Dawn crawled over the Vael Ranch in slow streaks of orange and pale gold, the kind of sunrise that usually promised heat and long hours of work. But this morning felt different. The air carried a tension that clung to the ground like mist, a warning rather than a greeting. The sky was too still. The fields too quiet. Even the animals seemed to sense that something had shifted overnight.
Ronan stood outside the barn doorway, arms crossed, eyes half-shadowed beneath the brim of early morning light. He didn't look tired. Tired was too soft a word. He looked carved out—sharper around the edges, stripped of anything that didn't serve the purpose forming behind his eyes.
He'd slept two hours. Maybe.
But sleep hadn't mattered. Not after the ridge. Not after Mercer. Not after the realization—cold and steady—that the next move would demand blood.
Behind him in the barn, Dax stood awkwardly in the center of the training space, shifting his weight from one sneaker to the other. He kept glancing toward Ronan as if waiting for him to say, We're starting slow today. But Ronan didn't say it. Hadn't even implied it. Instead, he simply watched him, face unreadable.
Dax swallowed. "You said we'd start today."
"We are," Ronan said. His tone didn't rise. Didn't soften. Didn't change.
Dax nodded quickly, fear tightening the corners of his posture. "Okay."
Ronan stepped inside, closing the barn doors behind them. The morning light filtered through narrow cracks in the wood, casting sharp lines across the floor. Dust motes drifted in the beams. The air smelled faintly of sweat, leather, and old smoke.
"Show me your stance," Ronan said.
Dax snapped into something resembling readiness—feet too close, shoulders too rigid, hands clenched like he expected a punch at any moment.
Ronan walked around him once, assessing silently.
"Too stiff. You'll break your own balance before they break it for you." Ronan placed two fingers on Dax's left shoulder and pushed lightly. Dax stumbled. "Exactly."
"Sorry," Dax muttered.
"Don't apologize. Fix it."
Dax adjusted his feet.
Ronan stepped closer, reached down, and nudged Dax's left foot outward with the toe of his boot. "There. Lower your weight."
Dax obeyed.
"Hands," Ronan said.
Dax raised them.
Ronan shook his head. "If you close your fists that tight, you'll shatter your own knuckles on the first strike. Relax."
Dax exhaled shakily and loosened his grip.
Ronan circled him again, evaluating. "Better."
Dax dared a small breath of relief—until Ronan said:
"Now hit me."
Dax blinked. "W-what?"
Ronan stood directly in front of him, expression flat. "You heard me."
"I— I can't hit you."
"Then you'll never survive," Ronan said, voice still even. "Try."
Dax hesitated.
Ronan didn't move.
Dax threw a punch. Too slow.
Ronan stepped aside and tapped Dax's wrist, redirecting the strike so gently it felt like mockery.
"Again."
Dax threw another. Predictable.
Ronan shifted his weight, blocked it with two fingers, and pushed Dax off balance.
"Again."
Dax threw three in a row—sloppy, desperate.
Ronan sidestepped each one without effort.
"You're holding back," Ronan said.
"I don't want to hurt—"
Ronan cut him off sharply. "You can't hurt me."
Dax froze.
Ronan's eyes glowed faintly—just a thread of red flickering at the edges. "Mercer's wolves won't hesitate. They won't pull punches. They won't give you time to breathe. If you hold back, you die."
Dax looked down at his hands.
Ronan stepped closer, voice dropping. "Try again."
Something in his tone made Dax stiffen. This wasn't a request. It wasn't even training. It was survival.
Dax struck again—faster, less hesitant.
Ronan blocked easily.
Again.
Ronan redirected.
Again.
Ronan countered lightly, tapping Dax's ribs with enough force to make him grunt.
"You're thinking too much," Ronan said. "Instinct. Let it surface."
Dax clenched his jaw, frustration sparking in his eyes. He lashed out with a quick jab. Ronan parried it, caught his wrist, and pivoted behind him in a fluid motion.
Ronan's arm slid across Dax's collarbones, pinning him lightly. "Better."
Dax froze. "I—I can't beat you."
"You're not trying to beat me," Ronan said, releasing him. "You're learning how not to die."
Dax rubbed his wrist. "And if I can't?"
"Then Mercer gets what he wants," Ronan said coldly. "A dead wolf on my land."
Dax's throat tightened.
Ronan didn't apologize. He didn't soften the blow. The world they lived in didn't allow softness.
"Again," Ronan said.
They trained until sweat dripped from Dax's hairline and his arms trembled with exhaustion. Ronan didn't let up. Didn't slow. Finally, when Dax could barely stand, Ronan stepped back.
"Good enough for today."
Dax dropped to the floor with a heavy exhale, gulping air.
Ronan tossed him a bottle of water. "Drink."
Dax obeyed immediately.
Ronan walked to the other side of the barn, unwrapping his hands with precise movements. His breathing hadn't changed. Not once.
