Elara POV:
Rain slicks my skin, cold and relentless, turning the packed earth of the training ring dark and heavy beneath my boots.
I welcome it.
The barbell rests across my shoulders, iron biting into muscle already warm from exertion. My grip is firm, wrists straight, posture unyielding. Water runs down my spine, darkening the fabric of my training top, tracing lines over strength earned rather than gifted.
Around me, the pack works. Not casually or lazily.
They train the way my father taught them—deliberate, controlled, no wasted movement. It’s survival honed into discipline.
“Elbows tighter,” I call, my voice carrying easily through the rain. “You’re bleeding strength into your shoulders.”
The wolf I’m correcting adjusts instantly, jaw clenched, breath fogging. I nod once in app
