Willa
The air in the training yard tastes of steel and sweat. It is a familiar language. Here, at least, the ground is honest dirt and not polished marble. My packmates and I stand to the side, watching the Royal Guard drill. They move with a synchronized, mechanical precision. All gleaming silver armor and identical stances. It is impressive, like a well made clock. But a clock can only tell time. It cannot hunt.
Finn shifts beside me. “They fight like dancers.”
“Dancers with very sharp swords,” Kael murmurs, his arms crossed over his chest. “But he’s right. There’s no soul in it.”
I say nothing. I just watch their captain, a mountain of a man named Marcus, as he demonstrates a disarming technique. He is fast, powerful, and flawless in his execution. He is also predictable. Every move is a perfect echo of the one before. It is the kind of fighting that wins tournaments, not the kind that keeps you alive when a blighted bear is tearing through your camp.
“Well, well. Look what the forest dragged in.”
Lady Seraphina’s voice cuts through the morning air. She approaches, a vision in pale lavender silk that has no place in a training yard. Two of her ladies trail behind her like perfectly groomed hounds. Her smile is bright and entirely fake.
“Enjoying the display, Willa?” she asks, her eyes sweeping over our worn leathers with disdain. “It must be quite a change from your… rustic brawls.”
“We call it fighting,” I say, my voice flat. “Brawling is what pups do over a scrap of meat.”
Her smile tightens. “Of course. Forgive my ignorance of your savage customs.”
She turns her attention to the yard, raising her voice so all can hear. “Captain Marcus! A moment, if you please.”
The guards stop their drills. Captain Marcus turns, his helmet tucked under his arm. He inclines his head. “Lady Seraphina.”
“Our guests from the Crescent Fang pack seem fascinated by your methods,” she says, gesturing to us. “I was just thinking, what better way to foster understanding between the court and our… visitors… than a practical demonstration?”
A cold knot forms in my stomach. I know exactly where this is going.
“A demonstration?” Captain Marcus asks, his brow furrowing.
“A friendly spar,” Seraphina corrects, her gaze locking onto mine. A challenge. A trap. “To learn from one another. A chance for you to demonstrate the refined arts of combat to one who has only known the wild.”
Whispers erupt from the courtiers who have gathered to watch the training. This is better than drills. This is entertainment.
“I don’t know if that’s wise, my lady,” Marcus says, his eyes flicking to me. There is no fear in his gaze, only the caution of a professional. “The King would not want any… accidents.”
“Oh, I’m sure Willa can handle herself,” Seraphina purrs. “She is a great huntress, after all. Or is it that the great warrior of the Crescent Fang is afraid to test her skills against a real soldier?”
Her words are a slap. Refusing now would be an admission of fear, an insult to my pack. It would prove I am exactly the savage she believes me to be.
Finn steps forward. “She has nothing to prove to you.”
“Doesn’t she?” Seraphina’s eyes glitter. “The King has placed her on his council. An exile. A savage. Some might say she has everything to prove. To all of us.”
I put a hand on Finn’s chest, holding him back. I look from Seraphina’s triumphant face to the impassive one of Captain Marcus. Then my eyes drift past them, to the stone balcony overlooking the yard. Theron stands there, watching. He has been there the whole time. He is a silent, brooding statue, and I cannot read his expression from this distance. But I feel his gaze. It is a physical weight.
This is not just for Seraphina. This is for him. This is for all of them.
“Fine,” I say, my voice clear and steady. “I will spar with the Captain.”
Finn lets out a frustrated breath. Kael just shakes his head slowly.
Seraphina claps her delicate hands together. “Wonderful! Captain, do be gentle. We wouldn’t want to chip her fangs.”
Captain Marcus gives me a long, measuring look. “What is your weapon?”
“Knives,” I say.
He nods toward a rack of gleaming weapons. “Choose a sword. A fair match requires equal arms.”
“I am not a stranger to a sword,” I say, my hand drifting to the worn hilts at my belt. “But I am an expert with these. I will use my own weapons. Unless the Captain is the one who is afraid?”
His jaw tightens. The insult lands. “As you wish.”
He strides to the center of the yard, picking up his practice sword and a round shield. The sword is blunted, but it is still a heavy piece of steel. I walk to meet him, drawing my two hunting knives. They are perfectly balanced, extensions of my own hands. One has a slightly longer blade than the other. I have used them to skin deer and to kill men.
