Page 52 of Fat Forced Mate

It can’t last much longer.

My magic has been erratic since yesterday's revelations—since learning the truth about my parents' deaths and my supposed destiny to complete their work. It crackles beneath my skin like static electricity, responding to my anxiety.

I close my eyes, steadying my breathing.

Focus. Center. Control.

Outside my window, Silvercreek is already stirring. Pack members making their way to the Hollow, where the trial will be held. Where I'll have to prove my physical capability to defend the pack—without shifting, of course, since that ability was never part of my hybrid inheritance. None of them care that this isn’t fair to me. None of them care that yesterday, my world turned upside down for the dozenth time in as many weeks. None of them care at all.

I straighten my shoulders. Whatever happens today, I won't show weakness. Not to the pack that rejected me, not to Victoria who kept secrets from me, not to Nic who—

The thought of him sends a fresh wave of complicated emotions through me. In three days, at the full moon, we'll be bound together permanently. Alpha and Luna. A political union built on pack law rather than choice.

"One problem at a time," I mutter, grabbing my jacket. "Just get through today.”

The ceremonial clearing sits nestled between ancient pines, their trunks stretching skyward like silent sentinels. Morning mist curls around my ankles as I approach. The entire pack seems to have gathered—faces watching with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility.

In the center of the clearing stands Victoria, leaning on her carved wooden staff, her silver hair gleaming in the early light. Beside her, several pack members hold training weapons—wooden staffs, blunt projectiles, practice shields.

And there's Nic, standing apart from the others, his face carefully neutral but his eyes tracking my approach with unsettling intensity.

"Luna Morgan," Victoria's voice carries across the suddenly silent clearing. "You have passed the Trial of Strength, demonstrating physical endurance. You have passed the Trial of Unity, earning the trust of the community. Now you face the Trial of Spirit, where you must prove your ability to defend this pack."

I step forward, hyperaware of every eye upon me. "I'm ready."

"The trial has two parts," Victoria continues. "First, you must avoid the projectiles thrown by pack members. Second, you must defend yourself against multiple opponents simultaneously. Both must be accomplished without seriousinjury to demonstrate your capability as a potential Alpha’s Mate."

Pack members take positions around the clearing's edge, each holding wooden balls about the size of apples. Others—including James and Thomas—move to the center, preparing to act as my opponents for the second part. I can see even from here that James is uncomfortable. He won’t meet my eyes.

"Begin," Victoria commands, striking her staff against the ground.

The first projectile comes from my right—fast but predictable. I sidestep easily, my body responding automatically. The second and third follow quickly, forcing me to duck and spin. My heart pounds as I settle into its rhythm, watching for tell-tale shifts in stance before each throw.

This feels frighteningly familiar—like childhood games where I was always the target, always having to stay one step ahead of tormentors. Except now it's sanctioned, official. A test rather than torment.

The pace increases. Four, five, six projectiles coming nearly simultaneously from different directions. I drop to one knee, letting two pass overhead, then launch myself sideways in a roll that would make my self-defense instructor from Harbor Springs proud. I have little endurance, low stamina, but if there’s one thing growing up here taught me, it was how to make myself a hard target to hit. Sinking into those old instincts is easy somehow, in a terrifying way.

Sweat beads on my forehead as I spin, duck, leap. My muscles burn pleasantly, and for a moment, I almost enjoy the challenge. This, at least, is straightforward. Physical. Clean, in a way, pack politics never are.

"Enough," Victoria calls after I successfully avoid a particularly challenging barrage. "Phase one complete."

I brush the dirt from my knees, catching my breath as James, Thomas, and three other pack members approach, forming a loose circle around me. Each carries a padded staff—not enough to cause serious damage, but certainly enough to leave bruises.

"Phase two," Victoria announces. "Defend yourself against multiple opponents. Begin."

They move as one, clearly having trained together. Thomas feints from the left while James comes in low from the right. I leap back, narrowly avoiding the third attacker coming from behind.

No time to think, only react. I drop into a defensive stance, using their momentum against them as they charge. A quick sidestep sends one stumbling past me. A swift kick knocks another's staff aside.

The pace is relentless. Five against one should be impossible odds, but they're holding back just enough to make it a fair test, not a beatdown. Still, I'll be covered in bruises tomorrow. A glancing blow catches my shoulder. Another clips my thigh.

I grit my teeth and push on, finding a rhythm in the chaos. Duck. Spin. Block. Counterattack. My world narrows to movement and breath and the next immediate threat.

Then everything changes in an instant.

A child's voice—"I want to see!"—followed by the sound of running footsteps. I glimpse a small form darting into the clearing—Cole, Elder Roberts' five-year-old grandson, breaking away from his mother's grasp.

He runs directly into the combat zone just as one of the pack members launches a wooden projectile that had rolled back to the edge of the clearing.

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