Ash's POV
The clearing had always been a good training ground—flat in the middle, ringed with trees for cover, and large enough to hold sparring matches, combat drills, or, in today's case, Forrest's newest brainchild: an obstacle course made entirely from scrap wood, rope, and suspiciously upcycled playground equipment.
But unlike Forrest's usual flair for dramatics, this version was… restrained.
No glitter bombs.
No flying pudding.
No chaotic signage like "Beware of Emotional Trauma: Slippery When Wet."
Just hurdles, walls, nets, and climbing rigs.
Functional. Silent. Devoid of his usual madness.
Ash stood beside Ridge, arms crossed as they surveyed the line of wolves gathered at the edge of the course. Most of them were young—eighteen to twenty-five—pack-born or recently integrated wolves eager to prove themselves. Eyes sharp. Shoulders square. Some were vibrating with nerves.
Ash took a deep breath, projecting his voice.
