Jax has the ugliest bedroom in existence.

As Cyrus scrunches up his nose at the horrifying absence of colors and decor, he strides over to the nearest window to part the black curtains open. He hopes to get some moonlight in here, maybe brighten up this desolate void they're in, but Jax beats him to the chase by slapping his hand away.

"Don't touch anything."

Frowning, Cyrus shoots a glare at the ceiling, as if Luna is still there and watching over them somehow, and exclaims, "So what, he can't punch me, but he can still slap me? That doesn't seem fair. None of this seems fair, moon goddess!"

"What are you–" Scoffing, Jax stops himself and resorts to rolling his eyes instead. "She's not even watching right now. She can't hear you. And even if she can, do you really think she'd care after the hex?"

Instead of answering, Cyrus launches an open palm against his head and slams his face against the window. Or at least, he tries to anyway.

But no, the stupid magical barrier interferes. With a hard clink, his hand bounces off the icy exterior of the forcefield projection. It's almost as if he's digging into frozen plate armor. In the blink of an eye, the shield fades out of sight, leaving him baffled and with even more unresolved questions.

"I know." Scowling, Jax slides the curtains shut with a grating jolt, concealing a sliver of moonlight from peeping through. "I hate you too."

The urge to strangle him burns.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The Trials were a right of passage hosted once every generation. As the current top alphas of their packs stepped down from their thrones, all teenage alphas were to partake in The Trials around this same time. To ensure their worth in life, they were pitted against their adolescent peers and expected to fight until their last breath.

Only the strongest prevailed. The higher their ranking, the better they were treated. Alphas vs alphas. Whoever came out as number one from their respective pack would win the title of their new leader.

With powerhouses like Blood Moon and Grave Shadow, they not only had to face their own peers, but also the other top alphas from their conquered colonies as well. If Lumare or Frosthide ever got their chance to beat the number one from Grave Shadow, Jax Sterling, then freedom would be their reward.

Jax still recalled the night he first met Leon.

The arena they were thrown in had been extra rowdy, swarming with lousy spectators from all walks of life. Chatter buzzed, shouts thundered, microphone tests ricocheted off the caged walls. Alphas, betas, and omegas alike gathered together. Naturally, they hailed from either Grave Shadow or Lumare, standing on opposite ends of their audience seats to reflect which pack they rooted for.

If Lumare won, they could win their chance at being their own pack again.

If Grave Shadow won, then all would resume as normal and they'd remain on equal grounds with Blood Moon. Somewhere on this same night, Blood Moon's number one, Cyrus Pierce, was to fight the top alpha from Hellhounds.

The stakes of their fates settled on their backs as Jax and Leon stood on opposing sides of the arena. Slowly, while they circled around each other, they wielded identical silver daggers, their bare hands clasped around the curve of the aluminum handles.

Despite the stress lines sunken through Leon's cheekbones, there was a flicker of hope, a bright flame unlike any other, shining in his brown eyes.

Jax could only wish he looked that alive.

He didn't know who moved first, but their blades clashed as they both rushed forward, the rings of the starting bell echoing around them. Silver sparks spewed out from the impact of their collision, the edge of their daggers scraping against each other in a brief metallic screech.

When Jax drew back with an upward swipe from his arm, Leon swung low to knock into his wrist. Feigning ignorance, he allowed for the blade to flee from his clutches. Secretly, his brain raced for other openings to exploit.

Leon charged, both hands gripped around the hilt of his dagger now as he lunged for the gut. In typical Grave Shadow fashion, Jax pressed his luck with a bolt of super speed. A blurred dodge here, a fuzzy step there, and then he jammed an elbow into his neck. Straight into the esophagus with a fast snap.

A broken gasp ripped through Leon's vocals as Jax tore his own knife away from him. Then, he kicked down his legs and joined him on the ground shortly after, trapping him right where he wanted. Before Jax could bring the dagger into his neck, one of Leon's hands jumped out in a frantic frenzy. His canine nails sprung forward and tore through his neck, tearing off a chunk of skin with visible claw marks.

Red spurted from Jax's cracked lips, rapidly gushing down in messy rivulets. Red pooled around the collar of his shirt, seeping through the black fabric across his chest. Red splattered the column of his throat, dripping onto Leon's determined face.

They crashed back and forth after that, their fists puncturing through flesh and bone while wrestling for the dagger in between their hands. Bruises were born from their mutual damage, painful blue and purple splotches marring their bodies. Silver sliced through their grappled fingers. Throughout this exchange, Jax managed a few paralyzing cuts across the plane of Leon's right cheek, despite the silver already creeping into his own veins too. His movements slowed, his tendons harder to pull at, but Leon wasn't doing any better either.

It was a power struggle, a duel for control, with Leon wanting to take back what was his and Jax wanting the finishing blow.

There were a few occasions where Leon tried to get inside his head, interrupting Jax's drive with vague attempts at infiltrating his mind. Just as Grave Shadow had their speed, and Blood Moon their strength, Lumare had their illusions—all of which were nothing more than cheap hallucinatory tricks.

Jax's resolve was as flexible as steel, ignoring the eerie whispers slithering through the chambers of his psyche.

The crowd for Grave Shadow roared, eager for Leon's spilled blood.

And Jax gave the people what they wanted.

He stabbed into Leon's left eye and twisted the blade with a resound squelch, watching as the silver did its work. Watching as Leon screamed and screamed through the blood, the searing sting of his tears intermingled with all the red. His hoarse wails were all Jax could hear up close, impaling his eardrums and numbing out the sound of his triumphant pack members.

Red. Red. Red.

The Trials demanded a winner.

And Jax couldn't afford to lose.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Jax wakes up in a cold sweat, the nightmares of The Trials trickling through moments of stark clarity. Instinctively, he reaches out for his parched throat, his veins throbbing beneath a set of trembling hands. His breaths are quick and shallow, his eyes glassy and dull. Then, after blinking a few more times and counting to ten, he finally fixes his attention to the floor.

Sprawled out in a gray blanket—and with no mattress in sight—is Cyrus, who seems perfectly content in his sleep. The relaxed smile that upturns his lips is enough evidence of that.

Of course he gets the better dreams. This is why he didn't deserve a bed of his own in the first place. With his face in his hands, Jax lets out a frustrated huff of air. He can't believe this is his new reality, with public enemy number one crawled up near the floor of his bed.

Just because he can, he then proceeds to launch a pillow at Cyrus's head.

"Get up," he orders, sliding a mask of stern apathy back on. "We need to talk."

In response, a muffled groan drags out from a groggy Cyrus.

This is gonna be a long year.