chapter 5_ Blood in the Blue Mountains

The fog in the Blue Mountains didn’t roll in; it hung like wet wool, choking the gaps between the blue-grey eucalyptus trunks until the rest of the cadet column vanished twenty paces ahead. Every breath tasted of crushed aromatic leaves, damp earth, and the faint, coppery tang of my own fatigue. My left shoulder was still a knot of bruised heat from Vance’s takedown yesterday, and Locke’s terrifyingly sharp words in the archives still hummed in the marrow of my bones.

​"Keep your intervals tight!" Instructor Vane’s voice cut through the gray mist from somewhere up ahead, muffled and hollow. "The ridge narrows for the next mile. If you drift into the scrub, you deserve whatever the timber-wolves use to clean their teeth."

​Nobody laughed. By the third week of border patrol maneuvers, everyone knew the Blue Mountains didn't care about royal insignia or academy ranks.

​I kept my head down, boots sliding slightly on the wet leaf litter, my fingers locked hard around the ash-wood shaft of my training spear. The weight of the canvas binder strapped tight across my chest felt like an iron band constricting my lungs, a constant, bruising reminder of the lie keeping me alive. Every step jarred my ribs. Every breath felt shallow.

​Then the horses up front caught it first.

​A sudden, sharp squeal tore through the mist, followed by the frantic stamping of iron-shod hooves on shale. Before Vane could bellow an order, the underbrush to our right erupted. It wasn’t a standard tactical drill. There was no horn, no whistle, no structured formation.

​Just a grey, howling blur tearing out of the eucalyptus fog.

​A mountain wolf easily the size of an yearling calf, its fur matted with burrs and old mud broke through the fern-line, its yellow-green eyes locked entirely on the flank of the nearest cadet.

​Panic rippled through the line like a struck wire. Cadets shouted, stumbling backward into the brambles, tangling their spears.

​"Form line! Hold your " Vane started, but the command was swallowed by a raw, guttural laugh.

​Banjo Calloway didn't form a line. He never formed a line.

​While the rest of us scrambled to level our staves, Banjo launched himself sideways off the trail, his boots clearing a patch of gorse with terrifying, reckless grace. He didn't bother unsloping his spear; instead, he drew the heavy, short-bladed hunting knife from his thigh rig, his face split by a wild, tooth-baring grin that had nothing to do with academy discipline and everything to do with blood.

​"Got you, you ugly bastard," Banjo snarled.

​He hit the beast mid-stride, taking it squarely in the flank as it lunged for a trembling recruit. They went down into the wet fern-choke together in a violent, thrashing tangle of grey fur, tearing leather, and flashing steel. The wolf snapped jaws wide enough to crush a man's forearm, its claws shredding the sleeve of Banjo’s wool jacket as if it were parchment. Blood bright, hot crimson splattered across the dark green leaves.

​Banjo didn't even flinch. He laughed again, a dark, manic sound, driving his knee upward into the wolf's ribs before burying his blade deep behind its shoulder with a wet, heavy crunch.

​The beast gave one final, shuddering spasm and went still, sinking into the moss.

​Silence slammed back down over the ridge, broken only by the heavy, ragged panting of the cadets and the drip-drop of mist sliding off the eucalyptus leaves.

​"Calloway!" Vane finally forced his way through the brush, his face mottled with purple rage, sword half-drawn. "What in the hell do you think you were doing? That was a pack trail! You were ordered to hold the center!"

​Banjo rolled off the carcass, wiping a streak of dark blood across his forehead with the back of a bare, scarred forearm. He looked entirely unbothered, his chaotic amber-speckled eyes scanning the treeline as if he were looking for a lost coin rather than inspecting a fresh kill.

​"The center was too crowded, Instructor," Banjo said, his voice drawling and utterly devoid of remorse. "And the beast looked lonely."

​I let out a shaky breath, lowering my spear tip as the adrenaline began to drain from my veins, leaving a cold, sick hollow behind my ribs. I stepped forward to check the perimeter, my boots catching on a slick, moss-covered root hidden beneath the damp ferns.

​My ankle turned. The ground simply dropped away.

​A sharp gasp tore from my throat as I tipped backward, arms flailing, heading straight for a jagged outcrop of grey slate half-hidden by the brush. I braced for impact, closing my eyes against the inevitable scrape of rock and the agonizing strain it would put on my chest binder.

​Instead, a heavy hand hooked hard around my waist, yanking me violently out of the air before I hit the stone.

​The collision drove the remaining wind straight out of my lungs. I crashed hard against a solid, scorching-hot chest. Strong arms locked around me with an iron grip, steadying my weight against the slope.

​"Careful, little prince," Banjo murmured, his voice dropping right beside my ear, rich with a sudden, dangerous amusement. "The ground out here has teeth."

​I tried to pull back immediately, scrambling to regain my footing, but Banjo didn't let go right away. His hand thick-calloused, smeared with the warm blood of the wolf was pressed flat against the center of my chest, right over my sternum.

​Right over the thick canvas bindings wrapped tight around my ribs.

​I froze. The world narrowed down to the single point where his palm met my clothes.

​Banjo’s breath hitched. The mocking, easy grin vanished from his face in a fraction of a second. His fingers curled slightly into the fabric, pressing down not out of aggression, but with a sudden, intense curiosity. His brow furrowed deep, a dark shadow passing over his wild features as his hand shifted, testing the unyielding, unnatural flatness beneath my tunic.

​His amber eyes snapped up to mine, locking onto my gaze with a searing, unblinking intensity that made the forest air feel suddenly starved of oxygen.

​"Why are you so rigid here?" Banjo whispered, his voice dropping so low the mist seemed to swallow the words before they reached anyone else. His thumb dragged a fraction of an inch across my ribs, tracing the tight line of the canvas. "What are you hiding under all this wool, keal You feel... hollow."

​My heart hammered against his palm like a trapped bird beating its wings to pieces. Every instinct screamed that I was exposed, that the game was finished, that the wild, unpredictable boy holding me against his chest was about to tear away the last layer of my safety.““Before I could make my body move, push him away, or think of an excuse, a deep, rough growling sound came from the thick mist about 20 steps down the hill near the eucalyptus trees.

​“Not the fading cough of one person alone.”

​they all shouted together