First Blood

The courtyard at the heart of the Holdfast smelled of stone and smoke and fur. Training grounds, Jasper had called it, though the word felt too small. The dirt was packed hard by countless fights. Wooden dummies stood lined along the wall, battered and splintered. I could almost hear echoes of snarls and swords ringing through the air, as if the ground itself remembered every drop of blood it had soaked.

I tried to keep my shoulders square, chin high. Inside, my stomach was a pit.

“Vivian,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’m ready for training.”

Her eyes widened, then softened into something proud. “Clara…” She grinned. “That’s what I like to hear. Brave.”

Brave. If only she knew that the word clanged hollow inside me.

“I’ll tell Jasper,” she said. “But don’t worry—I’ll help you myself.”

Relief fluttered. With Vivian, things felt lighter, easier.

But relief is fragile. We barely stepped into the yard before Jasper appeared, flanked by others. Heads turned. Whispers traveled like sparks through dry leaves. The pack watched me like I was a puzzle that didn’t fit.

“Jasper.” My voice caught, but I forced it steady. “I’m ready for training. I… I want Vivian to train me.”

Jason’s voice cut sharp, before Jasper could answer. “No.”

He stepped forward, tall, broad, his eyes hard as slate. “If she’s to be trained, I’ll do it. Not Vivian.”

The silence that followed was thicker than smoke. My skin prickled with the weight of the eyes on me.

Jasper’s gaze flicked from me to Jason. For a moment, his face was unreadable. Then he nodded once, slow. “So be it. Jason will train you until you master your strength.”

The words hit like a fist in my chest. Fury surged hot and fast—I didn’t bother hiding it. Jason smirked as if he’d won something.

“Pick up a blade,” he said, voice clipped, command heavy in it. “Now. Strike.”

I grabbed a wooden sword, the weight awkward in my hand. I lunged, clumsy, the blade cutting air. Jason blocked with an ease that made my cheeks burn.

“Is this all you can do?” he taunted.

I swung again. And again. Each miss fed his scorn.

“Pathetic.” Block. “Too slow.” Twist. “A baby could do better.”

The pack watched. Some shook their heads. A few whispered. Heat stung my eyes, blurring my sight. I blinked hard, but tears spilled anyway.

Jason sneered. “Crying already? How do you expect to survive Rogues when you can’t survive training?”

“Enough.” Jasper’s voice cut through, gentler this time. He stepped between us, one hand on my shoulder. “That’s enough for today. You’ll continue this evening.”

Jason’s face twisted, disappointment edged with fury, but he didn’t argue. He stalked off, muttering under his breath.

I stood trembling, wooden blade heavy in my grip, tears streaking hot down my cheeks. Jasper’s arms closed around me, steadying. “It’s okay, Clara.”

Safe. For a heartbeat.

But I saw another figure in the shadows—Lyra, watching from her chamber window above, her eyes sharp, calculating. She said nothing. Not yet.

Evening came, and so did Lyra.

She didn’t ask. She commanded. “Stand.”

Her training was not Jason’s taunts. It was pain given form. Her strikes landed sharp, merciless, leaving bruises blooming across my arms and legs. When I faltered, she struck harder. When I cried out, she pressed forward.

“Too soft,” she barked. “Too slow. Again.”

By the end, my body felt like shattered glass held together by breath. I staggered back to my room, every step a throb.

But the next night, Vivian came.

“Don’t tell Jason,” she whispered, pressing a wooden sword into my hand. “We’ll do this together.”

With Vivian, training was laughter between swings, small victories celebrated. Her teaching was patient, encouraging. We practiced footwork, parries, even silly games that somehow made me quicker. For the first time, I believed I might not always be the weak one.

Jason noticed. He saw the difference in my movements, the sharper steps, the surer strikes. His suspicion grew into open accusation.

“Stop training her,” he snapped at Vivian one morning.

She raised her chin. “And why should I?”

“Because I command it. I’ll tell the council if you don’t.”

Vivian smirked, folding her arms. “You wouldn’t betray your own blood like that.”

Jason’s jaw clenched. He turned away, but his glare promised trouble.

His words never stopped.

“You’re useless, Clara.”

“Nothing but a burden.”

“Better if you’d stayed hidden.”

Each barb carved deeper. And the pack’s silence cut sharper than his insults—no one defended me, save Vivian. I saw it in their eyes: doubt, dismissal, disdain.

They’re right, the dark voice in my head whispered. You’re nothing but failure. Good at nothing. A risk. A liability. If you were gone, your mother would be freed. The Rogues wouldn’t need her. Maybe it’d be better if they had you.

The thought chilled me, hollowed me.

Then Jasper’s voice, low and certain, broke through as if he’d heard the poison in my head. “Clara.”

I looked up. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes steady.

“You’re not nothing,” he said. “I know what I saw that night—the way you stood even when fear should have broken you. If only you could see what I see.” He stepped closer, his voice softening. “Stop drowning in self-pity. Unlock yourself. You are more, Clara. Always more. And for what it’s worth… I’ll always be your fan.”

My throat tightened. His words sank deep, anchoring me against the tide threatening to pull me under.

He chuckled once, shaking his head. “That escape plan of yours, though…” A hint of humor lit his face before he walked away, leaving me with his words echoing: You are more.

I clung to them.

The next day, Jason was relentless. His voice sharper, crueler.

“Fight me,” he snapped. “Or are you too weak again?”

I tightened my grip on the sword, Jasper’s words replaying in my mind. You are more.

Jason’s snarl cut through. “You’ll never be more. Your mother will die because you’re too much a coward to save her.”

Something inside me broke. No—something inside me awoke.

It started as heat, searing through my chest. My hands trembled, my vision edged with silver. My heart pounded not just in my chest but everywhere—in my bones, my blood, my teeth. The world sharpened, scents flooding: Jason’s sweat, iron tang of weapons, the pine smoke from the torches.

Then pain. Bones groaning, shifting, skin alive with fire. My scream tore out but became a snarl halfway.

Gasps echoed.

My hands were no longer hands. Claws gleamed in torchlight. Fur spilled along my arms like wildfire. The ground tilted, but strength surged, raw and primal. Jason lunged, sword raised—

I caught him mid-strike, lifting him as if he weighed nothing, and hurled him across the yard. He slammed into a tree, bark splintering. The pack roared in shock.

Jason groaned, fury burning in his eyes even through the pain. Vivian’s hands covered her mouth, her eyes wide with something close to joy.

Jasper’s voice cut through the chaos, calm, firm, almost reverent.

“She has awakened.”

Silence fell. The pack stared at me—not Clara the outsider, not the weak girl stumbling through their yard. They saw the wolf.

I stood trembling, claws curled, fur bristling, heart pounding with something older than fear. The world had changed, and so had I.