#5: Try Me

The morning sun has barely risen in full when a fist strikes the oak panels of my bedroom door.

“Up, freshman! You have ten minutes to get your asset to the northern quadrant before Damon uses your spine as a measuring tape!” a voice bellows from the corridor, followed by the heavy, retreating thuds of regulation boots.

I bolt upright so fast my neck protests, and for one deeply confusing second, I stare blankly at unfamiliar stone walls while panic rises into my bloodstream.

Then the memory begins coming back to me… Exiled. Magic. Castle. Questionably legal blood oath. Death school.

“Coming!” I yell, scrambling out of bed.

My boots are somehow on opposite sides of the room, my sweater is halfway hanging off a chair, and my hair currently feels like it entered diplomatic negotiations sometime during the night. I throw on cargo pants, shove myself into a fitted charcoal sweater and aggressively finger-comb my curls into something vaguely human. 

I grab my jacket, nearly trip over my own boots and sprint into the hallway. A few students glance at me as I half-run down staircases with all the grace of somebody fleeing tax fraud. Eventually, I shove through a heavy side door and stumble into freezing air.

Over twenty students are already assembled in the massive arena surrounded by towering stone walls. Everyone looks remarkably intense, dressed in various configurations of dark leather and tactical gear.

I take a spot near the back row, trying to look like a person who belongs in a secret military stronghold and not a girl who spent the last four years hiding behind a library cart.

“You know, looking like a deer in the headlights is generally considered an open invitation for predators in a place like this,” a voice murmurs to my right.

I glance sideways, shifting my weight to my back foot. Standing next to me is a guy around twenty with a mop of unruly golden hair and an easy, crooked smile that feels entirely too cheerful for seven o’clock on a cold morning. 

“I’m just experiencing a very profound appreciation for central heating that this courtyard is currently failing to provide,” I whisper back, adjusting the collar of my jacket to hide the faint purple bruising from my cliffside tumble. “Who’s asking?”

“Lucian Corwen,” he says, extending a hand that bears the thick, rough calluses of someone who handles heavy weaponry. “Former top tracker for the Timber-Ridge pack. Well, until Mating Day went sideways and I lost my mind.”

“Leia Thornwood,” I say, shaking his hand briefly. “Let me guess… you didn’t get the girl?”

Lucian lets out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle, shaking his head as he looks toward the front of the arena. “Worse. The girl left me for the Beta’s oldest son about three minutes before the ceremony became official. I ended up putting his head through a cedar banquet table and tearing apart half the northern pavilion. The Alpha didn’t appreciate the interior decorating choices, so he severed my bond before the sun could set.”

“How mean of him! And poor you was just trying to help redecorate,” I say, a genuine smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

He sighs dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. “The world just doesn’t get modern architecture.”

I snort a laugh. “Well, I’m here because I’m biologically incapable of turning into a furry killing machine, which apparently makes me a structural hazard back at Silvercrest.”

“No wolf at all?” Lucian tilts his head, his eyes tracking the line of my jaw with a curiosity that feels surprisingly devoid of the usual pity I get back home. “Damn. That’s rough. But honestly, I like the attitude. Most of the rookies here look like they’re about to wet themselves. I hope you survive the morning, though. This place eats the fragile ones for breakfast.”

“I’m not fragile, Lucian,” I say, looking back toward the center of the yard as two imposing figures step onto the raised stone dais. “I’m just incredibly expensive to maintain. Besides, I plan on sticking around long enough to find out where they keep the good coffee.”

The brief interaction leaves a strange, unfamiliar spark of warmth in my chest. After the cold rejection of my own bloodline, having someone look at me without immediate disgust feels like a luxury.

The low chatter across the yard dies instantly as Instructor Magnus steps forward . Beside him stands another black-eyed instructor standing with her arms crossed over a leather breastplate.

“Veterans, to the lower rings for resistance drills with Instructor Vane,” Magnus announces, his voice a deep, gravelly boom that carries easily across the arena. “Move.”

More than fifteen students immediately break away from the formation, moving to the other side of the arena. Lucian gives my shoulder a quick, encouraging squeeze before joining the departing crowd, leaving me standing with the remaining four new arrivals.

We are a sad little collection of misfits – a nervous redheaded girl who looks like she’s trying to dissolve into her own boots, two stocky guys from the western territories, and me.

“Listen up, rookies,” Magnus says, stepping down from the dais and pacing a line in the gravel directly in front of us. “Your first year at Eclipse Alpha is a meat grinder. To ensure you don’t accidentally incinerate yourselves or get slaughtered during the basic field exercises, you are being assigned senior student mentors. They will guide your studies, they will protect your asses in the wild, and if you lose control of the shadow resonance, they are legally authorized to put you down permanently. Do not make them use that authorization.”

A small group of four senior students emerges from the shadows of the western arcade. At the front of the group is a striking girl with platinum-blonde hair tied back in a high, severe ponytail.

“Ravenna,” Magnus says, gesturing to the blonde. “Take the vanguard rookie.”

The redheaded girl steps forward, her lower lip trembling slightly as Ravenna offers her a cold, calculated smile that looks about as welcoming as a winter storm. The other three seniors quickly claim the two stocky westerners, leaving them paired off and moving toward the training mats at the edge of the field.

And then… I’m standing alone. Again.

Apparently even magical mentoring rejects me.

Love the consistency.

“Um… I think you forgot someone,” I call out, raising an eyebrow at Magnus.

Magnus frowns, looking around. “Where is he?”

 “Unfortunately, here.” A deep voice answers behind me. 

Every muscle in my body stiffens.

No, no, no, no! I scream in my head. Absolutely not. Please, God no.

I turn around slowly, praying against everything that I have faulty hearing and someone else, literally anyone else, will walk through that door.

Damon walks with a slow, predatory grace with his hands tucked loosely into his tactical belt. And his piercing emerald-green eyes are fixed entirely on me with an expression that looks dangerously close to disgust.

He stops three feet away from me but looks at Magnus, his jaw tightening until the muscle bunches.

“Really, Magnus?” Damon says in an irritated rasp. “I told Claire I wanted someone who could at least run a basic perimeter sprint without breaking an ankle. This one doesn’t even have a wolf.”

My temper, which usually stays under a relatively stable layer of sarcastic defense, spikes instantly into the red zone. I step closer into his personal space, ignoring the absolute wall of muscle standing in front of me.

“Listen here, scarface,” I snap, my voice dripping with venom as I look straight into those green eyes. “I didn’t ask for a babysitter, and I certainly didn’t ask for a dick with an attitude problem. If you’re so terrified that my lack of fur is going to ruin your pristine training record, go back to your cave and let someone with an actual personality handle the assignment.”

A dead silence falls over the immediate area of the yard. Across the field, Ravenna pauses mid-instruction, shooting me a venomous, lethal glare that suggests I’ve just committed some kind of cardinal sin by speaking to her golden boy with anything less than worship.

Damon scoffs as he steps even closer, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “You have a lot of mouth for someone who nearly died because she couldn’t see a cliff edge, rookie. Let’s see if that tongue can stop a blade when the real work begins.”

“Try me,” I retort.

“Enough,” Magnus breaks in, his voice cutting through the tension. “The pairings are set. Damon, take your station. Rookies, gather around the central hearth. It’s time to begin your training.”