Chapter 173  Iris’s Choice

Iris arrived at the training yard when it was still quiet.

Dawn had not yet broken. The torches flickered against the grey stone walls, casting long shadows across the packed earth. A few guards were already stretching, their breath misting in the cold air. But Iris was the first recruit to arrive, as she had been every morning for the past three weeks.

She wore simple clothes—leather breeches, a wool tunic, boots that had been broken in during months of preparation. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face in a tight braid. Her hands were wrapped in linen strips to prevent blisters, though her palms were already calloused from hours of sword work.

Now fourteen years old. The youngest recruit in her class.

She seemed to be kind of terrified.

Not of the training, nor of the other recruits. But she was scared of failing. And having to prove that she was only here because of her father’s name, because of the commander’s daughter, because of nepotism and privilege and everything she hated.

“You’re early.”

She turned. Commander Rowan stood in the doorway of the armoury, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He wore his formal uniform, his medals polished, his sword at his hip. He looked nothing like the father who bounced his baby daughter on his knee or stayed up late reading Iris stories about the old wars.

He looked like her commander.

“I wanted to warm up,” Iris said.

“Or you wanted to prove something?”

“I wanted to be ready.”

Rowan walked toward her, his boots crunching on the frost-covered gravel. “The other recruits will arrive soon. They’ll size you up. The wolf pups will be curious. The humans will be sceptical. They’ll test you.”

“I know.”

Iris’s jaw tightened. “Let them.”

Rowan stopped in front of her. His face softened—just slightly, just for a moment. “You don’t have to do this, Iris. You could train with the eastern guard. Elowen would welcome you. Or stay at the palace. Or—”

“I’m doing this.” Her voice was steady, though her hands trembled. “I’m not hiding behind your name. I’m not hiding behind anyone. I’m going to earn my place. The same way you did. The same way the Queen did. On my own.”

Rowan studied her for a long moment. The torches flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed.

Then he nodded.

“Then let’s begin.”

The training was brutal.

Rowan did not go easy on his daughter. He pushed her harder than the others, demanded more, accepted less. When she stumbled during the morning run, he made her run extra laps. When she dropped her sword during drills, he made her do push-ups until her arms shook and tears streamed down her face. When she cried—because she did cry, in private, in her quarters, where no one could see—he said nothing.

The other recruits noticed.

“The commander hates you,” a wolf pup named Bredda said during a water break, her ears flat against her head.

“He doesn’t hate me.” Iris gulped air, her lungs burning, her legs trembling from the morning’s exertion. “He’s preparing me.”

“For what?”

“For everything.” Iris looked at the training yard, where the other recruits were already lining up for the next drill. “For the real fight. The one that happens after training ends.”

Bredda studied her. “You’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Spoiled. Entitled. Soft.”

Iris almost smiled. “I’m none of those things.”

“No,” Bredda agreed. “You’re not.”

The physical tests were the first hurdle.

Running. Climbing. Swimming. Fighting hand-to-hand. Iris was big for her age, and she was fast, agile, determined. She finished in the top ten in every category—not first, not last, but solid. Solid enough to prove she belonged. Solid enough to silence the whispers.

The weapons training was harder.

Sword. Dagger. Spear. Bow. Her father corrected her stance with cold precision. He pointed out every mistake, every hesitation, every moment of doubt.

“Your grip is weak,” he said during a sword drill, knocking her blade from her hand.

“I’m adjusting.”

“Adjust faster.”

She retrieved her sword, reset her stance, and tried again. Again. And again. Until her hands bled through the linen wrappings and her arms screamed with exhaustion.

She didn’t stop.

The other recruits tested her.

A wolf named Roren, two years older and twice her size, cornered her in the equipment shed after training. He was broad-shouldered, confident, the kind of wolf who had never been told no.

“Commander’s daughter,” he said, circling her like prey. “Daddy got you in, didn’t he? Pulled some strings. Called in some favours. Made sure the tests were easy.”

Iris stood her ground, her back straight, her eyes cold. “I passed the same tests you did.”

“With adjusted scores.”

“There were no adjusted scores.”

Roren stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the ale on his breath. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then fight me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Fight me. Right now. Winner proves their point.”

Roren laughed, a harsh bark that echoed off the stone walls. “You’re half my size. I could break you in half without trying.”

“Then it should be easy.”

He lunged.

Iris wasn’t there. She had learned from her father. She dodged Roren’s first wild swing, slipped under his second, and drove her knee into his stomach with every ounce of strength she had.

He doubled over, gasping, his face purple.

She stepped back, her heart pounding, her hands steady.

“Next time,” she said, “don’t assume.”

Roren never bothered her again.

The other recruits began to respect her.

Not because of her name. Because of her work. She was first to arrive at the training yard and last to leave. She helped the struggling humans with their footwork, explaining the techniques her father had taught her. She learned from the wolves who had grown up fighting in packs, watching their movements, adapting her style.