Dax watched him. "How long until I'm ready?"
Ronan didn't look at him. "Depends on if you stop flinching."
Dax grimaced. "I'm trying."
"Try harder."
Dax nodded.
A knock struck the barn door.
Ronan didn't need enhanced senses to recognize Colton's hurried footsteps. "Enter."
Colton slipped inside. His face was pale, jaw clenched. "Alpha. We've got a problem."
Ronan tossed the tape aside. "Mercer?"
"Not yet," Colton said. "But we found something near the northern fence."
Ronan stepped close. "What?"
Colton held out a cloth bundle. Ronan unfolded it slowly.
Inside lay a torn vest—brown, stained with blood. Not fresh, but not old either. A symbol burned into the fabric—an angular pattern scorched black.
Dax flinched. "Mercer's mark."
Ronan's eyes narrowed. "Where?"
"Caught on a barbed wire post," Colton said. "Three miles out. No bodies. No footprints. No scent trail. Like they wanted us to find only the vest."
Ronan closed the cloth slowly. "A message."
Colton nodded grimly. "He's escalating."
Dax's hands trembled. "What does it mean?"
Ronan stared at the scorched symbol—the same mark Mercer forced his rogues to wear like armor. Or chains.
"It means," Ronan said, voice low, "he's done with warnings."
Colton shifted his weight. "Alpha… what do we do?"
Ronan lifted his gaze.
"Increase patrols. Double the northern watch. Ready the lieutenants. And send a team to track the perimeter."
Colton gave a sharp nod. "On it."
He turned to leave but paused at the door. "Sir… is this the night?"
"Not yet," Ronan said.
Colton nodded once and vanished outside.
Dax looked at Ronan with worry clinging to his voice. "He's not going to stop, is he?"
"No," Ronan said. "Not until someone makes him."
"And you're going to…" Dax swallowed. "…kill him."
"Yes."
Dax exhaled shakily. "Does it scare you?"
Ronan met his eyes. "It scares me more to let him keep breathing."
Dax nodded silently.
Ronan moved toward the barn exit. "Get food. Rest. Training continues later."
Dax stood slowly, muscles aching, but he nodded. "Okay."
Ronan stepped into the daylight, boots crunching over gravel. He crossed the yard toward the main house, but halfway there, a flicker caught his attention.
A shadow moved out by the northern stretch of fence.
Ronan stopped.
Eyes sharpened.
Breath slowed.
Not a wolf. Not a person he recognized. A figure stood on the far side of the fence—still, watching, as if waiting to be noticed. Ronan began moving toward them, pace steady.
The closer he got, the more the figure blurred against the sunlight—hood pulled up, arms crossed loosely over their chest.
Ronan's spine prickled.
He stopped ten feet from the fence. "Speak."
The figure tilted their head. A woman's voice drifted out, calm and controlled. "He's moving faster than we expected."
Ronan stiffened. "Who are you?"
"Someone who's watched Mercer for a long time," she said. "And someone who knows what he plans next."
"Answer the question."
The woman exhaled softly. "Name's Elise."
The name meant nothing.
"What are you doing near my land?" Ronan asked.
"Warning you," she said.
"I don't need warnings."
"You do," Elise replied. "Because Mercer isn't just gathering rogues. He's recruiting outcasts from packs across East Texas. Wolves you turned away. Wolves who lost family in the border fights. Wolves hungry for someone to blame."
Ronan's brow tightened. "And they chose him."
"He chose them," Elise corrected. "He knows how to twist desperation."
Ronan stared at her. "Why tell me this?"
"Because I don't want Texas burning," Elise said simply. "And that's exactly what he's trying to start."
Ronan took a step forward. "What else?"
"He's planning an attack," she said. "Soon. Not on you—on your perimeter. He wants to scatter you. Force you to divide your strength."
"How soon?" Ronan asked.
"Tonight."
Ronan's pulse stayed steady.
"Where?"
Elise lifted her chin. "Northwest border. Near the dry creek bed."
Ronan didn't look away. "Why help me?"
Elise shrugged. "Because Mercer let my brother die. And because you're the only one in Texas who scares him."
Ronan didn't blink.
Her last words hung in the air.
The only one in Texas who scares him.
Ronan nodded once. "Get off my border."
Elise turned and disappeared through the brush as quietly as she'd arrived.
Ronan stood still for three breaths.
Then he tapped into the pack link, voice slicing through the mental quiet.
"Colton. Rally the lieutenants. Northern perimeter. Now."
"Yes, Alpha," came the instant reply.
Ronan turned toward the ranch, expression carved from stone.
Mercer wanted a war.
He'd get one.
But Ronan Vael wasn't meeting him with warnings or restraint this time.
He was meeting him with death.
Tonight, the Dominion would defend itself.
And Ronan wouldn't hold back.