Chapter 80 Breaking before becoming
IRIS
The soreness wakes me before the sun does.
Every muscle in my body protests as I roll out of bed, the ache in my legs sharp and persistent. My arms are worse, tight and heavy from yesterday’s training. Even breathing feels like it takes effort.
Still, I get up.
I don’t know if it’s stubbornness or guilt or something else, but I lace up my shoes, throw on a hoodie, and head outside. The sky is still that pale, pre-dawn gray.
The clearing looks the same as yesterday, but I don’t.
I’m already tired.
My grandfather is waiting, as expected. He gives no greeting, just a nod, and then we begin.
No warm-up. No talk.
Just motion.
He runs me through the same stances. The same breathing. The same footwork. Again and again.
And again.
“Weight on the balls of your feet,” he says.
I adjust.
“Too far forward.”
I shift.
“Now you’re back on your heels.”
“I’m trying,” I snap, before I can stop myself.
“Trying’s not good enough,” he says flatly.
I grit my teeth and reposition. Sweat already beads on my neck, even in the cold.
We move to strikes. He holds the pad on his forearm, waiting. I throw the punch.
“Sloppy,” he mutters. “Your wrist is off.”
Another punch. He shakes his head.
“You’re leading with your shoulder.”
Another. “Too stiff.”
I throw a fourth one with a frustrated grunt. It lands harder, but I already know it’s wrong. My knuckles throb.
“Now you’re just swinging.”
“I know,” I hiss.
He doesn’t let up.
“Then do it right.”
We repeat the motion until I feel like I’m unraveling. I can’t seem to get my body to cooperate. My limbs feel like they belong to someone else. I miss my footing. I forget to breathe. My balance wavers. I fall. Twice.
Each time, he says nothing. Just waits.
By the third time, I stay on the ground longer than I should, my knees in the damp grass, my palms stinging. I feel the frustration building under my skin like pressure under glass.
“Again,” he says.
I get up, fists clenched.
“You need to feel where your center is,” he says, his tone bordering on sharp now. “Not guessing or thinking. Feel. You’re disconnected.”
“I’m trying to connect,” I shoot back, my voice raised.
“Then stop getting in your own way.”
My jaw tightens. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple. You’re making it hard.”
That breaks something.
I laugh, bitter and humorless. “You think I want to be bad at this? That I enjoy failing in front of you every five seconds?”
He folds his arms, face unreadable. “This isn’t about me.”
“Yes, it is!” I shout, louder now. My chest is heaving. My hands shake. “It’s all about you. About this family. About the legacy. About the pack. About a war I didn’t ask to be part of. You’re the one who put me in this situation in the first place! I would be living my life completely normally if you didn’t fuck it up before I was even born!”
A silence drops like a hammer between us. Cold. Sharp. Final.
He doesn’t speak. Not for a long moment.
When he does, it’s not with anger, but the blunt, quiet truth.
“And now you have to make a choice. Train and be able to defend yourself or die when they come for you.”
“Do you even care?” I scream, eyes burning now. “You, in your selfishness, brought this upon us. And now I’m the one paying for it!”
My voice cracks. I try to swallow it, but it’s too late.
Tears spill over before I can stop them. Hot. Furious. Ugly.
“I didn’t ask for this,” I whisper. “I didn’t ask to be hunted. I didn’t ask to be a werewolf. I didn’t ask to lose everything.”
I’m crying now, full-on, shoulders shaking, breath hitching in my throat. It feels like the cold air around me is pushing in from every angle. My grandfather stays silent, unmoved, and somehow that makes it worse.
I turn.
I walk.
I don’t even know if he calls after me. If he does, I don’t hear it.
All I hear is the crunch of wet leaves beneath my feet and the rush of blood in my ears.
I don’t go back to the house.
Instead, I head toward the path that curves around the north end of the property. Two days ago, I found a break in the trees that led to a small lake, still, quiet, untouched. I don’t think anyone comes here anymore. Maybe they forgot it existed.
I push through the underbrush until I reach it.
The water is glass, dark and smooth, reflecting the overcast sky above. Pine trees line the edges like sentinels. A few birds call in the distance, but otherwise, it’s silent. Perfectly, achingly silent.
I sink down at the edge, my knees pulling to my chest, forehead resting on them.
And I cry.
Not just because of the training.
Not just because of my grandfather.
But because of everything.
Darian, whose silence feels like betrayal.
My own body, which doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
And I cried the life I thought I’d get to have, the one with late-night movies and college applications and friends who don’t turn into monsters.
For the wolf under my skin, clawing to get out.
For the girl above it, falling apart.
The tears come in waves. I don’t try to stop them this time.
I let them wash through me, burn through me, empty me.
It feels awful. And necessary.
Eventually, the sobs quiet. My breath evens out. The tightness in my chest lessens, just a little. I wipe my face with the sleeve of my hoodie and stare out over the lake.
The surface ripples gently now, disturbed only by a breeze.
I think about what my grandfather said about survival.
About control.
I hate him for how blunt he is. For how cold he can seem. But beneath that, I think I understand. I think I see what he’s trying to do.
Not only to make me a fighter, but to make me ready.
Because in his eyes, if I’m not ready, I’m already dead.
Still, I can’t go back to that clearing. Not yet. Not like this.
So I stay.
I sit by the lake until the sun pushes through the clouds and warms my face. Until the numbness fades. Until the weight of it all settles into something I can carry again, even if just for a little while longer.
And when I finally stand, legs stiff and eyes sore, I don’t know if I’m stronger or just more tired.
But I know I’ll go back.
Not for anyone.
For me.