SIXTY ONE

SIXTY ONE
CIARA’S POV
The sparring ring felt smaller today. Every time I threw a punch or dodged Noah's strikes, Darragh's words echoed in my head: I think my father is the one who kills her.
His voice had cracked when he said it. The pain in it made my chest tight. How do you live with suspecting your own father of murder? How do you function when the person who raised you might be a killer? And I thought I had it bad.
I stumbled backward, Noah's fist barely missing my jaw. My feet tangled, and I hit the ground hard. The impact jarred my teeth.
"Again," Noah said, extending his hand to help me up.
I took it, brushing dirt from my training clothes. "Sorry. My head's not clear today."
"My head's not clear either," he said, stepping back into position. "It never is. But no one gives a damn about your state of mind on a battlefield." His eyes hardened. "You either win or you die."
I nodded, trying to shake off the fog in my brain. We'd been at this for an hour, and I'd barely landed a decent hit. Usually I could hold my own against Noah, but today felt different. Today I kept seeing Darragh's face, kept hearing the desperation in his voice.
"We'll do this again," Noah said. "And this time, I'm actually going to try to kill you." He tilted his head, studying me like I was prey. "Will you win, Luna Ciara? Or will you die?"
"What?" I blinked at him. He had to be joking.
He didn't answer. Instead, his claws extended—long, sharp points that gleamed in the afternoon sun. Before I could process what was happening, he lunged for my throat.
I threw myself sideways, his claws whistling past my ear. The sound they made cutting through air sent ice down my spine. This wasn't sparring anymore.
"Noah, what are you—"
He came at me again, faster this time. I barely got my arms up in time to block. His claws scraped against my forearms, leaving shallow cuts that immediately began to sting.
My heart hammered against my ribs. "Are you serious right now?"
He didn't respond. His face had gone blank, emotionless. He moved like a predator, each step calculated and deadly. When he swung again, I ducked and rolled to the side, coming up in a crouch.
"This is insane," I panted, but he was already moving.
His claws caught my shoulder this time, tearing through my shirt and into skin. Pain flared hot and sharp. Blood soaked through the fabric, warm and sticky.
"Stop!" I pressed my hand to the wound. "You actually cut me!"
"Blood doesn't matter on a battlefield," he said, circling me slowly. "Pain doesn't matter. Only survival."
He lunged again. I tried to dodge, but he was faster, stronger. His claws raked across my ribs, leaving burning lines of agony. I cried out, stumbling backward.
"Hold on, just stop for a second—"
But he didn't stop. He came at me like a wild animal, claws extended, teeth bared. I finally understood what was happening. This wasn't Noah anymore. This had to be the wolf beneath his skin, unleashed and hunting.
My own claws burst from my fingertips. The shift happened without conscious thought, driven by pure survival instinct. When he came at me again, I slashed at his chest.
He twisted away, my claws barely grazing him, then grabbed my wrist and spun me around. His arm locked around my throat from behind. Not tight enough to choke me, but the threat was clear.
"Better," he said in my ear. "But not good enough."
I drove my elbow back into his ribs. He grunted and loosened his grip just enough for me to slip free. I spun to face him, claws ready.
We circled each other, both breathing hard. Blood dripped from my cuts, pattering on the dirt like rain. My shoulder throbbed where he'd gotten me deepest.
He moved first, coming in low. I tried to jump back, but my foot caught on a stone. I went down hard, and he was on me before I could roll away.
His weight pinned me to the ground. One hand pressed against my chest, holding me down. The other hovered near my throat, claws extended.
"The academy will be ruthless," he said, his voice calm now. Normal. Like we were having a casual conversation instead of him holding me at claw-point. "It'll only be a matter of time before word spreads about you being a healer. That will bring you attention. Good and bad."
I tried to buck him off, but he was too heavy, too strong. "Get off me."
"People will favor you for no apparent reason," he continued, ignoring my struggles. "Others will despise you. They'll see your gift as an advantage they don't have, and they'll want to take it from you."
My chest heaved under his hand. "I get it. Can you please—"
"Your father wanted me to make sure you were ready." His claws pressed lightly against my throat. Not breaking skin, but close. "Forgive me for being harsh."
He rolled off me and stood, offering his hand again. I stared at it for a moment, then accepted the help up. My legs shook.
