Chapter 5 What does she want from him?

Isla

I wrench my eyes away, forcing myself to stare at a knot in the wood of the log beneath me. I can feel his attention like a physical touch, a brand against my skin. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, trapped thing. Why him? Of all the wolves in this academy, why did this instinctive, visceral reaction have to be for the one from the Cursed Pack? The one everyone says to avoid? It feels like a cosmic joke.

A few long, tense seconds pass. The weight of his stare lifts. I dare a glance back. He has turned away, resuming his posture against the post, as if the moment never happened. But it did. I know it did.

"Are you alright?" Liora asks, her voice low.

"Fine," I breathe, the word sounding almost brittle. "Just... tired."

It's not really a lie, but also not the full truth.

Before she can question it further, a shadow falls over us, blocking the distant firelight. I don't need to look up. I recognize the scent instantly… like clean linen and summer rain, a smell I once chased like a lifeline.

"Isla." The voice is gentle, familiar, and laced with a patronizing concern that makes my teeth grind.

I lift my head. Cedric stands there, looking down at me with those perfect blue eyes, his blonde hair glinting in the torchlight. He's the picture of a warrior trainee… strong, handsome, with an easy smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes tonight. He glances at my bound shoulder, then at the way my leg is stretched out stiffly. His brow furrows with what looks like sympathy, but feels like judgment.

"Cedric," I say, my own voice flat. I don't bother to hide the exhaustion or the irritation.

"I heard you made it through," he says, taking a step closer. He gestures vaguely toward the main board. "Provisional, of course." He says the word like it's a dirty little secret. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine," I repeat, this time with a little more force.

He crouches down beside me, bringing himself to my level. The gesture is meant to be kind, I know, but it feels condescending, like I'm a pup that's scraped its knee. He reaches out as if to touch my shoulder, then thinks better of it, letting his hand drop to his own knee. "You pushed yourself hard, Isla. Too hard. The trials... this academy… it is not for everyone."

Liora shifts beside me, a silent, coiled presence. I can feel her eyes on us, sharp and assessing.

"I passed," I say, the words clipped.

"You're 'provisional'," he counters, putting air quotes around the word with his fingers. "That's not the same. They're just giving you a chance to save face. To walk away before you get yourself really hurt. Your shoulder..." He glances at it again. "The healers said it was a clean break. It could have been much worse. And your leg... you were limping badly by the end."

Every word is a small, sharp needle, pricking at the thin skin of my hard-won victory. He's not being cruel. He's being Cedric. Practical. Logical. And utterly blind to the fire that's burning in my chest.

"I'm fine," I say for the third time, my jaw tight. "I can handle it."

"Can you?" His voice softens, taking on that gentle, placating tone that used to make my heart flutter and now just makes me want to snarl. "Isla, think about this. This isn't about pride. It's about survival. Your father is a General. Your name already carries weight. You don't need to prove anything to anyone."

"I'm not trying to prove anything to anyone," I lie.

"Then why are you here?" he presses, leaning a little closer. The scent of him, once so comforting, is cloying. "There are other paths. Healing, like Iliana. Teaching. You're smart, you have a way with words. You could have a good life, a safe life. A mate, a family. You don't have to do this."

"She wants to," Liora cuts in, her voice cool and even. "She's earned her place same as you."

Cedric finally acknowledges her with a brief, dismissive glance. "It's not about earning," he says, his attention snapping back to me. "It's about suitability. Some wolves aren't made for the battlefield. There's no shame in that."

The condescension in his tone is so thick I could choke on it. He sees my limp, my size, the fact that I'm a woman in a world that prizes brute strength above all else, and he sees weakness. He sees a problem to be managed, a liability to be protected. He doesn't see the fire that has been banked in my soul for years, waiting for a chance to burn.

"I think you should leave," I say, my voice low and dangerous. The words are for Cedric, but my eyes drift past him, across the dark expanse of the grounds. My gaze finds him again. Caelen Fennec. He hasn't moved, but I can feel the weight of his attention like a physical presence.

Cedric sighs, a long-suffering sound that makes my hands clench into fists on my lap. "I'm only trying to help, Isla. You were always so headstrong, even as a pup, so determined to prove yourself. You'd run off into the woods after Ian, and I'd have to come find you, pulling you out of scrapes you were too small to handle. This is just a bigger, more dangerous version of the same thing. I'm trying to pull you out of a scrape."

"I don't need you to pull me out of anything," I snap, the memory of his ‘rescues’ souring on my tongue. They were never rescues. They were interventions, cuttings short of my clumsy attempts to keep up with the bigger pups, to prove I wasn't just the little girl with the limp. "I'm not a child anymore, Cedric."

His expression softens into one of those placating smiles that now makes me want to hit him. "I know you're not. But you're still my friend. And I care about you." He stands up, brushing off his trousers. The motion is casual, but it's a dismissal. "Just think about what I said. The provisional status is an out. A graceful one. Take it."

With that, he turns and walks away, his stride confident and unhindered, disappearing back toward the bright lights and loud laughter of the second-years.

I watch him go, the rage in my chest a cold, heavy stone. He doesn't see me. He sees a memory, a responsibility… a little girl who needs protection.

Liora waits until he's out of earshot before she speaks. Her tone is light, curious, but I hear the sharp edge of assessment beneath it. "Well. He seems… caring."

I let out a short, bitter laugh. "Caring," I repeat, the word tasting like ash. "He's a caretaker. There's a difference."

She shifts on the log, turning to face me fully. The torchlight glints in her moss-green eyes. "Is he your boyfriend?"

The question hangs in the cool night air, simple and direct. A part of me wants to laugh it off, to make a joke. But the raw honesty of the trials, of this entire day, has stripped me of my usual defenses.

"I used to hope he would be," I admit, the confession feeling heavy and strange on my tongue. "Back home, everyone expected it. The General's daughter and the future star warrior. It made sense on paper." I stare at my hands, curled into fists in my lap. "But I'm no longer sure what I want from him… if I want anything."

Liora is quiet for a moment, letting the words settle. She doesn't offer platitudes or empty reassurances. She just nods, a slow, thoughtful gesture. "Things making sense is overrated," she says, her voice low and sure. "The real world is written in blood and bone, not ink."

I look up at her, a flicker of genuine gratitude warming the cold places inside me. She gets it. She doesn't see a little girl with a limp. She sees a provisional warrior, a fellow survivor.

A new wave of noise erupts from the second-year cabins, a chorus of whoops and jeers. My head snaps in that direction. Through the shifting crowd of boisterous bodies, I see a flash of familiar, broad shoulders and a shock of dark hair. A group is gathering, a circle forming in the dirt clearing. My brother, Ian, is there, his chest puffed out, his arrogant grin visible even from this distance. And beside him, just as quiet and still as before, is Caelen Fennec.

They're facing off against another pair. Ian is bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager and boastful. Caelen is simply… waiting. His posture is loose, almost lazy, but every line of his body is coiled, a serpent ready to strike. The air around them crackles with a different kind of energy than the celebratory buzz from earlier. This is predatory.