008: Dawn Of Humiliation, Heir Of Nothing

Lyra's POV

A loud horn split the air before dawn.

I shot up from the thin bunk, dazed, heart thudding. My head banged the wooden frame above me. "Shit," I hissed under my breath.

Nira groaned inside my head. 'Is the academy run by wolves or war drums?'

"Get up! Get up! Out!" someone shouted from the hallway.

Doors slammed. Boots thundered against the old stone floors. I scrambled, still half-asleep, dragging on my boots with shaking hands. My bandages felt tighter than ever. My shirt clung to my back with sweat, already damp from the heat. I barely got my belt on before the door burst open.

It was one of the older instructors. His glare cut like a knife.

"Five minutes late, Thorne. That all Blueclaw's got? Move."

I ran. Down the hall, out the doors, into the freezing morning. My breath came out in sharp gasps. The sun wasn’t even up, but the field was already packed.

Dozens of boys lined up in ranks, shirtless again, of course. I hugged Rowan's jacket tighter around me. My skin itched. I stood between my dormmates...Torren on my left, tall and sarcastic, and Leif on my right, the quiet one with hands too big for his body. Rhys, the flirty one with the dimple, stood a few paces ahead.

And in front of us...Killian.

My stomach twisted.

He wore black again, sleeves rolled up. There was dirt on his jaw, like he'd been up long before us. His eyes scanned us all like a wolf picking which sheep to bite first.

"You're here to train," he said, voice deep and sharp. "Not to look pretty. You think because you wear a crest, you're worth something? Prove it."

He started pacing. Slow. Heavy.

"Push-ups. One hundred. Now."

I hit the dirt.

By twenty-five, my arms were jelly. By forty, my shirt stuck to my back like glue. By fifty, my chest burned.

Around me, no one even slowed down.

Rhys was cracking jokes between breaths. Leif barely looked winded. Torren grinned through every damn one like this was a game.

I grunted, trying to keep up.

'We are dying,' Nira said dramatically. 'Just dig a grave and toss me in.'

"Shut up," I whispered.

"Sixty," Killian called. "Thorne, are you crying or just sweating like a frightened pup?"

Laughter broke out around me.

I kept my head down. My arms shook. I hit seventy. Then collapsed.

Killian stalked toward me. His shadow fell over my back.

"Get up."

I gritted my teeth. My arms wouldn’t move.

He crouched low beside me. Close. Too close. His eyes bored into mine. That same strange look from yesterday. Confused. Suspicious. Curious.

"I said get up, Thorne. Or you can pack and leave."

I got up. Barely.

The rest of training was worse. Running laps until your legs forgot what walking felt like. Holding planks till your stomach tried to quit your body. Dodging weighted sacks while blindfolded. I got hit in the head. Twice.

By midday, my hair stuck to my neck. My throat felt like sand. My hands were scraped from falling too much. The others weren’t struggling. Not really. Some were grumbling, but no one looked like they were ready to drop dead except me.

After lunch...a sad bowl of dry meat and grain...they split us into sparring groups. Again.

I prayed Killian wouldn’t be anywhere near mine.

Of course he was leading mine.

"Today, you don't fight the same person," he said. "You fight everyone. Round by round. No breaks. Last one standing gets their pride back. The rest? You get another lap."

Torren grinned at me. "Good luck, Blueclaw. Try not to die."

I rolled my eyes.

The first boy I fought was Leif. Big. Fast. Kind of gentle with his hits, which somehow made it worse. Like he thought I couldn’t handle it. I got knocked on my back after a few strikes.

"Sorry," he said, offering a hand.

I ignored it and stood on my own.

Next up, Rhys.

He winked before lunging. Bastard. He moved like wind. I dodged once, twice...then his leg swept mine and I slammed into the dirt.

"Oops," he said, smirking. "That looked painful."

My jaw clenched. Nira was growling low inside.

'You want me to shift and bite his leg off? Because I will.'

"No," I muttered.

The third round was Torren. He didn’t hold back.

The first punch nearly dislocated my shoulder. The second caught my ribs. The third shoved me down hard.

"This is the great Rowan Thorne?" Torren laughed, stepping back. "Thought Blueclaw heirs would have fangs. All I see is fluff."

Everyone laughed. Even the instructor cracked a grin.

I lay there, chest heaving. Nira went silent.

And then I stood up. Wiped my nose. And tackled Torren to the ground.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t strong. But it was enough to wipe the grin off his face for a second.

I growled low, real low, the way Rowan used to. "Say it again."

He shoved me off. Hard. I landed on my back again. My breath caught. My eyes burned.

"Hey!" Killian snapped. "Control."

Torren stepped back, palms up. I didn’t move right away. My chest hurt. But I stood.

Killian was staring at me again. That same look. Suspicion.

Then he called the next pair.

The rest of the day went like that. Me stumbling. Falling. Failing. The others rolling their eyes. Laughing.

No one saw me. Not really. They saw a weak heir from a weak pack. Nothing more.

When it was over, we were told to clean the stables. Yes. Real stables. Because why not? Apparently if you couldn’t fight, you could shovel shit.

Torren tossed me a shovel. "Try not to pass out, Fluffy."

I ignored him. I worked. Quiet. Focused. Hands blistering. Back aching. Boots sinking in mud.

I didn’t speak until we were done. Until the others started joking again.

"Blueclaw’s a joke," Rhys muttered. "No offense."

"None taken," Torren said, grinning. "They won’t last the year. Probably get swallowed by rogues."

Leif stayed quiet.

I turned. My fists clenched. "You don’t know a thing about my pack."

They all looked at me. Rhys raised a brow. "You mean your ashes?"

Laughter.

I stepped forward. "Say that again."

Rhys smirked. "Relax, Thorne. We’re just talking."

"Talk about your own damn packs."

Torren tilted his head. "Touchy, aren’t you? For someone who can’t even hold a sword straight."

He pushed me. Not hard. But enough to send me back a step.

My hands shook. My throat burned. I wanted to scream. But I didn’t.

Because if I did, they’d hear my real voice.

So I swallowed it. All of it. The shame. The heat. The ache in my ribs.

I turned. Walked out of the stables. Kept my head down.

But inside? I was burning.

'I hate them,' Nira growled.

"We can’t break. Not now."

'We should've bit them. Just once. Real fast. They wouldn’t have seen it coming.'

"No. We need to stay in. We need to prove it."

I walked to the training field, empty now. Sunset bled over the hills. I stood there, alone, and dropped into push-ups. One. Two. Three.

Every time I hit the dirt, I whispered under my breath.

"I’m not weak."

Four.

"I’m not him."

Five.

"I can do this."

My arms shook. My chest burned. But I kept going.

Because I had no other choice.