"Let's do it again," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "You should take a breather."
"No." I wiped blood from my lip with the back of my hand. "Let's go."
This time, I didn't wait for him to make the first move. I launched myself at him, claws leading. He sidestepped, but I was ready for it. I pivoted and caught him across the arm, leaving four parallel cuts.
He smiled—actually smiled—and came back at me twice as hard.
We fought like animals. No technique, no form, just pure instinct and desperation. His claws opened new wounds on my arms and legs. Mine left marks on his chest and shoulders. We bled together, painting the training ground red.
But he was still stronger. Still faster. When I overextended on a wild swing, he caught my wrist and used my momentum against me, flipping me over his shoulder.
I hit the ground so hard the breath left my lungs in a whoosh. Before I could recover, he was on top of me again, pinning me down with his full weight.
"Much better," he said, breathing hard. "But you still have ground to cover."
I tried to throw him off. Pushed with my legs, twisted with my hips, clawed at his arms. Nothing worked. He held me down like I weighed nothing.
Anger built in my chest, hot and fierce. Not just at Noah, but at everything. At Darragh's pain. At the academy looming ahead of us. At my own weakness. How was I supposed to change things if I could not win a fucking spar?
The anger grew hotter. Colder. Both at the same time.
A chill crawled from somewhere deep inside me, spreading through my chest and down my arms. My heartbeat slowed. The world around me shifted, colors bleeding away until everything looked red.
Noah's voice became muffled, distant. Like he was speaking to me from underwater.
I tried to push him off again, and this time he slid away too easily. Way too easily. My hand moved without my permission, going straight for his throat. I didn't think about it, didn't plan it. The motion felt automatic, like my body knew what to do even if my mind didn't.
Noah jerked back, but not fast enough. My claws caught his hands as he threw them up to protect himself. They went through his flesh like it was paper.
But something was wrong. My hand was glowing.
Not the soft blue light of my healing power. This was different. Red and angry and wrong. It pulsed with my slowed heartbeat, growing brighter with each beat.
"What the hell—" Noah started to say, then looked down at his hands.
Where my claws had pierced him, his skin was turning black. The darkness spread outward from the wounds, creeping up his fingers like spilled ink.
"Luna Ciara!" someone shouted.
Heavy footsteps pounded across the training ground. Three sentinels burst into the ring, weapons drawn. The first one grabbed my glowing hand to pull me away from Noah.
He screamed.
The sound cut through whatever trance I was in. I watched in horror as the sentinel's hand began to rot where he touched me. His skin blistered and peeled, revealing muscle and bone underneath. The decay spread up his arm like a disease.
He fell to his knees, still screaming, clutching his ruined hand to his chest.
"What did you do?" one of the other sentinels yelled, raising his sword.
Before he could strike, the healer appeared. She moved faster than I'd ever seen her move, sliding to her knees beside the injured sentinel. Her hands glowed with healing light as she pressed them to his rotting arm.
The decay stopped. The sentinel's screaming faded to whimpers. His hand looked wrong—twisted and scarred—but it wasn't getting worse.
The healer looked at me over her shoulder. Her expression was unreadable, but something in her eyes made my stomach drop.
She finished stabilizing the sentinel, then stood and walked toward me. I backed away instinctively.
"Turn it off," she said quietly.
"What?"
"The rot." She nodded toward my still-glowing hand. "Turn it off."
I looked down at myself. My hand pulsed with that angry red light. Noah knelt a few feet away, staring at his blackened fingers in shock.
I forced myself to breathe. Deep, slow breaths. My heart began to speed up, returning to its normal rhythm. The red tint faded from my vision. The glow in my hand flickered, then died.
The silence that followed was deafening.
I looked at the injured sentinel, then at Noah, then at the healer. "Did I do that?"
"We need to have a talk, Luna Ciara," She said. She took my uninjured hand in hers—carefully, gently. "Come with me."
I let her lead me away from the training ground, away from the blood and the screaming and the smell of rotting flesh. But I couldn't stop looking back at the sentinel I'd hurt.
What was happening to me? I thought the gift of Healers were supposed to save people, not destroy them.
But the power I'd felt—the cold, terrible hunger for destruction—it had felt natural. Like it belonged to me.
Like it had always been there, waiting.