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“Argh!”

My younger brother took a running start and jumped desperately toward me.

The moment I spotted the recklessness in his face, I knew he wouldn’t make it.

I held the long stick horizontally in front of me, and he slammed his shoulder into it.

The stick didn’t even make a sound.

“Damn thing!” he snarled, clutching his shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed, and his nose wrinkled, while he pressed his lips together.

A few winter birds chirped as they flew out of the treetops surrounding our sprawling property.

“Weakling,” I laughed. “Try again.”

Even though he still had a lot to learn, he wasn't like many others in the pack who either gave up easily or never managed to overcome a certain hurdle because they didn't want to be better than the Alpha or were afraid of the Betas.

Next to us, the other men were training together, also in their human form. And the fact that they were preparing for the games didn't make it any better.

The cool winter wind didn't bother anyone, which was why some of them weren't wearing T-shirts.

I tried not to get lost in my thoughts. A place I was currently trying to escape from by forcing myself to train or study for the upcoming semester. But this time I failed.

Everyone knew that only a few, perhaps none of those present, could take on Mica. Only one person came painfully to my mind, but he was gone. Had disappeared without even saying goodbye.

I had managed to focus on training during the last few weeks of winter, had improved, and had even received an email offering me an internship at the law firm in Blairville, while the world around me seemed to be falling apart.

My father had given the Quatura a warning, and when an Alpha did that, it meant trouble. He hadn't been pleased to see Julian with the others. Quatura, Ruisangors, all in one place, where a member of the pack had been murdered.

The memory of the funeral ceremony two weeks ago still burned on my mind.

It was an Esadowa tradition that took place on the west coast, at Noya Beach.

There hadn’t been a boat made of reeds, like when tribal members used to painstakingly handcraft these one-of-a-kind pieces back when the tribe had still been in Blairville, but Nash, Noah, Hunter, Cody, and two of my father's men had launched a fine wooden boat into the ocean, carrying the body of Graham, a member of our pack, covered in white Pacific dogwood flowers.

As tradition dictated, a burning arrow had been shot. The boat had glided out into the fog-shrouded sea, and in the middle of the snowfall, it had burst into flames.

I had already experienced several of these funerals, but this time it had been Graham, Julian's father. A man I had known and respected.

Julian hadn't been seen since.

And that had hit hard, especially for Mia.

Training with Alarik had become more rigorous. We even went hunting together now. And when I wasn't roaming the woods with my uncle, gutting and skinning what we’d caught, or showing Tania the snow-covered mountain ridges of The Peaks and listening to Russian legends and stories about her family's pack while walking through the forest in human form, I was here on the muddy meadow training with my impatient baby brother.

I felt honored to have been chosen for this task. All the more disappointing was the fact that Alarik had had to push for it.

I appreciate my uncle’s efforts, but I hated being dependent on his influence on Father.

I held the stick high and tried not to let the turmoil in my mind show.

“What are you waiting for?”

He just grinned broadly and took a new running start. This time, when he jumped, he landed on the stick with his foot and broke it in half.

I raised both eyebrows and pulled the corners of my mouth down.

Not bad.