Chapter 3 A friend

Isla

He used my name. A traitorous warmth spreads through my chest. And in its wake comes a wave of cold, crystal-clear fury. He's not embarrassed to be fighting me. He's afraid of being the one to break me. I'm a delicate thing to him. A fragile, broken doll he doesn't want to shatter. The pity is worse than the derision.

"I yield," I say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I pull out of his grip, my face burning with a shame so hot it feels like a physical blow.

The instructor's horn blares, signaling the end of the bout. The crowd, which had been hushed, murmurs to life. I don't look at Cedric. I can't. I turn and limp away from the ring, from the pity, from the man I thought I wanted. I just need to get away.

I push through the press of bodies, not seeing faces, just feeling their gazes like pinpricks on my skin. I find a dark corner near the weapon racks, sagging against the cool stone. My leg is on fire, and my shoulder throbs in a dull, agonizing rhythm. I close my eyes, just for a second, to block it all out.

Did I do enough to get accepted? If not I will just be the cribble who thought She could be a warrior… a laughing stock or someone to pity for her foolishness. I do not want to be either.

"That was some impressive work out there." A voice says in front of me.

My eyes snap open. A girl is standing in front of me. She's tall and muscular, with hair the color of midnight chopped short around a face full of sharp angles. Her eyes, a startling shade of blue, are appraising me. She's from my group og pledges. The one who watched me finish with grudging respect. She's holding a waterskin.

"I'm Liora Elva," she says, holding it out. "From the Shadowtail pack."

I just stare at it. Liora Elva. The pack name rings a bell, something about them being known for their scouts, their uncanny ability to vanish. I take the skin, my fingers brushing hers. "Isla," I manage, my throat tight. I take a long swallow, the water cool and welcome against my raw throat.

"I saw what your brother did… what a dick," she says, her voice low and steady. "And I saw what you did in the ring." She takes the waterskin back and takes a drink herself. "He wanted you to break. To prove you were weak. You almost let him."

I flinch. Her honesty is brutal.

"But you didn't," she continues, her gaze direct. "You got up and you finished. And you didn't throw a tantrum when the golden boy went easy on you, trying to make you look fragile. You yielded on your own terms." A small, almost feral smile touches her lips. "That's more than I can say for half the brutes in this trial. They were sniveling for their mothers."

I don't know what to say to that. Praise feels foreign, like a garment that doesn't fit. Praise is not something I am used to.

"Come on," she says, jerking her head toward the medic tents. "You need that shoulder looked at before they kick you out for being too damaged to use."

The medic tent is a chaos of blood and groans and the sharp, clean smell of antiseptic herbs. I have been lucky, there are a couple of gruesome injuries in here.

A healer with kind eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor resets my shoulder with a sickening pop that leaves me gasping, her grip firm and surprisingly gentle. "You'll be sore," she says, wrapping it tight with clean linen. "Stay off the leg as much as you can for a day or two."

Liora waits outside, leaning against a tent pole. As I emerge, she falls into step beside me without a word, her presence a quiet comfort I hadn't realized I needed. We walk back toward the main grounds, the noise of the trials fading behind us.

The grounds are nearly empty now, the last of the combat bouts finished. A few instructors are conferring by the main board, where they post the results. My stomach clenches. I have to see. I have to know if that was all for nothing.

Liora seems to read my mind. "Come, lets see if they posted the lists," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

We approach the board. A crowd has already gathered, a sea of faces searching the parchment, their expressions ranging from jubilation to despair. My heart sinks. I see the ginger guys name, scrawled in Goran's harsh script. Rejected. A wave of cold washes over me. He was so strong. If he didn't make it... my eyes scan frantically past the lists of names. Accepted. Accepted. Rejected. It's a brutal, final verdict.

Then I see it. My own name. Next to it is the single, stark word…