The assembled courtiers form a wide circle. Seraphina positions herself for the best view, her face alight with anticipation. She expects to see me broken and humiliated.
Marcus settles into his stance. Shield forward, sword held ready. It is a perfect, textbook defensive posture. “Ready?”
I do not answer. I simply launch myself forward.
I am not aiming for him. I am aiming for his shield. I leap, planting my foot squarely in the center of the wood and steel boss, using it as a springboard. The move is so unexpected he stumbles back a step. I twist in the air, landing silently behind him.
He spins, his sword arcing through the air where I was a second ago. I am already moving, low to the ground. I sweep my leg out, catching his ankle. It is not enough to topple a man his size, but it is enough to break his perfect stance. He grunts in frustration, his form faltering for a heartbeat.
It is all I need.
He fights like a soldier on an open field, expecting a direct confrontation. I fight like a predator in a forest, using speed, misdirection, and the environment itself. He is a rock. I am the water that flows around it.
He lunges, a powerful thrust meant to drive me back. I do not retreat. I move into the attack, parrying the heavy blade with my left knife, the sound of steel on steel ringing through the yard. The force of the blow judders up my arm, but I hold. With my right hand, I slice upward, scoring a long, shallow line across the leather vambrace on his sword arm.
He jumps back, surprised. A murmur goes through the crowd. This is not the easy victory they expected.
“You are quick,” he says, a grudging respect in his voice.
“You are slow,” I reply, my breath coming in even puffs. I am just getting warm.
His eyes narrow. The politeness is gone. He comes at me again, not with a single lunge, but with a flurry of blows. A storm of steel. He is trying to overwhelm me, to use his superior strength and reach to beat me into submission. It is a solid strategy.
I give ground, letting him push me back. I am a whirlwind of motion, my knives flashing, deflecting, redirecting. Each clang of his sword against my blades sends a shock through my bones, but I do not break. I let him think he is winning. I let him push me toward the weapon racks lining the edge of the yard.
Seraphina is smiling now, her victory seemingly at hand. “Finish it, Captain! Show this creature her place.”
His confidence swells. He swings his shield, trying to bash me. I drop, letting it whistle over my head, and drive the pommel of my knife into his knee. He roars in pain and his leg buckles slightly.
I use the moment. I kick off the weapon rack behind me, a shower of discarded practice shields clattering to the ground. The noise makes him flinch for a vital second. I am on him before he can recover.
I do not attack his sword or his shield. I attack him. My left knife snakes under his guard, the flat of the blade pressing against the side of his neck. My right hand darts out, twisting the head of my other knife into the tiny gap in his armor at the wrist. I apply pressure to the nerve there.
His fingers go numb. The sword drops from his hand, clattering onto the dirt with a sound of finality.
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.
Captain Marcus freezes, his eyes wide. The flat of my blade is cold against his throat. We are both breathing heavily. The only sounds are the rustle of the wind and the distant cry of a hawk.
I hold the position for a long moment, letting everyone see. Letting them understand. Then I step back, lowering my knives.
Captain Marcus slowly straightens up, shaking his hand to bring the feeling back. He looks at his sword on the ground, then at me. He does not look angry. He looks astonished.
He bends down, picks up his sword, and then offers me a short, formal bow. “A humbling lesson, my lady. Your skill is… unconventional. And formidable.”
The grudging respect from him is worth more than a thousand empty compliments from these courtiers. The other guards around the yard are looking at me differently now. Not as an oddity. As a warrior.
My eyes find Seraphina. Her face is a mask of cold fury. The perfect smile is gone, replaced by a thin, bloodless line. If looks could kill, I would be a corpse on the training yard dirt. Her plan has not just failed. It has backfired in the most public way possible.
“The wild has its own lessons, Lady Seraphina,” I say, my voice carrying in the quiet. “You should try visiting sometime.”
I turn my back on her before she can respond. My gaze travels up to the balcony. Theron is still there. He has not moved. But I can see him more clearly now. I see the shock on his face, warring with something else. Something that looks like profound, undeniable admiration. He is not just impressed. He looks like a man who has been starving and has just been shown a feast.
The silent battle in his eyes lasts only a moment before his kingly mask slides back into place. But I saw it. The hunger. The awe.
I have not earned a friend in Lady Seraphina today. I have solidified an enemy. But I have also earned something else. Respect. And in this gilded cage, respect is a weapon far sharper than any knife.
