A LUNA’S REJECTION

Welcome to Sparta There are rules about rejecting a mate. Unwritten, yes, but they’re pretty clear—respect and dignity demand that mates are never rejected. We’re taught this from day one, especially after the Alpha King’s decree. So when it happens, it takes you completely by surprise. Like it did to me. I hit the mat with a solid *oomph!*, the impact sending sharp pangs of pain across my back from the grueling training. "Come on, Mia," one of the trainers urges, voice firm but encouraging. My opponent is pacing beside me, waiting for me to get up. "Stay down too long, and you're a dead woman." With a deep breath, I spring back to my feet, glaring at the girl who’d just knocked me down. Her grin is cocky, taunting. She spits on the grass. "What else you got, Mia?" Her voice is like acid, aiming to get under my skin. I force myself to calm down. Losing my head would mean losing the fight. I take another breath, then flash her a smile. She charges at me with a wild yell, throwing punches, each one harder than the last. I block as best as I can, but she manages to land one solid blow to my gut, stealing my breath for a second. Instinct kicks in, and I dodge to the side, bringing my knee up hard into her body. "Good job, ladies," our instructor claps slowly, signaling the end of the round. We both stand, still panting. "Let’s call it here. Before you kill each other or wolf out." I turn to my sparring partner. We share a quick smile before fist-bumping, no hard feelings. This is how every day goes—training, pushing ourselves, before heading to hours of leadership classes and counseling. While the men build their muscles, we sharpen our minds. It’s what makes us smarter than the muscle-bound drones. Clara approaches with a water bottle in hand, offering it to me with a grin. "That was great, Mia. You’re getting better." I take a long gulp of the ice-cold water, my throat burning in relief. "Thanks, but I’ve still got a lot to work on." She smirks, "Well, that’s because you're book-smart." I laugh. "Top of the class," I admit. "But not top of the sparring charts." I sigh, rubbing my sore stomach. Clara shakes her head. "Girl, chill. No one's perfect." I smile at her, grateful for her easygoing attitude. Clara and I have been best friends since we were little, always together, always pushing each other. The instructor doesn’t even pair us anymore because we’ve gotten too good at holding back. "Come on, you gotta shower before class," she nudges me. "You’re gonna smell like a wet dog." I roll my eyes but follow her advice, heading toward the changing rooms. The lockers are arranged by rank and experience level, and at the far end are the younger girls. Clara and I are near the advanced section. We’re so close to graduating from this phase of training. Clara undoes her ponytail, letting her blonde curls spill down her shoulders. "God, stop looking so pretty," I tease with a laugh. "What?" She glances over at me, tossing an extra towel my way. "What, this?" She strikes a playful pose, hands moving dramatically over her body. "I know," she says, grinning. "I’m just too hot." I chuckle as a few girls glance our way, clearly noticing Clara’s confidence. She's always had it—she’s pretty, and she knows it. And as much as it used to bother me, I can’t help but admire her for it. She’s always made me feel more comfortable with myself. "Your mate’s gonna love you." I roll my eyes, though a part of me feels the sting of jealousy. Clara’s grin widens, and for a second, her gaze becomes dreamy. We're told to be strong, to hide our vulnerabilities, that power lies in physical might, sharp minds, and unity. But Clara and I? We’re dreamers. We gossip about mates like schoolgirls, imagining who they'll be and what they'll be like. Sometimes, late at night, when the moon is clear, we sit outside, sipping wine, making up stories about our perfect mates. "You know you’re hot too, Mia," Clara teases, her eyes scanning me as I wrap the towel around my body. "I know." I wink back, then add with a grin, "But dammit, Clara, your boobs are just... so much better than mine." A pre-teen girl walks past us on her way to the showers, shaking her head. "At least you have boobs," she says with a mischievous grin. Clara and I burst into laughter. "Just wait for puberty!" I call out after her as she disappears behind the curtain of the showers. I quickly strip and head in to shower before class. Clara joins me in the lecture hall later, and I slide into my seat beside her just as the bell rings. My hair is still damp, and a few of the other girls glance my way as I settle in. Right as the professor enters, a loud whistle blows from outside. All of us glance out the window to see the men heading off into the woods for their run. Meanwhile, we stay inside for strategy and tactics. We learn to lead, to advise, to understand packs—while they’re out there training to fight. Once in a while, someone crosses into another role—a girl with exceptional physical skills might transfer to the warrior class, while a guy with a knack for academics could join us. Other packs call us Sparta—not an official title, but it fits. Our professor clears his throat, drawing our attention back to the board. I lean forward eagerly. Leadership, fighting patterns, pack dynamics—it's all fascinating to me. I might not be the best fighter, but I’ve always excelled in class. I’m aiming to become an advisor. It’s a role that could take me to the Royal Capital or other packs, where I’d get a chance to experience different cultures and ways of thinking. Not all packs are as focused on strength as Sparta. And unlike some wolves, I’m curious about the others. As class wraps up, the professor asks if anyone has questions. Clara raises her hand, as usual. "We're supposed to graduate soon," she says, her voice full of excitement. "What happens if we fail our final? Can we still attend the ceremony?" "You can attend," he replies, "But not as a graduate. Just as a guest." Clara beams. She's been looking forward to the ceremony for months. For her, it’s a chance to show off her skills—and of course, her ridiculous physique. I don’t share her excitement. The ceremony means fighting in front of the whole pack, and to be honest, my skills are far from perfect. There are only a few people I could actually beat in the graduation fights. As we leave class, Clara eyes me. "Are you okay, Mia? You seem a little off." I shrug it off. But the thought of the ceremony keeps nagging at me. We were there last year. Girls go first, fighting in pairs or groups like gladiators, while the Alpha, Beta, and all the top wolves watch. Then the men fight, with an even bigger spectacle. It’s all for show, really—no one’s died in years. Afterward, we all get "branded," a permanent mark on our wrists to signify we’re part of the pack. "You’re going to be fine," Clara reassures me, sensing my unease. "You’ll do great." I try to smile, but it’s half-hearted. I don’t care about the fight. I care about proving myself in other ways. "Thanks, Clara," I say softly. "At least we’ll see Bren and Jake." Bren, now Alpha, and Jake, Beta, were once close to us. We used to study together. Bren always struggled with some of the material, so I’d tutor him. Clara would keep things light, trying to get them to loosen up. "God," Clara says with a roll of her eyes, "I bet Bren’s a total d**k now that he’s Alpha. We barely see him anymore—just his speeches." I chuckle, imagining the shift in him. "He’ll loosen up once he finds his mate." Clara sighs, clearly frustrated. "Well, I hope it’s soon. I can’t take much more conditioning." She glances at me and then says, "I mean, you can take it." I shove her playfully. "Shut up."