Liora had learned early that bodies were political.
No one ever explained it outright. That would have been too easy and too obvious.
You learned it the first time someone's gaze lingered too long, measuring. The first time your shape was discussed as if you weren't standing there. The first time you understood that some bodies were allowed to exist loudly, while others were expected to apologize simply by being seen. Or rather, for simply being.
Too thin meant fragile.
Too broad meant dangerous.
Too soft meant lazy.
Too much meant wrong.
Liora existed in the margins of all of it.
She slept heavier than usual that night, dropping fast and deep into darkness. When she woke before dawn, her body felt dense, weighted, as if something inside her had settled closer to the surface while she slept.
The moon hung low and thin outside the window, its light barely strong enough to matter. It continued it's path to disappearance.
She lay still, taking inventory. Hands just below her ribs.
Not pain.
Not hunger.
Something like stored momentum.
Nyx stirred faintly, a quiet awareness brushing against her thoughts. Not concern. Not warning. Just presence, steady and watchful.
Always watchful.
Guarding...
By the time she dressed and joined Jonas and Marta at the small kitchen table, the heaviness had compacted into something she could carry. Marta slid a bowl toward her without comment. Jonas read the local bulletin on his tablet. Ordinary things. Anchors.
Training began at six am sharp.
The pack yard was still half-shadowed, the air sharp with cold and pine. Wolves moved through familiar patterns without chatter, bodies aligning into purpose as soon as the first signal sounded.
Endurance runs traced the perimeter of the forest, timed and silent, weighted vests pulling at shoulders and lungs. Their way of a warm up that also tested their compliance.
After that came agility work: narrow balance beams raised off the ground, slanted ramps slick with morning frost, low barriers that required crawling and quick recovery. Missteps earned correction, not punishment. Efficiency mattered more than force.
Partner drills followed. Reflex testing. Defensive redirection. Controlled takedowns designed to end a fight without escalation. Dominance was watched closely here. Any wolf who let it slip earned immediate removal from the ring.
Commands stayed clipped and functional. There was no reason for more, as more was always wrong.
"Pace."
"Hold."
"Switch."
"Again."
Liora followed without comment. Her body responded quickly, maybe too quickly, recovery time shortening between exertions. She focused on keeping her breathing even, her movements precise, her expression neutral.
By eight, training broke out.
By nine, she was seated in the school wing of the main building, also known as the pack house, with the other seniors, tablet open, posture composed.
Classes came in a reapeting cycle. Repetion as ritual.
Mondays were for Werewolve Physiology and Pack Psychology. Tuesdays were for Inter-Species Studies and Secrecy. Wednesdays were for Applied Pack Law and Ethics. Thursdays were for Pre-Shift Seminar and Conflict History. Fridays were for Combat Theory and Fieldcraft.
Advanced Werewolf Physiology first. Hormonal cycles. Pre-shift indicators. Variations between ranks. Liora listened carefully, flagging terms that felt uncomfortably familiar.
Ethics of Power and Dominance. Case studies. Historical failures. The thin line between authority and abuse. The discussions sometimes grew tenser. Liora didn't speak, just listened and took notes (mental notes mainly).
Inter-Species Relations. Treaties. Conflicts. The uneasy balance between wolves, cats, vampires, fae, and witches. Extinct shifter lines were discussed as cautionary tales. She took notes anyway.
By the time the first real break came, her head ached with information she wasn't sure she was supposed to internalize so deeply.
Lunch came late, as usually did, close to the end of the school day. The cafeteria buzzed with restless energy, conversation louder now that focus had worn thin.
Liora entered with her tray and movedto her table keeping close to the wall.
Edges were predictable. Edges gave the advance of seeing the whole and not calling attention to oneself.
Her steps were careful, economical. Shoulders angled inward. Elbows tucked. She knew exactly how much room she was permitted to occupy and adjusted herself to fit it.
"Careful," someone murmured as she passed.
She was.
Still, a shoulder clipped hers. Not enough to hurt. Enough to test.
The tray tipped.
For a breathless instant, everything narrowed.
Her body reacted before thought caught up. Weight dropped into her hips, knees bending to absorb the shift. Her center held. The tray steadied as if nothing had happened.
No spill.
No clatter.
She set it down and felt the room bend toward her.
Conversation didn't stop. It dipped.
"That was quick," someone said.
A second voice followed, surprised. "Didn't think she moved like that."
Liora kept her gaze on her food as she sat.
They saw softness and assumed slowness. Mistook curves for excess, weight for inefficiency. They never accounted for balance. For leverage. For the way strength lived differently in bodies not built to look impressive. To lool like they expected them to.
Her thighs anchored her.
Her hips steadied her.
Her belly grounded her when she breathed.
Her breasts balanced out her bottom, helping her center of gravity to be balanced.
She ate slowly, aware of every shift of her weight, every faint creak of the bench beneath her. Some gazes flicked away, embarrassed. Others lingered too long.
Then she felt it.
That same gaze from the training yard the other day.
She glanced up.
Cassian Thorne was sitting near one of the support pillars, posture controlled, expression carefully neutral. He wasn't staring. That would have been improper. His attention moved deliberately, noting the steadiness of her hands, the ease of her balance, before returning his attention to his group and his food.
Something tightened low beneath her ribs.
Not pain.
Pressure.
She looked away first.
When the bell rang, chairs scraped softly against the floor. Liora rose with the others, slid her tray into the return rack, and merged into the current of bodies heading out, pace even, gaze forward.
Almost out of there.
Enforcer Crowe stepped into her path.
He didn't touch her. His presence was enough, settling into the space with practiced authority.
"You're changing," he said.
Her stomach clenched. "I'm following the same routine."
Crowe's gaze sharpened. "Your body responds faster than expected."
"I work hard."
"That isn't what concerns me."
The words landed with quiet weight.
She kept her expression blank. "I don't know what you mean."
Again it was neither a full affirmation nor was it a full question. Somewhere in between.
For a moment, it seemed he might press. Instead, he stepped aside. "Don't confuse notice with permission."
After school, Liora reported to the pack house kitchen.
Heat and steam replaced the cold discipline of training. She washed her hands, tied on an apron, and fell into familiar motion. Chopping vegetables. Stirring thick broths. Lifting heavy pots without comment. The work rewarded endurance and silence. She learned recipes by repetition, herbs by scent, balance by instinct.
Occasionally, she helped sort dried plants or prepare tonics for those rotating in from night patrols. No one explained their purpose. They never gave out explanations for no reason. But she remembered them anyway.
By the time she was dismissed, the sky had begun to dim.
Back at the Vale house, exhaustion sat heavy in her limbs, deep and unearned, as if her body had spent the day holding something back.
Sleep came in fragments. Almost restless.
Dreams without shape. Motion without form. The sense of muscles working that weren't hers — or were too many at once.
She woke before dawn again.
The moon was nearly gone now, its absence more noticeable than its light had been.
Liora lay still and pressed her palm to her abdomen. Her own little ritual.
Nyx was there. Quiet. Present.
Something else pressed back.
Not a voice.
Not a thought.
A patient certainty, closer than before.
She closed her eyes and waited for it to recede.
It didn't.
------------------------------------------------
Crowe POV
Crowe reviewed the day the way he reviewed everything else.
Patterns. Deviations. Risk.
Liora Vale's file had not changed.
Her body had.
Recovery time shortened. Balance improving. Reaction speed edging past acceptable variance. Still compliant. Still quiet.
Still wrong.
Crowe marked the date and the moon phase in his head and did not like the way the numbers lined up.