Chapter 147 – Blood and Bruises
Hazel
The training yard stinks of sweat and churned snow. Frost clings to the posts and to the edges of the obstacle wall, but the center is already beaten clear by boots and blood.
My blood, mostly. My shoulder throbs where I take a spear-butt too slow, and there’s a bloom of purple already swelling under the edge of my collar.
It doesn’t matter. I spit blood into the dirt and reset my stance.
“Again,” I snap before the captain can even open his mouth.
I will not fail today. I’ll impress this man and earn my place in the elite warriors squad. There are no other options.
The wolf across from me, older, broader, one of those who openly scoffed when a Delta petitioned for the warrior track, grins like he’s been handed dessert. His blade flashes, a blunted practice sword meant to bruise instead of cut, though he has the air of a man who wouldn’t mind if it cracks bone.
He comes in fast and I take the first strike on my guard, but the second slips past and slams into my ribs. Pain steals my breath, but I let it fuel me. I step in, drive my elbow into his sternum, and when he staggers, I bring my sword around and tap him hard enough on the back of the head to make him curse.
“Point to Hazel,” the captain barks. His voice carries no surprise, only a clipped acknowledgment. At least he doesn’t seem predisposed to turning me down. That’s something.
A ripple of noise runs through the yard. Some wolves laugh, some mutter, but nobody misses the way my opponent shoots me a look that’s half fury, half reluctant respect.
Good. Let them choke on it.
The rest of the morning blurs into pain and bruises. Neither of which I’ll allow to slow me down. This is it. If I make it through the trial today, I’m in.
The obstacle course leaves my palms raw from rope climbs and my lungs on fire from sprinting through snowdrifts. Tactical drills mean standing chest-to-chest with wolves who outweigh me, arguing out battle maps until my throat is hoarse. Every time someone tries to dismiss me, I dig in harder, louder, sharper.
By midday I’m drenched, hair plastered to my temples, body aching like I’ve been dragged behind a horse. I refuse to yield.
When the horn blows for the last sparring set, my arms shake from exhaustion. I square off against Garrick. One of the loudest voices against my induction. He’s a wall of muscle, beard frosted with ice, eyes gleaming with the smug certainty that he’ll flatten me.
He nearly does, until I get my shit together and start using my strengths instead of putting everything I have into defending against his.
He knocks me down twice, once with a shoulder check that leaves my back screaming, once with a leg sweep that smashes my elbow into the ground. Both times I roll back up. I hear jeers from the sidelines, but I also hear a few whistles. I’m a little surprised by the encouragement.
The third time he comes at me, I duck under his swing, slide behind him, and use all my weight to slam the hilt of my practice blade into his kidneys. He staggers, and I plant a boot on his calf and shove.
He goes down to one knee and the yard roars.
I don’t gloat. I don’t even smile. I just raise my sword in salute and wait for the call.
“Point to Hazel,” the captain says, louder this time.
I drop my blade, chest heaving, sweat stinging my eyes. The taste of iron in my mouth is mine and earned. Garrick climbs to his feet, eyes burning, but when he offers his arm, I clasp it. His grip is crushing. Respect, finally, even if I had to force it.
The crowd buzzes louder than before. Wolves who haven’t so much as looked at me during the last month are nudging each other, whispering like they’ve just seen the impossible. For the first time, I don’t feel like an outsider on their snow-beaten earth. I feel like I belong.
That evening the entire yard assembles. Torches spit smoke into the dusk, and the air hums with anticipation. My body is one long bruise, but I stand tall, chin up and hands steady.
The captain, grizzled, scarred, one eye missing, steps forward and his voice carries like thunder.
“Hazel of Blackthorn. You’ve bled. You’ve broken. You’ve risen. By the trials of this yard and the law of the pack, you are now a warrior of Blackthorn.”
For a heartbeat, the world stops. Deadly silence meets the proclamation and my heart sinks.
Then the cheer breaks over me like a wave. Wolves pound their weapons on the ground, voices lifting, a drumbeat of approval that makes my bones vibrate.
Some of the older skeptics even tip their heads, grudging acknowledgment written in every line of their posture. I can feel my own grin splitting my face in two.
Someone shoves a new insignia into my hand. Iron shaped into the Blackthorn crest, proof that I’ve done what no Delta has in living memory.
I swallow hard, my throat tight.
I’ve actually done it. I’m a warrior.
I try not to glance at the edge of the yard. I try not to see Jace leaning against the fence post, arms folded, face unreadable. He hasn’t spoken to me all week except in drills, his voice flat as ever, giving nothing away. But I feel the weight of his gaze now, as sharp as a hawk’s.
My fingers tighten around the insignia. Part of me wants to run to him, shove it under his nose, demand he say something. Anything. Instead I lift it high for the crowd, grinning until my cheeks hurt.
The pack’s roar grows louder.
Over the noise, Eli’s whistle cuts sharp and sweet. I turn, and there he is, leaning against Ronan like he’s grown there, grinning wickedly, clapping so slowly and dramatically it makes half the yard laugh. His eyes catch mine, bright with mischief. He mouths, Go show your commander your bruises.
Heat rushes to my face. I scowl at him. He only smirks wider, elbowing Ronan until even the Alpha cracks a reluctant smile.
Later, when the crowd disperses and the torches burn low, I sit on the steps of the lodge, legs trembling with exhaustion, insignia heavy in my palm.
Jace walks past, boots crunching. He pauses to look at me and for a heartbeat, I think, I hope, he’ll speak. His eyes soften, just ever so slightly, like thaw beginning under ice.
Then he nods once and keeps walking.
It’s nothing. Less than nothing. But my chest aches like he’s carved it open.
I press the insignia to my heart and tell myself it’s enough.
For now.
Because tomorrow I’ll be back in the yard, bruises or not, proving every day that I belong. And maybeone day I’ll earn more than a nod.
But tonight, I’m a warrior. And no one can take that from me.