Chapter 5
1240 Words
By morning, my life had a border.
Not the invisible kind elders preached about—duty, respect, tradition. A blunt, practical line between what a Hollow could do and where a Hollow should keep her hands to herself.
I felt it first on the training field.
Habit took my feet along the packed dirt path, past storage sheds and the makeshift targets scarred by years of claws and blades. The air smelled like sweat, dust, and old adrenaline. Home.
Rowan Ashclaw was already barking orders, warriors moving through drills in neat pairs. Wooden swords cracked against each other, grunts breaking the rhythm.
Conversation dipped as I stepped into view.
“I can join second circuit,” I called, forcing my shoulders back. “Footwork and shields. I still remember which end of the sword to hold.”
A couple of heads snapped my way. Then, very deliberately, turned back.
Rowan glanced over. For a heartbeat his expression was the same as always—assessing, faintly impatient. Then something in his jaw tightened.
“Roster’s full,” he said.
“It’s never full,” I said. “You yell at us to show up even when we’re half-dead.”
“Things change.” His tone went flat, professional. “You’re off active drills.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “No one told me.”
“I just did.”
On the far side of the field, Darius was running through a sequence with another warrior. He froze mid-block, eyes cutting toward us. He didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.
“Rowan,” I dropped my voice, stepping a little closer. “You know I’m not a risk with a blade.”
“This isn’t about blades.” His gaze flicked to my face and away. “Orders from above. No Hollow on primary training where the Council might ask questions.”
There it was. The word, dropped like a rock between us.
For a second I thought about arguing. About saying I wasn’t going to sit at home and knit while everyone else bled.
Instead I heard myself say, very calmly, “Wouldn’t want to offend their delicate sensibilities.”
I turned before the heat behind my eyes could spill over.
Bootsteps fell into pace beside me a few breaths later.
“Rowan’s being a d**k,” Kael said conversationally. “Even for him.”
“He’s following orders,” I muttered.
“Still a dick.” He bumped his shoulder lightly into mine. “You heading to the infirmary? I’ll escort you. In case you terrify any more innocent warriors with your existence.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I try.”
The infirmary at least still smelled like mine: alcohol, dried herbs, metal and wool. Mara was bent over a ledger, lips moving as she counted vials. Nia was rewrapping a bandage on a teenager’s sprained wrist.
“You’re late,” my mother said without looking up.
“Got benched,” I said, shrugging out of my jacket. “Apparently Hollow is a non-combat class.”
Her hand stilled on the page for half a beat, then continued. “We’re low on willow bark. Grind what’s left. Nia will need it this afternoon.”
Work helped. Grinding, mixing, portioning. Letting muscle memory drown out the buzz in my head.
The door creaked.
“I need something for my shoulder,” a familiar voice said. “Took a hit on patrol.”
I didn’t have to turn to know it was Jace Ironclaw. His scent—oak and steel and too little sleep—hit a heartbeat later.
“Sit,” Mara said briskly. “Rhea—”
She cut off.
I straightened slowly, fingers sticky with paste, and turned.
Jace stood just inside the door, hand clamped over his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. His gaze skimmed the room—Mara, Nia, Kael—and landed on me.
A flicker tightened his jaw.
“Actually,” he said, looking back at my mother, “maybe Nia should take this one.”
The words were casual. Too casual.
“I’m right here,” I said. “I’ve patched you up a dozen times.”
Jace shifted his weight. “Thorne’s already sending reports to the Council. Last thing I need is someone deciding the beta handed his blood to a Hollow while we’re under scrutiny.”
There was no venom in his voice. Somehow that made it worse.
Nia flinched. “Jace—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in, because the alternative was choking. “You heard him. Can’t have my cursed hands on the chain of command.”
“That’s not—” He stopped, swore softly. “Rhea, it’s—”
“Sit down,” Nia said, sharper than I’d ever heard her. “I’ll handle it.”
I turned back to the mortar. If I walked out, it would feel like proving them right.
The pestle felt heavier than it should. Each grind echoed in my ribs. Behind me, Jace hissed as alcohol hit the wound. Mara’s voice went low and professional. Kael rattled through drawers with unnecessary force.
The door creaked again.
“Rhea?” a small voice piped up. “My knee is dying.”
I spun.
Milo stood there, hair sticking up in every direction, one sock half off, a smear of dirt on his cheek. He was limping dramatically, clutching his leg. Tessa hovered behind him, pale and exasperated.
“He tripped,” she said. “On air.”
“The ground attacked me,” Milo protested. Then he saw me properly and brightened. “You’ll fix it, right? Mama said you’re the best.”
For one heartbeat, I froze.
Rowan’s dismissal. Jace’s sidestep. Hollow whispered like a curse.
Milo just looked at me like…me.
Something deep inside—far, muffled, furious—stirred. My wolf, beating her fists against glass.
“Yeah,” I said. “Come here, trouble.”
He hopped up onto the pallet and stuck his leg out. The scrape was ugly, full of gravel, but shallow.
As I cleaned it, he chattered. “They said you didn’t go all wolfy with everyone else,” he announced. “But that’s stupid. You smell like pack. And tea. And cookies.”
“Cookies?” I echoed.
“Lysa sneaks them to him,” Tessa muttered.
Of course she did.
I finished taping the bandage and sat back. “There. All better. No more wrestling the ground today.”
Milo examined my work with comical seriousness, then grinned. “Told you she’s the best,” he informed Tessa, loud enough for half the room to hear.
Tessa met my eyes. Fear flickered there—not of me, but of a world that changed its rules overnight. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Something in my chest unclenched, just a little.
Behind me, I could feel Jace watching. His scent tasted of guilt now, sharp on the back of my tongue.
Maybe I wasn’t welcome on the stone.
Maybe the training field had a new invisible fence around it.
Maybe Hollow would cling to my name like smoke for a long, long time.
But Milo’s knee didn’t care what they called me.
His small, sticky hand slipped into mine for balance as he hopped down, trusting as only pups can be.
They could cut me from their rituals and rosters.
They didn’t get to decide I was nothing.
- Writer
