In a vast, open field, tucked behind an imposing, military-esque mansion, Thomas, a battle-hardened warrior, surveyed his dominion. The grounds, far less opulent than other properties, spoke of grit and discipline rather than luxury. Lush green grass stretched out, punctuated by patches of dead, trampled earth – silent witnesses to countless grueling training sessions. This was the proving ground for the First Stagers, a raw, unrefined cohort of young wolves Thomas was tasked with forging into formidable warriors. He stood tall, a beacon of unyielding expectation. There was no set timeline for graduation from his class; advancement to the Second Stagers, and the opportunity to attempt the perilous Warrior Exam, hinged solely on a student's demonstrated excellence.
His regular class, a sea of twenty-somethings, stood in disciplined rows, each movement born of rote and routine. They knew the brutal rhythm of each day, what was expected, and what would be demanded of them. Today, however, a new, unwelcome element had been introduced: a small group of five "defectives" were joining their ranks. Thomas's jaw was set, a clear indication of his displeasure. He had no time for distractions, no patience for anything that might impede the progress of his dedicated students.
Yet, protocol dictated he address them. Three of the five defectives hailed from influential families: Jess Dean, daughter of a renowned lineage celebrated for producing Warriors within an unheard-of two years of training; and Trinity Carter, the Beta's daughter, accompanied by her mate, Ryan Hunt. Thomas knew Boris, the Beta, was fiercely protective of Trinity, a fact that settled like a lead weight in his stomach.
"Listen up," Thomas's voice, a gravelly pronouncement, cut through the humid air. He didn't bother to soften his words. "You're here because our Alpha has decided you should be useful to the pack." The unspoken implication hung heavy: this was no honor, but a penance. "My goal is to keep you in one piece, which will require you to stay out of the way," he continued, his tone dry as dust. "If you are able to learn skills here, consider it a win. I will attempt to prepare you for the warrior exam. My goal is to help you survive it."
Trinity scoffed inwardly, a flicker of exasperation crossing her face. She exchanged glances with her two friends, their shared expressions mirroring her own disdain. Was this supposed to inspire them? Thomas's words felt less like a speech and more like a pronouncement of their worthlessness.
"Noah, distribute the uniforms," Thomas commanded, his gaze remaining fixed on the horizon, as if the young man were merely a fleeting shadow. Noah, a Second Stager serving punishment, moved with a barely concealed resentment. Missing a week of training for a house prank was a bitter pill to swallow. With a theatrical sigh, he not-so-gently tossed a uniform to each defective, deliberately giving the girls skimpier versions. The defectives, eager to avoid further ire, sprinted towards the mansion, returning moments later, clad in the drab training gear, to fall into line with the other wolves.
Thomas, unfazed by their brief absence, picked up exactly where he'd left off. "Previously, we've focused on shifting. Continue that in your free time. Moving forward, we're going to focus on our human side. You will need to bring up your tolerance to Silver."
A collective gasp rippled through the ranks, quickly followed by a heavy silence. Ryan felt his heart plummet. Silver tolerance. He knew the agonizing effect silver had on wolves – the searing burns, the corroding flesh. For defectives like himself, it was merely an uncomfortable rash. But for the others… he didn't wish such torment on anyone, even these insufferable wolves.
As if on cue, Noah stalked down the rows, a large bin clutched in his arms. He offered each First Stager a silver dagger. The air thickened with palpable fear, the scent of it almost overwhelming as hearts hammered against ribs. A smirk touched Noah's lips; he remembered this initiation all too well. The fear, the disbelief that such a tolerance could be built. But it wasn't a tolerance to the silver itself, he knew, but rather a tolerance to the pain. Ignore it, fight through it – that was the true lesson.
Thomas waited until every student held a dagger, the silver gleaming ominously in the afternoon sun. "The task is simple," he announced, his voice devoid of emotion. "Hold the silver in your hand for as long as you can. Once you are able to hold it unaffected for an hour, you will be able to spar with the daggers." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Begin."
Hesitation hung in the air, a thick, tangible cloud. Students stared at the daggers, their faces a mixture of dread and grim determination. Then, one by one, they began. The air filled with the sickening sizzle of flesh meeting silver, quickly followed by cries of pain, choked gasps, and the acrid smell of burning skin. Some couldn't bear the contact for more than a second, dropping the daggers with frantic yelps. Thomas watched, unmoving, a statue of stone. He had chosen this task specifically for the defectives' arrival, hoping their innate resistance to silver would spur his First Stagers to push past their limits. A flicker of envy, rare for him, crossed his features as he observed the defectives. He noted Mona, the brazen girl, who casually laid the silver blade on her thigh, stretching out on the grass. A faint rash blossomed around the contact point, but she seemed utterly unbothered. Jess Dean, on the other hand, simply lay back in the grass, making no move to touch the offered weapon.
Ryan, holding his own dagger, surveyed the scene. A flash of empathy softened his gaze as he watched the suffering wolves. His eyes narrowed on Jess Dean; her nonchalance felt almost disrespectful amidst the agony. Then his attention shifted to Trinity. She was struggling, gripping the blade so tightly her entire hand was inflamed, a fiery red as if scalded. Profuse sweat coated her skin, and an almost imperceptible tremor ran through her body. He found it curious how deeply affected she was, despite lacking the ability to shift. A sliver of respect, unbidden, bloomed within him. This was no easy feat for her; she was genuinely suffering, yet she refused to yield.
"Miss Dean!" Thomas's sharp voice cut through the cacophony. Jess, frowning in confusion, rose and walked towards him, her eyebrows raised in question.
"Three laps around the pack," Thomas stated simply.
"What?" Jess stammered, dumbfounded.
"Did I give you a task?" he pressed.
"Yes!" she replied, slowly nodding.
"Failure to participate and comply, and you receive punishment. Three laps."
"I don't even know the path! I didn't know we had to do the task," she protested.
Thomas didn't waste another word. He merely nodded to Noah. Noah, a pleased glint in his eyes, walked towards Jess. "Follow me." He then took off at a startling sprint, leaving Jess staring in shock for a beat before she reluctantly gave chase, hoping these laps weren't as long as they looked.
Thomas moved through the rows of students, a silent, commanding presence. He offered pointers and sharp reprimands where he saw fit. "All five fingers around the blade!" he barked at one trembling girl. "You're making the task harder, poisoning your blood. Don't grip it hard enough to slit your skin. Do you ever plan on touching the silver?" His words, relentless and cutting, spilled from his lips, row after row.
After two hours, only the defectives remained holding their daggers, Trinity struggling through the ordeal in what appeared to be pure agony. Her scent, thick with pain, was more potent than anyone else's, a surprising revelation. The only other wolf close to matching the defectives' endurance was Luca, a student Thomas had previously pegged as unmotivated. Today, however, Luca held the blade with an almost effortless resolve.
At the three-hour mark, Thomas called the session to an end. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the training grounds. "Go and eat. We will meet back here in two hours to continue training. Good job, some of you."
For the first time in months, Thomas knew his report would be anything but generic. It would hold surprises.