Everything feels sharper now. More immediate. More dangerous. My tiger is restless, like he knows something is coming. He’s not wrong.
Training starts before the sun fully rises. The younger shifters gather at the clearing, their energy a mix of nerves and determination. Some of them have seen conflict before. Some haven’t. All of them will, if this escalates the way Magnus thinks it will. Which it will.
I step into the center of the clearing, crossing my arms as I look them over.
“Shift,” I say.
No hesitation. They move almost as one—bones shifting, forms changing, fur and claws replacing skin and hands in a matter of seconds. Good. They’ve been practicing. But practice and reality are two very different things.
“Again,” I order.
They shift back. Then again. And again. Over and over, until their movements are smooth, controlled, automatic.
“You don’t get time to think in a fight,” I tell them. “You react. Instinct takes over. If your control slips, you die. Or someone else does.”
Their attention sharpens. Good. They need to understand what’s at stake. I move through them, correcting stances, adjusting positioning, forcing them to anticipate rather than react.
“Pair up,” I say. “Controlled sparring. No holding back.”
A few hesitant glances pass between them.
“Now,” I add, my voice harder.
They move. Claws flash. Teeth bare. The sounds of combat fill the clearing—low growls, snapping jaws, the thud of bodies hitting the ground.
I watch everything. Every mistake. Every hesitation. Every moment where instinct falters. Because those are the moments that get people killed.
“Again,” I call out when the first round ends.
They reset. They go again. And again. By the time I finally call a stop, they’re breathing hard, sweat and dirt clinging to their skin as they shift back to human form.
“Better,” I say. “But not enough.”
A few of them wince. Good. Complacency is worse than fear.
“Get used to being uncomfortable,” I continue. “Because that’s where you’ll be when it matters.”
I turn away before they can respond, my gaze drifting toward the treeline. Something feels… off. Not immediate danger. Not yet. But close. Too close.
Miles away, Felix doesn’t bother hiding. He knows exactly what he’s doing. The rogue territory is quieter than Redwood Crossing, but it carries a different kind of tension—sharper, more volatile. Less controlled. More dangerous.
Damon Rourke’s camp sits deep within it, carved into the land like something that doesn’t belong but refuses to leave. Felix approaches without hesitation. Two rogues step forward as he nears the camp’s edge, their eyes narrowing.
“I’m here to see Damon,” Felix says calmly.
One of them sneers. “You don’t justseeDamon.”
Felix smiles slightly.
“I do.”
The confidence in his tone is enough. They hesitate. Then step aside. Inside, the air feels heavier. Charged. Predatory.
Damon Rourke sits at the center of it all, leaning back in a rough wooden chair like he owns not just the camp—but everything around it. He looks up as Felix approaches. Slow.
Deliberate. Interested.
“Well,” Damon drawls. “If it isn’t Redwood’s favorite little informant.”
