The sun hung low and merciless over the Sub-Military compound, turning the dusty training ground into a furnace. Sweat already blistered on the brows of fresh recruits lined in uneven rows. Their uniforms stiff and new, their pasture slouched with nerves. Derick Wofeblood stood at the front like a storm contained in flesh, eyes sharp, his expression unreadable. To them, he was only a commander, a man of impossible strength and terrifying authority. He didn't have to speak for silence to fall. Six-foot-six, shoulders broad as a wall, his presence carried like a storm. Gray eyes cut through the crowd, cold, assessing, unforgiving. Every recruit stiffened under his gaze. Even the wolves in the group lowered their heads instinctively, recognizing what he was without needing to be told. Alpha.

His voice cracked across the yard like a whip.

“Drop. Give me a hundred!”

The recruits obeyed with fumbling haste, palm slapping dirt, bodies lowering into shaky push-ups. A groan rippled through the ranks as soft arms trembled under the weight of their own bodies.

Pitiful, Derick thought, pacing between them like a predator stalking its prey.

A voice brushed the edge of his mind, calm and dry. Troy (mind link): “You're going to break them before they even begin, brother.”

“If they don't break now, we'll never know their strength.” Derick replied with a chuckle.

Troy, his Beta and oldest friend, trailed at his side, smirking. “They look terrified already. And you just opened your mouth.”

“They should be,” Derick replied flatly. His voice was deep, steady, carrying the weight of command. “If half of them can't hold a rifle properly, they'll be dead in a month.”

“You're here to train them, not bury them,” Troy teased, though his eyes flicked with concern.

Derick ignored him. His thoughts were elsewhere; north, in the forests where Phillip's unit had vanished. His brother. His rightful Alpha. His blood. Gone without a trace.

That was the only reason he had taken this cursed position. Training humans was beneath him; they were fragile, unprepared, blind to the dangers clawing at the edges of their world. But as Lead Training Officer, he had access, restricted reports, surveillance feeds, and whispers hidden in the Sub-Military archives. Somewhere in those files lies the truth about what happened to Philip.

Until then, he would play his part.

He crouched beside a human boy who had collapsed face-first into the dirt, too weak to lift himself again. Derick Shadow fell over him. “If you can't hold your own weight, you're already dead.”

The boy whimpered, his arms quaking.

A faint smirk tugged at Troy's mouth, his mind links Derick: “Careful. You sound like your father when you spit venom like that.

Derick's jaw clenched. He didn't reply, only barked, “Up! Push until your arms snap if you have to!”

The recruits groaned in unison, sweat dripping into the dirt. One girl managed barely ten before collapsing.

He stepped up to the recruits, boots crunching in the dirt. “I am Derick Wofeblood,” he announced, voice slicing through the air. “Your Lead Training Officer. Your failures are my failures, and I do not tolerate failure. You will run until your lungs burn, fight until your bones ache, and bleed until you understand the cost of survival. If you can't handle that, leave now.”

No one moved. A few swallowed hard. Male recruit actually whimpered.

Derick's lips curled. Pathetic.

“First drill,” Troy called, tossing a training rifle at a trembling recruit. “Combat stance, ten-count rotations. Move!”

The yard erupted. Recruits scrambled to find a line, rifles clattering as they tried to mimic Troy's example. Boots tripped on uneven grounds. Someone cursed under their breath.

Derick prowled among them like a hunting cat, adjusting elbows, shoving knees into correct position, barking corrections.

“You think you're soldiers?” he snarled at one girl. “You're prey until you prove otherwise.”

A boy tried to smirk. Derick's gaze pinned him. The smirk evaporated.

Troy chuckled softly. “You really do enjoy terrifying them.”

“I don't enjoy it,” Derick muttered. “I need them alive.”

But as he scanned the faces; fearful, sweating, struggling, he couldn't shake the hollow weight pressing at his chest. Training these humans felt like preparing children for a war they couldn't possibly win. And yet…

He had no choice.

Derick ended the session by lining them up again, their bodies trembling, chests heaving. He let the silence hang, heavy as chains.

“You're weak,” he finally said, his voice cutting like ice. “All of you. But weakness can be burned out, hammered into something harder. If you last the week, you'll be stronger… or you'll be gone. Dismiss!”

The recruits staggered away, some clutching sides, others muttering under their breath. A few looked ready to quit already. Derick didn't care. Better they quit now than crumble on the field.

It was late afternoon when the transport bus rumbled into the camp, wheels grinding over gravel. Dust swirled in the hot air as a handful of new arrivals stepped down, each clutching duffels or packs. Among them was Paige Anthony.

Her heart thudded against her ribs as she slung her bag over her shoulder, her legs still stiff from the long ride. The camp loomed around her, chain-link fences crowned with barbed wire, watchtowers like metal vultures, the sharp scent of sweat and dust carried on the wind.

She spotted the training ground first. Rows of recruits still lingered there, panting, bent over in exhaustion, their faces pale and streaked with grime. The sight sent a twist of dread curling through her stomach.

What have I done? She thought. The memory of her brother's smile flashed in her mind, quickly followed by the cold emptiness of his absence. “For you. Philp. I'll survive this for you.” She whispered to herself.

Her steps slowed as her gaze found the man standing at the center of the yard. Even from a distance, his presence was undeniable—tall, broad-shouldered, his stance commanding. His dark eyes scanned the recruits like he was cataloguing weaknesses, ready to cut them down with words or fists. The air around him seemed heavier, darker.

Paige’s throat went dry. She gripped the strap of her bag tighter, willing her shoulders not to slump. Quiet dread pressed at her ribs like a vice, but she swallowed it down. She had come here to find answers, to endure whatever it took. She wouldn’t turn back now.

As she walked past the edge of the yard, Derick’s gaze shifted. His wolf went crazy in his head, turning and growling. He was surprised and confused by his wolf behavior, darting his eyes around to find the cause of the change in his wolf's usual calm demeanor.

Troy sensed his restlessness and whispered in their mind link. “Everything okay?”

Derick didn’t speak. He only turned back to his recruits, voice sharp once more: “Back in line. Again!”

Paige exhaled shakily as she watched the recruits from afar. Quiet dread throbbed in her veins, but beneath it flickered a stubborn flame. She whispered under her breath, meant only for herself, “I can do this.”

The camp swallowed her whole.