Chapter 2

…10 hours earlier…

The training grounds are alive with anticipation, the air thrumming with energy as Alina faces off against the warriors of House Xalveria. They are the best—handpicked by her father himself. Highly skilled. Highly ranked. Ruthless. They all share the same traits of the House Xalveria. Platinum white hair, and melanated skin, their eyes blue and silver, staring back at Alina. They are dressed in platinum and black combat attire, bearing the crest of House Xalveria. Their battle gear tailored to perfection, deadly silver swords in hand. Even without armour, they are a sight to behold—formidable, terrifying.

But none of them compare to her.

Even unarmed, Alina stands as the most dangerous presence among them.

She is the weapon.

She wears sleek black and grey training attire. A black catsuit embroidered with platinum. Her long hair is flowing all the way down to her back, shimmering underneath the morning sun like clear frost. Her silver eyes fixed with surgical coldness on the warriors before her. She remains still, calm, every breath measured and slow as she analyses them. The warriors circle her, and soon, her gaze locks on her first target.

He steps forward, expression guarded. He tries to mask his apprehension, but it shows—subtle, yes, but she sees it. They all do. The others form a loose circle around the combatants, blades ready, eyes trained on her with a mix of readiness and something else: dread.

They’re afraid of her.

As they should be.

Unfortunately, they’re forced to train with the one material that could bring real harm—silver. In this day and age, humans know of their existence, and Hunters remain the greatest threat to Lycan survival. Training against silver is a necessity, even against each other.

Hunters aren’t the only problem. There are the Rogues too—Werewolves who refuse to recognise the authority of the noble bloodlines. The Kingdom of Lycania may be unified, but it is never at peace. There is always a threat—external or within.

Lycans may be more powerful than ordinary Wolves, but silver still brings great harm and will slow down any Lycan. And so, they must know how to fight it. To endure it.

The only thing capable of killing a Lycan is Rezionite—a rare mineral, often forged into weapons. It is so scarce, only the royal families of Lycania are said to possess it.

The duel begins in a flash of silver.

Her opponent moves quickly, his blade slicing through the air with precision. But she is faster.

Another reality of training—swords. They don’t often shift into wolf form during combat. Lycans don’t need to. Their human forms are already superior. And Alina, above all, does not require fangs to dominate.

She sidesteps with grace, letting the blade pass within inches of her skin. The tension in her opponent snaps—he falters. Just slightly. It’s enough.

With a sharp pivot, she knocks the sword from his grip, sending it flying across the field. It lands with a hard clang, skidding to a stop well out of reach.

She doesn’t speak.

She simply turns, eyes cutting toward the next warrior.

He steps forward. Then another.

They come at her in quick succession, blades gleaming, strikes relentless. But Alina does not falter. She does not yield. Each attack she evades. Each opening, she punishes. Her body moves with deadly intent, a blend of honed technique and pure predatory instinct.

The air around her changes.

A chill begins to form. Subtle, but sharp. It radiates outward from her body as she senses them regrouping—seven of them now. Preparing to strike her at once.

Foolish.

She takes a slow, deep breath. Focuses.

Then she releases it.

A surge of ice-laced wind explodes from her, howling outward in every direction. The ground beneath her feet freezes instantly—shimmering frost cracking across the training yard in a wide, dangerous radius.

The temperature drops sharply.

Gasps sound around the circle as footing fails and blades slip from numbed fingers. The warriors stumble, wide-eyed and shivering, as the ice lashes their skin.

She moves her arms outward.

The wind intensifies, spiralling from her in violent arcs. The warriors are tossed backwards, flung several meters into the air. Their weapons scatter across the frozen ground. They groan in pain, slipping and sprawling like prey under the gaze of a predator.

She stands alone at the centre.

Unmoving.

Unbothered.

Emotionless.

Cold.

The icy storm dissipates, her breath curling visibly in the now-frigid air. Her pulse doesn’t quicken. Her expression doesn’t change. She merely surveys the field of downed warriors like a queen examining pawns.

None of them dares to approach.

She should feel triumphant. But the exhilaration is already fading, replaced by the familiar, low hum of tension in her chest.

And then—

“Enough!”

The voice cuts through the still air—cold, commanding, unmistakable.

Lord Alinos Xalveria steps into view.

His platinum and black robes whip in the icy breeze as he strides forward, his expression harder than the frozen earth beneath him. His aura demands silence. Respect. Fear.

He is her father.

She watches him approach, unflinching. His silver eyes meet hers with unmistakable fury.

“That display was reckless,” he snaps, his voice a razor’s edge. “You were showboating. Your exercise today was defence, not offence.”

She faces her father, her expression seemingly blank as she stares back at him.

“I disarmed all of them without so much as a scratch,” she replies coolly, as if her father is merely overreacting.

Her tone is devoid of warmth. There is no humility, no submission. Only fact. This is their constant rhythm—clashing, always clashing.

Her relationship with her father has never been simple. He made her train relentlessly. Moulded her into a weapon. And now he resents the sharpness of the blade.

“You disarmed them because they let you,” he retorts sharply. “Do you think Hunters will hesitate? Do you think they’ll give you room to dodge and dance? You need to be better than this, Alina. Smarter.”

Her wolf stirs beneath the surface, goaded by the challenge. But still, she remains calm. It's the only way for her to truly suppress her abilities.

She holds his gaze. Cold. Defiant.

“Smarter?” she echoes, her voice steady as she faces him. “Was it not smart to read their movements? To exploit their weaknesses?”

“It was reckless to rely on speed alone,” he says. “One mistake, one miscalculation, and you’d be bleeding out on this field. Silver doesn’t care how fast you are. Just because it can't kill you doesn't mean you need to make stupid decisions in battle.”

Her eyes narrow, her anger suddenly spiking. She needs to keep it together. But unfortunately, it might already be too late.

The temperature shifts again, not from the air.

From her.