Chapter 7: A Small Victory

—leaving only the faint rustle of leaves in its wake. Elara stood frozen, her staff raised, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. The wild scent lingered in the air, sharp and untamed, a reminder of the danger that had been watching her. A rogue, she was sure of it now. Her wolf growled low in her chest, urging her to chase after it, to fight, but her feet wouldn't move. She wasn't ready—not yet.

Eldric emerged from the trees a moment later, his expression grim. "It's gone," he said, his voice low. "But it was close—too close." He glanced at Elara, his sharp eyes taking in her tense stance, the way her hands gripped her staff. "You okay, girl?" Elara nodded, though her hands were still shaking. "Yeah," she said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. "I'm fine." But she wasn't fine—not really. The rogue's presence, combined with Isabella's taunts and Darius's confusing behavior, left her feeling more on edge than ever.

Eldric didn't push her, just nodded and motioned for her to follow him back to the clearing. "We'll keep training," he said. "You need to be ready for whatever's out there." Elara swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling in her chest. She'd come here to prove herself, but the stakes were higher now. Rogues weren't just a story—they were real, and they were close. She couldn't afford to be weak, not anymore.

The next few days were a blur of training, Elara pushing herself harder than ever. She barely slept, her dreams haunted by glowing eyes and wild scents, her pendant pulsing with warmth every time she woke. She didn't tell Eldric about the dreams—she wasn't sure what they meant, and she didn't want to sound crazy—but she could feel something changing inside her. Her wolf was waking up, its instincts sharper, its presence stronger. She could sense things now, little things—like the shift in Eldric's weight before he struck, the way the wind carried a scent before she saw its source. It made her better, faster, and she could see the surprise in Eldric's eyes every time she blocked a strike she shouldn't have seen coming.

That morning, the clearing was fuller than usual. More Nightclaw wolves had shown up to watch, their curiosity outweighing their skepticism. Elara felt their eyes on her as she faced off with Eldric, her staff steady in her hands. She was tired—her muscles ached, her body screaming for a break—but she didn't let it show. She couldn't. Not with Isabella standing at the edge of the crowd, her arms crossed, her sharp eyes waiting for Elara to fail.

Eldric didn't hold back. He swung his staff in a wide arc, aiming for her side, and Elara dodged, her movements smoother than they'd ever been. She countered with a strike of her own, aiming for his shoulder, but he blocked it, his staff cracking against hers. They went back and forth, the rhythm of their strikes echoing through the clearing, the crowd growing quieter as they watched. Elara could feel her wolf guiding her, its instincts sharp and clear, and for the first time, she felt like she knew what she was doing.

Eldric lunged, his staff coming down hard, but Elara saw it coming. She sidestepped, her staff swinging low, catching him off guard. The tip of her staff hooked his, and with a quick twist, she yanked it from his hands, sending it flying to the ground. Eldric stumbled, his eyes wide with surprise, and the clearing went silent for a heartbeat. Then the Nightclaw wolves erupted, some of them cheering, others muttering in disbelief. Elara stood there, her chest heaving, her staff still raised, hardly believing what she'd just done. She'd disarmed Eldric—Eldric, the grizzled ex-warrior who'd fought in more battles than she could count.

Eldric straightened, a rare grin spreading across his face. "Well, damn," he said, brushing the dirt off his hands. "You got me, girl." Elara lowered her staff, a shaky smile breaking through her exhaustion. Her whole body was trembling, but it wasn't just from the effort—it was pride, pure and bright, lighting up her chest. She'd done it. She'd actually done it.

The Nightclaw wolves were still buzzing, their reactions a mix of surprise and grudging respect. "She's not half bad," a female wolf said, her voice carrying over the crowd. "Didn't think she had it in her," another added, a male with a scar on his jaw. But not everyone was impressed. A few wolves scoffed, their arms crossed, their whispers sharp. "One lucky move doesn't make her a warrior," one of them muttered. "She's still a rejected omega."

Elara tried to ignore them, focusing on the ones who'd cheered, but then she saw a quiet figure step forward from the crowd. A Nightclaw wolf, tall and lean, with short brown hair and kind eyes. Taryn. She'd seen him around the fortress, always keeping to himself, never joining in the mocking. He met her gaze and gave her a small, respectful nod, a silent acknowledgment that made her heart lift. It wasn't much, but it felt like everything—a sign that maybe, just maybe, she was starting to belong.

Darius watched from the edge of the clearing, his storm-gray eyes locked on Elara. She was flushed from her win, her cheeks pink, her dark hair sticking to her sweaty forehead, and she'd never looked more beautiful. The mate bond hummed in his chest, a golden heat that made his wolf growl, urging him to cross the field, to pull her into his arms and claim her right there. He felt a flicker of pride, sharp and unexpected, at the way she'd disarmed Eldric, the way she'd stood tall despite the whispers. She was stronger than he'd thought, fiercer than he'd given her credit for. But he couldn't let himself feel it—not fully. He masked the pride with a neutral expression, his jaw tight, and turned away, his hands clenched into fists.

Elara caught his gaze just before he turned, and her heart skipped a beat. He was staring at her, his eyes intense, and for a moment, she thought she saw something in them—pride, maybe, or something softer. She imagined him crossing the field, his strong arms wrapping around her, pulling her close until she could feel his heartbeat against hers. She pictured his lips on hers, warm and firm, kissing her like she was the only thing that mattered. Her cheeks flushed hotter, her body warming at the thought, but then he turned away, his broad shoulders stiff, and the fantasy shattered. The distance between them felt wider than ever, and it left a hollow ache in her chest.

She shook her head, trying to push the thought of him away, and turned back to Taryn, who was still standing nearby. "Thanks," she said, her voice soft but genuine. Taryn shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You earned it," he said. "Not many can take Eldric by surprise." Elara laughed, the sound light and real, and for the first time since she'd arrived at Nightclaw, she felt like she might have a friend.

But not everyone was happy about her win. Isabella stood at the edge of the crowd, her arms crossed, her sharp eyes burning with jealousy. She'd seen the way the other wolves had cheered, the way Taryn had nodded at Elara, and it made her blood boil. Elara was supposed to fail, supposed to run back to Silverfang with her tail between her legs. But here she was, winning fights, winning allies, and Isabella hated her for it. She leaned in close to a group of wolves, her voice a low whisper, her words sharp with venom. "She's still a weakling," she hissed. "One little win doesn't change that. She'll never be one of us."

Elara didn't hear her, too caught up in her moment of victory. She laughed again as Taryn said something about Eldric's shocked face, her smile bright despite the ache in her muscles. But then she felt it—a gaze so intense it burned hotter than the sun. She glanced over, her heart sinking as she saw Isabella's glare, her jealousy clear as day. Isabella's lips moved, whispering something to the wolves around her, and as Elara laughed with Taryn, she heard her—