Anklet

The evening sun bleeds copper across the training ground, and I'm winning.

Steel rings against steel , sharp, clean, relentless. King Vikram moves well. I'll give him that. His footwork is measured, his blocks precise, every parry carrying the muscle memory of a man who was raised with a sword in his hand. But measured doesn't beat hungry. And tonight, I'm starving.

I press forward. He retreats half a step. Another. My blade cuts high, forces him wide, and the smile on my face isn't something I bother hiding. 'You're running out of room, Your Majesty.' I don't say it out loud. I don't have to.

The distance between his throat and my sword tip closes to inches.

I feel it before I see it , that prickling wrongness at the edge of my senses. My wolf stirs, a low rumble in the back of my skull. Not danger. Worse.

My eyes flick left. Just for a second. One heartbeat.

Isher stands at the edge of the courtyard.

He's not doing anything. That's the thing about him , he never has to. He just stands there in the shadow of the archway, hands clasped behind his back, that faint smile sitting on his mouth like he already knows the ending of every story before it begins. Dark eyes. Unreadable. Watching.

My jaw locks.

That half-second is all Vikram needs.

His wrist rolls. The blade I was about to claim victory with twists suddenly and impossibly, redirecting my momentum, and then cold steel kisses the side of my throat with surgical precision.

I go completely still.

"Match." Vikram's voice carries no heat. Just the quiet, absolute finality of a man who has never once needed to raise it.

The silence stretches. I lower my sword. My knuckles ache from how tight I'm gripping the hilt.

'Don't look at him. Don't you dare look at him.'

I look.

Isher's smile deepens by exactly one degree. Like he's savoring something.

Rage shoots through my veins. I turn back to the king and drop into a bow, military-tight, every muscle in my body wound wire-taut with the effort of not putting my fist through something. The bet was simple , first to yield acknowledges the other's superior skill. I don't use the words. I physically cannot. But the bow says it, and Vikram accepts it with a slight nod, his expression carrying nothing so undignified as satisfaction.

He knows. He knows exactly what made me slip.

"You were exceptional tonight, Kailaf," he says, and the maddening thing is that he means it.

I straighten and drag a breath through my teeth. The training ground's evening air fills my lungs , dust and metal and the faint musk of exertion. I reach for calm. My wolf is pacing, agitated, picking up on every spike of my irritation. 'Easy,' I tell it. 'Not the time.'

Vikram hands his practice sword to an attendant and turns toward the archway where Isher still stands. "Isher. I'm glad the timing worked out."

"Your Majesty." Isher steps onto the stone, unhurried as always. His gaze slides to me and sits there. "General."

"Strategist." The word comes out stripped clean of every inflection.

He inclines his head. That smile doesn't move.

"There's a situation in the Eastern territories." Vikram's tone shifts , this is no longer a man cooling down from a sparring session. This is the king of the Ironmoon Pack and every word is law. "Three border packs have been organizing. Refusing tribute, blocking the trade roads, and from the latest reports, arming their warriors beyond standard defense thresholds. It's moving toward open defiance."

"Then send warriors," I say immediately. "I'll personally lead the unit. We can have this resolved in a week."

"We could." Vikram looks at me. "And in resolving it, we'd create six more problems just like it."

I bite back the response that wants to come out.

"The Eastern packs are territorial, not treasonous," Isher says from beside me, his voice calm and measured and somehow deeply irritating. "They're responding to drought conditions affecting their hunting grounds. Aggressive military intervention will consolidate them against us. Diplomacy and resource negotiation will dissolve the alliance before it fully forms."

"That's a very clean theory," I say, turning to face him. "It also assumes they respond to conversation and not the sight of drawn blades."

"Everything responds to conversation, General. Some things simply respond to it poorly."

"Is that what they're teaching in the advisory halls now? Very impressive."

"Gentlemen." Vikram's voice is quiet. That's how you know it's serious , the quieter he gets, the less room there is to breathe. Both of us close our mouths.

He looks between us. "You both go."

The words land like a thrown blade.

"Your Majesty,"

"This is not a discussion, Kailaf." He says it without looking away from me, and his Alpha authority fills the space between the syllables. Not enough to compel , he's never had to use that with me , but enough to remind me where we both stand. "Brute force without strategy fails. Strategy without enforcement is ignored. The Eastern packs need to feel both at once. You will go together, you will handle this together, and you will come back having resolved it. Together."

Every syllable of that last word is its own separate sentence.

I drag my gaze away from the king and look at the wall. The wall is neutral. The wall has never made a single condescending remark in its life. I appreciate the wall.

'This is a mistake,' my wolf mutters. 'We'd solve it faster alone.'

I know.

"When do we leave?" I ask, because it's the only question left that matters.

"Three days."

I nod once. Sharp. Final. I will not fight what can't be fought.

I grab my discarded jacket from the bench and turn for the exit. Behind me, I hear Vikram say something quiet to Isher, and I hear the low, unhurried rhythm of Isher's reply. Whatever it is, I don't catch it. I don't want to.

What I do hear, at the last possible moment before I'm out of range, is the soft exhale of what might , if you were uncharitable , be called a laugh.

My fist tightens at my side.

Three days.

Three days sharing a road with that man.

I walk faster.