“She’s not bad,” Bredda admitted during a break.

“She’s not bad at all,” a human recruit named Stefan agreed.

“She’s good,” another wolf said. “Really good.”

Iris heard them. She didn’t smile. She just kept training.

Lysa watched from the edge of the yard.

She came every day, the baby strapped to her chest in a woven sling, watching Iris run and fight and struggle. She didn’t interfere. Didn’t call out encouragement. Didn’t try to make it easier. That wasn’t her role.

But she was there. Every day.

Rowan joined her one afternoon, after training had ended. The yard was empty except for the two of them and the baby, who was asleep, oblivious to the world, her tiny wolf ears twitching in her sleep.

“She’s doing well,” Lysa said.

“She’s doing adequately.”

“She’s doing *well*. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

Rowan’s lips twitched. “She’s improving. Her footwork is still sloppy. Her sword arm drops when she’s tired. She hesitates before striking—just for a moment, but that moment could get her killed.”

“She’s fourteen.”

“And she’s a recruit.”

“She’s your daughter.” Lysa shifted the baby to her other hip. “She’s also brave and determined and stronger than you give her credit for.”

Rowan was silent for a moment, watching the empty yard. Then: “That’s why I push her. Because she’s my daughter. Because she chose this path. Because I need her to be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For the world.” He looked at Lysa, his eyes tired. “For the wolves who will test her. For the humans who will doubt her. For the enemies who will try to kill her. I won’t always be there to protect her. She needs to protect herself.”

Lysa took his hand. “She will. She’s strong.”

The final test was a mock battle.

The recruits were divided into two teams, pitted against each other in a simulated conflict in the forest beyond the palace walls. Iris was chosen as a squad leader, not because of her name, or of her father, but because the other recruits had voted for her.

“She’s fair,” Bredda said.

“She’s tough,” Stefan added.

“She doesn’t quit,” a third recruit finished.

Iris led her squad through the exercise with cold precision. She remembered her father’s lessons—the importance of terrain, the value of intelligence, the need for adaptability. She positioned her archers on the ridge, sent her fastest wolves to flank the enemy, and held her sword fighters in reserve.

Her squad won. Decisively.

Afterward, Rowan approached her. The other recruits were celebrating in the background, their laughter echoing through the trees.

“Not bad,” he said.

“I thought my footwork was sloppy.”

“It was. But you compensated with positioning. You used the terrain to hide your weaknesses.”

“I learned from watching you.”

Rowan’s expression softened. “You learned from watching. That’s not the same as being taught.”

“That’s smart of you.”

Their graduation ceremony was held in the great hall.

Iris stood in a line with the other recruits, her new uniform crisp and clean, her sword at her hip. The triplets sat on the dais. Seren sat beside Aeron. Lysa sat in the front row, the baby on her lap, her eyes bright with tears. Iris searched the crowd and found her father standing at attention near the doors, his face unreadable.

Rowan stepped forward, a scroll in his hands.

“Iris of the eastern provinces,” he read aloud, his voice carrying through the hall, “has completed her training with distinction. She has earned her place in the Royal Guard. Her skill, her courage, and her determination greatly helped her to succeed.”

He looked at her.

“Step forward.”

Iris stepped forward.

Rowan pinned the guard’s badge to her collar. His hands were steady, but his eyes were wet—just for a moment, just for a heartbeat.

“Congratulations, Guard Iris.”

She saluted. “Thank you, Commander.”

They stood there for a moment, father and daughter, in front of the entire court.

Then Iris turned and walked back to her place.

The reception was held in the garden.

The fountain splashed. The night jasmine bloomed. Musicians played a soft melody. Guests mingled and toasted and told stories about the training.

Lysa found Iris standing apart from the crowd, staring at the stars. The baby was asleep in her sling.

“You did well,” Lysa said.

“I did adequately.”

“That’s what your father says.”

Iris almost smiled. “He’s rubbed off on me.”

“That’s what family does.”

They stood in silence, the fountain splashing, the music drifting.

“I never thought I would have this,” Iris said. “A family. A home. A future. When my mother died, I thought I would be alone forever.”

“Neither did I.” Lysa’s voice was soft. “When I was a servant, scrubbing floors and hiding from the kitchen master, I never dreamed of any of this.”

“I used to hate you, you know. When you first came.” Iris looked at her, her eyes honest. “I thought you were trying to replace my mother. I thought you were stealing my father. I thought you were just another human who didn’t belong.”

Lysa’s throat tightened. “I know.”

“But you’re not.” Iris’s voice cracked. “You’re just… you. And that’s enough. You’re not my mother. You’re not trying to be. You’re Lysa. And I’m glad you’re here.”

Lysa’s tears spilled over.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Iris shrugged, her eyes glistening. “Don’t make it weird.”

They laughed together, the sound carrying across the garden.

Somewhere in the crowd, Rowan was watching. He didn’t smile. But his eyes were warm.

The future had arrived.

And it was worth fighting for.