The night was alive with chaos.
Alarm bells screamed through Ravenguard, torchlight flared across the grounds, and the sound of boots pounding against stone echoed like a war drum. Warriors surged toward the western gate, weapons drawn, their faces etched with the resolve of wolves ready to kill or die.
Lyra ran at Alaric's side, her pulse pounding in rhythm with her feet. Whatever this was, it wasn't a full-scale attack. Not yet. It felt like a message, a reminder from Ronan that the war he'd promised was no bluff.
But it was more than that.
It was personal.
As they reached the outer barricade, Cassian met them with blood smeared across his arm and a blade in hand.
"They didn't break through," he said. "But they wanted us to know they could."
"How many?" Alaric asked.
"A handful. Scattered. No uniforms. But trained."
Lyra's gaze swept the tree line. The invaders were gone but their scent lingered like a threat.
"They weren't here to fight," she said quietly. "They were here to test us."
Cassian nodded grimly. "And to measure our strength."
By morning, a tense hush had fallen over the pack. Warriors patrolled in rotating shifts. Doors were locked. Secrets were guarded. Suspicion ran deep.
But while the council argued and warriors sharpened their weapons, Alaric had other plans.
He summoned Lyra to the training pit.
When she arrived, he stood at the center of the arena shirtless, sweat glistening on his skin, every inch the ruthless Alpha who had clawed his way to power. Around him, a small circle of warriors and elders waited silently.
"What is this?" she asked, brows furrowing.
Alaric's voice was calm, unreadable. "A Trial of Strength."
Her heart kicked in her chest. "For who?"
"For you," he said. "For us."
Cassian stepped forward with a sealed scroll. "The council voted last night. After the infiltration, they want proof. That Lyra is not just a threat or a pawn. That she's strong enough to be more."
Lyra stared at them. "You mean strong enough to be Luna."
Alaric nodded. "This isn't about tradition. It's about survival. If you pass, they will stop questioning your place here. You will silence every doubter with blood and fire."
"And if I fail?"
"You don't fail," he said flatly. "Not today."
The rules were simple: five warriors, one by one. No breaks. No weapons. Each would test a different skill: speed, strength, strategy, stamina, and spirit.
If she won, she earned more than their respect.
She earned her place.
The first opponent stepped forward Rook, a lean, deadly scout known for his speed. The signal was given, and he lunged with catlike precision.
Lyra moved on instinct.
Their bodies collided, twisting and tumbling across the arena. She dodged, flipped, struck low. The crowd leaned forward as she spun behind him and slammed him to the ground, holding her position for the count.
First win.
The next opponent was strength: Mira, a towering warrior with arms like stone pillars and a glare sharp enough to cut.
Lyra braced herself.
Mira didn't wait. She charged with brutal efficiency, forcing Lyra into a defensive retreat. Each blow rattled her bones, but Lyra refused to give ground.
She ducked under a swing, gritted her teeth, and delivered a vicious strike to Mira's ribs, followed by an upward elbow that dazed her. When Mira stumbled, Lyra didn't hesitate; she tackled her full force, pinning her under sheer momentum.
The crowd erupted.
Two down.
Third was a sparring match against Thorne, the pack's war tactician. His moves were precise, calculated, and far more dangerous than brute strength.
He didn't aim to beat her with power.
He aimed to break her rhythm.
They circled each other for what felt like minutes. Lyra forced herself to breathe, to watch his footwork, to anticipate instead of react. When he fainted left and struck right, she was already moving, grabbing his wrist and flipping him hard into the dust.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Three victories.
But it was far from over.
The fourth opponent tested stamina: a relentless barrage by two junior warriors, alternating attacks in rapid succession. Lyra barely had time to breathe between blows.
Bruises bloomed across her arms. Her lip split. Her ribs ached.
But she didn't fall.
She remembered what Ronan had said about being chosen, about never being enough here and rage flooded her veins like fire.
She roared and forced them both back with a feral burst of energy, striking fast and sharp, disarming one and using his momentum to take the other down.
Four.
Only one remained.
Alaric.
He stepped into the ring slowly, eyes never leaving hers. "This last trial is not just physical. It's emotional. The Council calls it Spirit but it's really about control."
Lyra wiped the blood from her chin. "Yours or mine?"
His lips curved into something dark. "Both."
The fight began with no warning.
He moved too fast. Their bond made it impossible to predict him. Every strike he threw, she could feel in her own chest, like pain echoing through the connection.
He didn't hold back.
Neither did she.
They clashed again and again, the crowd silent now. It wasn't just a test. It was everything they'd refused to say. Every feeling they'd buried under duty and fear.
Lyra's strength was fading. Her arms trembled. Her knees buckled.
But she refused to lose.
"I am not a pawn," she growled, slamming her forearm against his to block a final hit.
"I know," Alaric said, his voice low, breathless. "That's why this ends now."
He let down his guard just for a heartbeat.
And she took it.
With one last surge, she spun behind him, hooked his leg, and drove him into the dirt.
Silence.
Then, the crowd roared.
Lyra stood in the center of the pit, sweat-drenched and panting. Her entire body ached, but she didn't care. She'd done it.
She turned to the council, head high.
"Is that strong enough for you?" she rasped.
One by one, the elders stood.
Alaric approached her slowly, his face unreadable.
But when he stopped in front of her, his voice cracked with pride. "You are not just bloodbound."
He placed his hand over her chest, over the bond mark. "You are Ravenguard."
The warriors howled, fists raised in salute.
She had passed.
Not because of the bond.
Not because of Alaric.
Because she had earned it.
But far in the distance, deep in the forest, a different sound echoed
A horn.
And Alpha Ronan heard it too.
Because trials were just the beginning.
The war was coming.