"Now that you are all in your groups," Warrior Nickolas calls out, his voice booming across the arena, "you’ll be sent to your designated areas. Once there, you’ll be paired at random to spar one-on-one, two-on-one, and wolf-to-human. Listen carefully—this will move fast. You will be ranked on various aspects, but most importantly, your ability to avoid being submitted by your opponent. Once we rank you, we’ll combine the groups, spar again, and make the first round of cuts before moving into the gauntlet. Let’s move."

A hand shoots up from the crowd in the 20-30-year-old group.

“When do we break for meals?” a high-pitched male voice asks.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

“You won’t,” Warrior Nickolas snaps without missing a beat. “This is not leisure training. You are fighting for your life. If you aren’t prepared for that, the gate to the spectators is over there.” He gestures toward the stands, not bothering to look back to see if the guy stays or leaves.

A low murmur spreads through the groups, the weight of what we’re about to do settling over everyone.

This is exactly what I expected. There are no breaks in real battle—and certainly none for future Elite Warriors. Nickolas wasn’t kidding when he said packs send people here unprepared.

We file off to our respective designated areas. The air is charged with excitement and tension, the crowd roaring behind us. I glance toward the Alpha’s box, where the key players sit.

At the top row are Alpha Michael, Luna Ava, the Alpha King, and Luna Queen Anne. Two soldiers are stationed behind the Alpha King. Below them are my pack’s ranked members along with some of the Alpha King’s warriors. And in the front row—loud and proud—sit my guys. Ryan, Devin, Leo, Ethan, Aaron, and Kylie, all clapping and cheering.

Devin’s obnoxious whistle cuts through the noise, making me grin despite myself.

And of course, Stacey managed to wedge herself right in front of the twins. She’s perched just below the three-foot wall separating them, making it look like she’s sitting with them.

I roll my eyes and force my attention back to the task at hand. I didn’t come here to watch Stacey play her little games.

Two Elite Warriors bark instructions and start pairing us off. My first opponent is a guy built like Ethan—tall, solid muscle, and clearly used to being the biggest person in the room.

“Hey, I’m Jake,” he says with a friendly smile, like we’re at a barbecue instead of about to beat each other senseless.

I give him a curt nod. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to test myself.

A horn blares, and the sparring begins.

The world blurs into a flurry of fists, kicks, and bodies slamming to the ground. There’s no shouting—just grunts, heavy breaths, and the occasional muffled groan.

Jake comes at me with power, but he’s slow. I duck his punches, dodging each swing with ease, until he charges, trying to tackle me. Using his own momentum against him, I flip him over my shoulder and slam him into the dirt.

I barely have time to register the win before a warrior taps my shoulder and sends me to a new opponent. The pattern repeats—fight, tap, switch. Over and over.

I lose track of how many people I’ve fought. All I know is that with each round, fewer competitors remain on the field. My muscles scream in protest, my throat dry and raw, but I push through it. I have to.

Just as the exhaustion threatens to pull me under, someone tosses a small canvas bag toward me. It lands at my feet with a dull thud.

Inside, I find a bright yellow shirt, food rations, a bottle of water, and a small first-aid kit. The shirt confuses me for a moment, but then Nickolas’s voice echoes over the arena.

“Find your color’s corner and follow instructions while you refuel.”

I throw on the yellow shirt and head toward the section marked with a yellow flag. Three others join me—a battered guy with blood dripping from his eyebrow, a towering guy built like Wyatt, and a sharp-eyed girl who looks ready to throw down again. She was one of my last opponents and nearly had me.

The injured guy stumbles over, looking like he’s been through a blender. His nose is clearly broken, his lip split wide open.

"Let me reset that for you," I say, gesturing to his nose. He grimaces but nods.

"I'm Jeff," he mumbles through swollen lips.

I glance at the others as I work on his nose. "I'm Selene. What’s everyone got in their bags?"

The sharp-eyed girl dumps hers out, revealing a card that reads, Capture the Flag.

A grin spreads across my face. Now this is my kind of game.

Wyatt—the big guy—raises a brow. "You look way too happy about this."

"Capture the Flag is my favorite," I admit. “The best part? It’s a team effort.”

I assess the group. Wyatt is big and strong, Jeff’s battered but still standing, and the girl—Lilian—has sharp instincts.

Wyatt squints at the obstacle course ahead. "I see the yellow flag. It’s at the top of the rope climb—but they’ve taken the ropes down."

"Of course they did," Lilian mutters.

I nod. “We’ll have to scale the cargo net to reach it. Wyatt, you and Jeff stay on the ground and clear a path. Lilian and I will grab the flag.”

Wyatt cracks his knuckles. "Got it."

When the horn blows, we take off. Lilian leads the way, moving with surprising stealth for someone so fierce. We stay low, navigating the debris-strewn arena like we’re in a live-action war zone.

We reach the cargo net, and I signal Lilian to start climbing. I follow close behind. The net sways wildly under our weight, but we keep going.

Halfway up, a group of six bursts from the shadows below. Wyatt and Jeff engage them without hesitation.

"Keep going!" I shout to Lilian, pushing her forward.

We reach the top and scramble onto the narrow beam. Lilian shoots me a wicked grin. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

"Yep." I take a running leap across the gap and land on the rope climb’s frame.

Lilian laughs as she watches me grab the flag. “That’s all you, girl. I’ll catch you on the way back.”

I stuff the flag into my sports bra, making a show of securing my empty backpack to throw off anyone watching.

We race back down the net, meeting Wyatt and Jeff at the bottom just as they finish off the last of the attackers.

“Let’s move!” I call, leading the charge back toward our side of the arena.

Wyatt grunts as another competitor barrels toward Lilian. I intercept him, taking the brunt of the hit and tumbling head-over-heels.

The guy snatches our backpacks and sprints away, whooping in victory.

“Let him go,” I tell Lilian when she starts after him. “We’ve got what we need.”

She glares at me, confused, but Jeff catches on and wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Trust her.”

We jog back to our corner with seconds to spare. The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the round.

Warrior Nickolas strides over to the group holding our stolen bags. The leader dumps both onto the ground—only to find no flag.

Nickolas smirks, his gaze flicking to me.

Grinning, I pull the yellow flag from my sports bra and wave it in the air.

The crowd erupts into cheers, shaking the arena. My teammates swarm me, laughing and whooping. Even Lilian—despite being annoyed I didn’t tell her—grins.

As the noise swells around us, I glance toward the front row of the Alpha’s box.

And there they are—my guys—cheering louder than anyone else.

And for the first time in a long while, I feel truly invincible.