—how long does it take to issue one of those? A gallantry medal?"
I hesitated, then looked at him. "I don't know. Depends on the situation—maybe a few days if they push it."
He stared at me for a beat, then said, "I think Alpha Zion sent our names forward for the award."
I blinked. "What?"
"He probably didn't think we'd actually show up to enlist," Marco said, rubbing his neck. "But if he submitted the names, then on paper… we've got it. Doesn't matter if we've received it yet. We are technically eligible."
I stared at him, all the blood draining from my face. I didn't know whether to be flattered or furious. "Shit," I whispered. "Shit. Rot take me."
Around us, the wolves waited silently, their watchful eyes grazing over us.
That's when another wolf cut through the trees.
Gray this time, leaner and quicker-looking, with intelligent eyes and a younger rider. Mid twenties, maybe. But his voice cracked through the air like a whip.
"Silence!" he barked. "Stop acting like frightened children. You should feel honored to be here."
The crowd froze. Even the crying stopped.
Beta Cael didn't so much as flinch. He stepped forward again, voice calm. "There are others. Three more groups, across the mountain. Four groups in total. All here for the same purpose."
His wolf let out an exhale so loud and long, the air around us became sticky and suffocating.
"The trials begin at first light," he added. A pause. His eyes scanned us one last time. "A camp will be prepared here tonight. You'll have access to basic gear and tools—enough for those who came unprepared or underprepared. Choose wisely. Get some rest. You'll need it. Good luck."
Without another word, he turned and mounted his wolf. The rest followed, fading back into the woods as quietly as they'd come.
All we could do was watch. And try not to imagine what tomorrow would bring. I never imagined, in my wildest dreams, that I would ever sign up for the bonding trials, let alone successfully bond. I don't know what Marco was thinking at the moment either, perhaps cursing the time he offered to come with me but then I chanced a look at him. He was staring right at me too, then he closed the distance between us and squeezed my shoulder.
"We'll make it, you and I. I don't regret it one bit." Only three years older me, he knew me more than any soul in whole of Sundra. Even Flynn wasn't as perceptive as Marco. I exhaled slowly, leaning into his touch.
The camp went up fast.
Turns out when a group of wolves and riders descend from the mountain, things get done quickly. Within an hour, the once-empty clearing had transformed—twenty-five canvas tents, neat rows of fire pits waiting to be lit, and lanterns strung from low branches like the stars had come down to watch.
The gear hadn't been distributed yet. We were told someone would come by soon with packs and rations, and we'd get to choose from what was available. Which basically meant: first come, first serve, and don't be slow.
"I'm claiming this one," Marco said, tossing his bag down in front of a tent near the edge. Roan stepped up behind him, peered inside, and gave a short nod.
"Dry enough. Works for me."
I was just passing by when a voice came from behind.
"You don't look like a snorer."
I turned around.
A girl stood there, arms folded, head slightly cocked. Her auburn hair was tied up in a loose ponytail, wild strands escaping to frame a face that looked too unimpressed to be bothered with much of anything.
She raised an eyebrow. "Got a tentmate?"
"No," I said slowly.
"Perfect. I hate snoring. And boys. Mostly the smell." She jerked her chin toward the tent next to Marco and Roan's. "We're taking that one."
I blinked. "We are?"
She was already moving, kicking a rock out of the way like it had offended her. "Unless you want to bunk with the two geniuses trying to make fire with a sock."
I looked back. Marco and Roan were mid-argument about "tactical survival skills and 'combat-ready instincts' ," and one of them was rubbing two sticks together while balancing a soggy sock between his knees.
"…That tent looks great," I said, hurrying after her.
She shot me a sideways look, faintly amused. "Thought so, Name's Aila by the way." She ducked inside and tossed her bag to the far corner. "I get the side closest to the entrance. I sleep light and I don't like being trapped. You good with that?"
"Iris. Sure," I said, dropping my bag on the other side.
The canvas beneath us rustled with every breath. Neither of us said it, but we both felt it: Everything changes tomorrow.
But tonight, at least we weren't alone.
Once we settled in, we headed back out. Roan and Marco were already seated around one of the fire pits, perched on overturned crates while the fire finally caught and sent flickers into the chill night. The stars above looked impossibly close, like the sky had cracked open just for us.
