Chapter six - First blood, First step

The morning bled slowly into the compound, pale sunlight dripping through the trees like liquid gold. Smoke from early fires curled into the air, mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil and pine. Nova stepped out of her small lodge, the chill biting her cheeks, her dagger strapped at her hip like a lifeline. Every step on the frost-tinged grass made her muscles tense, reminding her how long it had been since she had moved freely without caution. The distant caw of a crow and the rustle of leaves under the feet of early risers added a quiet rhythm to the morning, grounding her in the world even as unease coiled in her stomach.

The world around her moved with purpose. Wolves in human form carried buckets of water, hauled timber, and sharpened blades. Children darted between huts, laughing, their eyes flashing gold before fading back to human brown. Above it all came the steady rhythm of the compound waking: the thud of fists against flesh, the crack of wood against wood, the barked commands of Kilian’s pack. Nova had only ever glimpsed these wolves during fleeting encounters while hunting rogues, never shoulder to shoulder with them. The disciplined energy around her was both mesmerizing and intimidating.

Nova lingered at the edge of the yard, uncertain. She had heard of the pack’s existence and knew they were aware of her—Killian’s wolves had always been watching—but this was her first close contact. Every glance from them felt heavy, every whisper weighted with suspicion: Hunter. Her throat tightened, and her pulse picked up as she tried to steady herself.

A shadow fell over her.

Lyra.

The Beta female’s presence was precise and commanding, the kind of authority that didn’t need to shout to be felt. Her eyes, sharp as flint, studied Nova in silence before tossing a wooden staff at her feet.

Nova caught it on reflex, the weight solid and familiar in her hands. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from adrenaline coiling tight in her chest. Every fiber of her body screamed to prove herself, to show that she could belong, even as her mind warned her that failure would sting more than she could bear.

“You can’t skulk in the shadows forever,” Lyra said. Her voice carried, drawing attention without needing to command it. Wolves slowed, curiosity sharpening into hunger.

“If you want to be among us, you prove yourself here.”

A circle formed, bodies pressing closer, murmurs rising. Some voices dripped disdain: Let her fail. Others held reluctant interest: Let’s see what she can do.

Nova’s jaw tightened. “And if I don’t want to prove anything?”

Lyra’s smile was thin, humorless. “Then you leave. Simple as that.”

The staff was already warm in Nova’s palms. She didn’t remember deciding. She only knew she wasn’t going anywhere.

They circled. Lyra’s stance was casual, weight balanced, every inch the experienced fighter and Kilian’s right hand. Nova mirrored her, muscles coiled with tension, heart hammering from the effort and the sheer focus required. She had never trained with these wolves, never fought alongside them—every strike, every block, was tested in isolation, her survival instincts guiding her.

The first clash rang out like thunder. Staffs cracked, echoing across the yard. Nova blocked, dodged, and countered, movements fueled by years of personal survival rather than formal training. Each blow rattled her bones, each strike sent a shiver through her spine. The scent of sweat, pine, and dust filled her nostrils, grounding her in the brutal reality of the fight.

“You fight angry,” Lyra growled, driving her back. “Anger burns hot, but it burns out fast.”

Nova spun, ducked low, and swept her staff against Lyra’s knees. The Beta stumbled—not much, but enough. A murmur rippled through the crowd. Lyra’s eyes flashed something unfamiliar—amusement, maybe. Respect, perhaps.

The world narrowed to wood against wood, strike against strike, each impact sparking through Nova’s veins. All she saw was Lyra, all she heard was the pounding of her own heart. For a fleeting moment, the wind brushing across her face and the distant call of a wolf outside felt like the only things that existed.

At last, Lyra’s staff hooked hers and wrenched it free, sending it clattering across the yard. Nova fell back into the dirt, breath knocked from her lungs. Howls split the air, sharp and hungry. The circle erupted—some jeering, some cheering.

Nova pushed herself onto her elbows, dirt smearing her cheek, blood on her lip. Lyra stood over her, chest rising steady, staff planted like a banner.

“You’ll do,” she said simply.

The words struck harder than the staff had. Not approval. Not welcome. But acknowledgment. A door that had always been barred.

Nova spat blood, dragging herself to her feet. Her body ached, eyes burning with defiance. She wouldn’t thank Lyra. She wouldn’t bow. But something inside her shifted all the same.

The crowd dispersed, some grumbling, others whispering. Nova felt the weight of their gazes, but it no longer pressed as heavily. She had bled in front of them. That counted for something.

At the edge of the yard, Kilian leaned against a post, arms folded, watching. His expression gave nothing away, but his eyes—unyielding, penetrating—followed her every movement. Nova’s chest constricted. She turned sharply, refusing to let him see how her heart stumbled. She caught the faintest flash of curiosity—or was it approval?—and immediately scolded herself for noticing.

She walked away with her chin high, staff clutched tight. For the first time since stepping inside these walls, she felt she had carved herself a place—fragile, contested, but hers.

That night, alone in her room, she ran her fingers over the bruises rising on her arms. They ached, but reminded her of something she had nearly forgotten: she was not just surviving anymore. She was fighting to belong. The dull thrum of pain through her body was a quiet reassurance that she was alive, present, and ready for whatever came next.