Chapter 2 Cedric

Isla

My place. The cripple. The disappointment. The healer who should remain at home, tending to herbs instead of chasing dreams.

But then, something ignites within me… cold, pure rage. It burns hotter than the pain, brighter than the humiliation. With a snarl that feels more animal than human, I push myself up. My leg protests, a fire of screaming nerves, but I force weight onto it. I ignore Ian. I ignore the crowd. I lurch forward, my gait a lopsided run, but it’s a run. One foot in front of the other. Each stride is defiance.

The distance closes: ten yards. Five. I don’t slow. I crash through the finish line, a muddy, stumbling wreck, but I’m through. I collapse to my knees, chest heaving, body trembling with exhaustion and pain. I did it. The first part is done.

The wiry girl and the ginger stand nearby, clutching water skins, their expressions unreadable. Master Goran is nowhere to be seen, but I feel his presence like a cold wind. He witnessed it all.

The whispers start again, but they’ve changed. They’re no longer about the cripple who shouldn’t be there; they’re about the girl who got up. The girl who finished.

Another horn blows, a different note note this one, deeper and more solemn. "Finals," a gruff instructor bellows. "Combatants, to the ring."

I push myself up, using my good leg, wincing as I put even the slightest pressure on the other. The combat ring is a large circle of packed, scarred earth, surrounded by towering stone pillars. Torches cast long, dancing shadows. The crowd is thicker here, the air electric with anticipation. This is what they've come for. Blood.

We do not have to win, actually we are not expected to… but we have to prove our worth and out smarts in a fight.

The ginger is called first. He steps into the ring, and his opponent, a massive second-year student with a jagged scar across his nose, steps forward. The fight is brutal, short, and one-sided. The ginger has power, but the second-year has technique. He uses the boy's own momentum against him, tripping, sidestepping, landing sharp, precise blows. The ginger goes down, gasping, a foot pressed to his throat. The crowd roars its approval.

The wiry girl is next. Her opponent is a slender, quick-moving girl. Their fight is a blur of motion, a deadly dance. The wiry girl is faster, but her opponent is clever, using the ring's boundaries to her advantage. In the end, it's a feint, a trip, and a decisive hold that ends it. The wiry girl lies panting, her face pressed into the dirt.

Then my name is called. "Isla Ulvehjerte."

The crowd parts for me, a sea of silent, staring faces. My limp feels more pronounced than ever, a clumsy, thudding rhythm on the hard-packed earth. I step into the ring, the torchlight hot on my skin. The air is still. Every eye is on me.

And then, my heart stops.

My opponent steps forward from the group of second-years, and it's not just any one of them. It's him. My friend, before he went here to train. The one I let myself fantasize about for years. The one I thought, probably stupidly, might be my mate.

Cedric Grayson, son of our beta.

He is exactly as I remember, even more so up close. The moonlight catches the white-gold of his hair, making it a halo against the darkness. His eyes, the clear, bright blue of a winter sky, find mine. There is no warmth in them. No recognition of the shy girl from the Stonefang territory who used to watch him train. There is only surprise, followed quickly by a flush of deep, mortifying embarrassment. He looks away, as if my presence is a personal affront, a stain on his reputation.

The instructor's voice booms. "Begin."

Cedric doesn't move. He stands there, a perfect, golden statue of a warrior. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to be seen fighting the cripple. The shame of it, the very idea of it, is written in the stiff set of his shoulders.

"Grayson!" the instructor snaps. "Are you waiting for an invitation?"

Finally, he moves. He circles me, not with predatory grace, but with a kind of reluctant caution. He's testing me. Seeing the limp. Seeing the mud caked on my clothes. Seeing the exhaustion.

I stand my ground. My body is a battlefield of aches and pains. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind the cold, hard reality of my injuries. I won't win this. I know that. Master Goran said not to waste his time. He wasn't talking about the registration line. He was talking about this fight.

But I don't have to win. I just have to make him fight me. I just have to prove I'm not a joke.

Cedric darts in, a quick, probing jab aimed at my shoulder. It's a test, not a real attack. I twist away, the motion pulling at my bad leg. A fresh jolt of pain. He sees me wince. A flicker of something crosses his face. Not pity. More like… confirmation. This is as he expected.

"Isla," he says, his voice a low murmur, meant only for me. His voice is the soft tone I remember, I just to think it meant he cared, now I am not so sure. "What are you doing? This isn't for you. Go back to the healers' tents."

His words are a brand. They're exactly what Ian said, exactly what my father would say. A dismissal. He thinks I'm weak, that I can’t do it… he thinks I belong in a different, smaller world.

"No," I breathe out.

He sighs, a sound of profound irritation. Then he moves. He's faster than I expected, a blur of controlled power. His technique is flawless. He doesn't aim for killing blows. He aims for incapacitation. He moves to sweep my good leg out from under me. I see it coming and jump, a clumsy, desperate leap. I land, my bad leg screaming in protest. He's already there, a feint to the left, a real strike to the right. I throw my arm up to block the impact. The force of it sends a shockwave up to my shoulder. My arm goes numb.

He could end it now. A trip, a hold, a press of his thumb to the nerve cluster in my neck. It would be over in seconds. But he doesn't. He's drawing it out, perhaps to make a point, perhaps to avoid the decisive, ugly-looking victory. He's treating me like a child having a tantrum, one he needs to patiently subdue.

Another strike. I duck under it, the wind of his passage ruffling my hair. I'm inside his guard. For a split second, I have an opening. I lunge, not with a punch, but with my shoulder, driving it into his midsection. I get a solid hit. A grunt of surprise escapes him. He stumbles back a step. A small victory. But it costs me. My leg gives out, and I start to fall.

He catches me. His hands are on my arms, steadying me, holding me up. His grip is firm, but not brutal. For a heartbeat, we are close. Too close. I can feel the warmth of his skin, smell the clean, masculine scent of him… sunlight and pine and the faint, metallic tang of magic. My stupid, treacherous heart flutters. The blue of his eyes is so close, so intense. This is what I dreamed of. His hands on me.

"Stop," he whispers, his breath warm against my cheek. The word is not a command for the fight to end. It's a plea. "You're going to get yourself seriously hurt. Just yield. Please, Isla."