Aila dropped onto a crate with the grace of a toppled log. I joined her, arms hugging my knees.
Marco gave her a curious look. "And who might you be?"
She quirked a brow. "Aila Moore."
"Roan Teyver," Roan said with a small nod.
"Marco Korvin," Marco added. "Expert marksman. Lover of fine ales and pretty ladies."
Aila snorted while Roan prodded the fire with a stick. "Where you from?"
"Nowhere interesting," she replied. "You?"
"Same," Roan replied. The silence that followed felt like shared understanding.
Marco leaned back, hands behind his head. "Think they'll tell us what we're supposed to do for the bonding before it kills us?"
"Maybe," Aila said dryly. "But probably not. Mystery trauma is trendier."
Roan gave a low, tired laugh. I didn't say much—just listened, wondering if Flynn was done for the night too. The anxiety that came from thinking about him in the front lines was eating me up from the inside.
Eventually, the fire dimmed, and conversation slowed. One by one, we headed for our tents.
"Night," Roan said, disappearing into his.
Marco stretched. "Fingers crossed nobody snores."
Back in our tent, Aila immediately flopped down and curled onto her side, her back to me. "If I snore, tough luck. I'm unconscious. That's your problem."
"Fair enough," I murmured.
She sprawled out, arms folded behind her head. "Cool. Wake me if someone starts throwing punches over protein bars. Otherwise, I'm enjoying my last few hours of not dying in trials I wanted no part of."
She was out within moments, perfectly still like she'd just shut down completely.
I stayed awake, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to wind sift through the trees and the distant crackle of dying fire.
Sleep stayed far away.
It always did.
But tonight, it was worse.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw wolves—twelve-foot beasts, fangs bared, leaping from the dark. Or worse, I saw Flynn. Bleeding. Alone. Calling my name.
I pressed a palm to my chest, willing my heart to slow, to stop galloping like I was already running from something.
I wasn't scared. At least, not in the way everyone assumed. I wasn't scared of failing the trial. Or dying in it.
I was scared of surviving and still not being enough.
A soft sound caught my attention—rustling and light. I thought it was Aila shifting in her sleep, but then I heard it again. Outside the tent this time.
I sat up and reached for the knife tucked into my boot. Aila didn't stir. She probably wouldn't unless someone set her on fire.
I slipped outside.
The camp was quiet. Too quiet.
The fires had burned down to orange coals, the lanterns dimmed. I glanced toward Marco's tent, It was still. But there—just past the edge of the tents—I caught movement.
Someone. No—two people. Moving toward the gear packs, someone must have stocked it while everyone slept. How long had it been already?
I squinted, stepping closer, hugging the shadows like I'd been taught, creeping behind a tree just past our tent. From here, I could see their face as they turned slightly—drawn into the lantern glow just enough.
Young. Early twenties, maybe. Narrow features. Clean-cut hair. Thin flat lips. Not someone I recognized.
But I memorized that face. I didn't breathe, didn't blink. Whoever they were, they were fast, quiet, lifting and rummaging through the packs stashed under a canvas tarp near the trees. They weren't just picking gear—they were marking things. I saw it now. Slashes cut into fabric, straps weakened, rations half-emptied and repackaged.
Sabotage.
A dozen thoughts raced through my mind. What did they stand to gain from getting rid of us before the trial? What if they were part of the fourth group Cael mentioned? Was this them bettering their own chances of survival?
I stepped forward, about to call out, when someone clamped a hand on my shoulder.
I spun, knife raised—but stopped short at the sight of Marco.
He held his hands up, eyes wide. "It's me," he whispered. "What's going on?"
I pointed. The saboteurs were gone.
Gone.
Just like that.
I blinked. "They were here. Two of them. Messing with gear."
Marco frowned, stepping ahead, crouching by the supplies. He picked one up, then another. "You're not imagining it," he said. "This one's already open. The stitching's loose. Like someone meant it to fall apart under pressure."
A cold wave moved through me.
Marco rose, meeting my eyes. "Someone doesn't want everyone to make it to the trials."
"Or someone's trying to make sure only a few do," I murmured.
We both turned to look back at the camp. So peaceful. So unaware.
I could feel it in my gut now—that terrible, humming truth that made everything sharp and clear: The trials had already begun.