Untamable

Chapter 11 Training

Elizabeth’s POV

The morning mist is still draped over the ground like a cozy blanket that refuses to be shaken off. Meanwhile, Echo's boots are on a mission to drown every dew-laden blade of grass in their path. My arm is twisted behind my back, her elbow pinning my neck with such vigor that I am half-convinced my bones might snap at any second.

“Feel the vibrations of the earth,” her raspy voice tickles my ear like she’s sharing an ancient secret instead of a combat technique. “When an enemy attacks from the right, you must ground your left leg like the roots of an ancient tree.”

My cheek isn’t a fan of this damp meadow, and the metallic hint of rust that fills my nostrils is more than enough to make my brain reconsider its life choices. With my fingernails sporting the latest muddy, blood-caked look by my thirty-seventh unplanned mud facial, I’m starting to seriously question our friendship.

“Get up,” Echo commands with enthusiasm, releasing me from the dirt’s embrace. “Let’s do it again.”

Clenching my fists against the pain, I can still feel the sting of a cross-shaped wound—a not-so-charming souvenir from Catherine’s bowstring—etched freshly into my palm.

Yesterday, as rain poured down in sheets, I secretly hoped for a break, assuming training would be postponed. But of course, Catherine remained unfazed, treating the storm as little more than a light drizzle.

Under the relentless downpour, my arms wobbled against the strain of the bowstring, and my vision blurred with rain. “The target is at nine o'clock by the birch root,” Catherine’s voice sliced through the rain with an elegance that seemed impervious to the weather. “Can you see it?”

“I can't see a thing,” I grumbled, attempting to blink away what felt like a waterfall trained directly into my eyes. "It might as well be invisible."

“Don’t grumble about the weather, darling. We don’t choose our battles; they choose us. Be ready wherever they find you.” Catherine smiles, adjusting my bow slightly. “No sight of the target? Well, then let’s perfect how strong you hold that bow. Let’s aim for perfection, hmm?”

I maintained that pose for fifteen minutes, muscles quivering, arms close to revolt, threatening to drop the bow straight into the mud.

“Much improved from day one,” Catherine chuckled warmly. I doubted it was a chuckle that promised more days of this torture. “Remember your first attempt? The string might as well have been glued down. Hand it over.”

Relieved to hand the bow over, Catherine moved like poetry in motion. Eyes narrowing, bow drawn, arrow nocked, and released effortlessly.

I didn't just hear the satisfying thrum of the bowstring.

I witnessed pure magic.

The arrow streaked through the curtain of rain, executing a flawless arc before nailing a pinecone squarely on a tree branch. A nearby squirrel, who had been blissfully sheltered beneath the tree, suddenly found its afternoon snack ceremoniously impaled. Eyes wide with shock and indignation, the squirrel took one look at its once-relaxing snack now skewered as part of my archery practice and promptly decided it was time to go. With a dramatic flick of its tail, it bolted for cover, leaving its former snack to hang on the branch.

“How did you do that?” I asked, equal parts bewildered and envious. “I couldn’t even see it.”

“Practice, just practice,” Catherine delivered, efficient as ever, and casually tossed the bow back my way. “Dreams aren't shortcuts, just repeated steps.”

Suddenly, a fist rockets toward my face, snapping me out of my thoughts. I duck just in time to survive. There’s a gust from my right as Echo’s kick whistles past, and I narrowly escape what would surely be a lesson in seeing stars.

“I wasn’t ready!” I protest like a student asking for more time on a test.

“Enemies don’t cater to your timetable,” Echo replies, her legs launching her at me with all the gentleness. Her knife lands inches from my ear as I freeze underneath her, swallowing hard. “What audacity leads you to daydream in battle? Spill.”

“Catherine’s archery demonstration,” I admit between ragged breaths.

Echo raises that impossibly skeptical eyebrow. “Is she a better trainer than me?”

“You’re both fantastic,” I answer earnestly and wisely, attempting some damage control.

“You silver-tongued devil,” Echo huffs, though there's a hint of a smirk playing around the corners of her mouth. She hauls me up with the efficiency of a mother cat retrieving a particularly troublesome kitten.

As I find my feet, wincing slightly, Echo’s gaze sharpens with curiosity. “What’s your damage?” she asks, eyes narrowing.

"Nothing," I blurt out, attempting to sound casual.

Echo raises that notorious eyebrow, the one that spells trouble. “Let me see your hand,” she commands.

Reluctantly, I extend my worn palm, decorated with a cross-shaped scar. Echo examines it, the silence stretching unbearably until, without warning, her knife glides across my palm, adding a new slice to the collection.

"Ow! What is wrong with you?" I yelp, more startled by the surprise than the sting.

"According to Maggie, your self-healing is remarkable," Echo remarks in the same tone one might use when discussing the weather. "Remember when you pledged your loyalty? By morning, your cuts were healed, yet Maggie was still nursing her wounds."

"And your point?" My frustration bubbles over as I cradle my injured hand.

"You should hone that skill," Echo declares with maddening calmness, sweeping my legs out from under me and reintroducing me to the ground. “Especially since offense, as we've seen, isn't quite your thing.”

I snarl at her infuriatingly smug grin, determined to clamber back up. "So getting me to bleed more is your big plan for speeding up my healing?" I ask incredulously.

"How do you know it won't work?" Echo shrugs nonchalantly, "Ever tried it?"

For a moment, I'm utterly speechless, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Initially, I’m sure Echo has lost her marbles, but to my surprise, she’s spot-on. Miraculously, my healing process is now on fast-forward. Wounds that once took an eternity, or at least an inconvenient half-day, to scab now close up faster. I go from bleeding to scabbed to completely healed in the blink of an eye. What started as a hesitant experiment quickly spirals into obsession.

Catherine, ever the voice of reason, has started giving me these looks—kind of like a worried parent who just caught their pup trying to cook a fork. One day, curiosity gets the better of me, and I eavesdrop on a chat between her and Echo.

"She has been cutting herself an awful lot," Catherine begins, her voice tinged with both humor and concern. “She really seems to take a liking to that, hasn’t she?

“Quit worrying, Elizabeth will be fine,” Echo says, waving her hands in a dismissive manner.

“But her wrists are bleeding,” Catherine counters, pointing with a sigh.

“Get used to that,”Echo says, suddenly squinting her eyes. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?” Catherine sniffs the air, puzzled.

“The scent of burning cedar, from her healing wound,” Echo exclaims, “It’s a sign her self-healing is really kicking in! Come here Elizabeth, we know you’re eavesdropping!”

Caught red-handed, I step forward, offering a sheepish smile.

"Show her your wrist," Echo instructs, gesturing like a proud stage mom. "Catherine's worried about you."

I nod and stretch out my hand, presenting the mostly healed scar like it's a badge of honor.

“The bleeding has stopped,” Catherine notes, relief spreading across her features as she inspects my wrist.

"See? I told you she'd nail it," Echo says, positively glowing with satisfaction.

“I really am impressed, Elizabeth,” Catherine assures me, her sincerity shining through.

"Just like the time you skewered a squirrel’s snack from a hundred meters in the middle of a rainstorm," I chuckle. “I guess everyone's gifts are unbelievable to others.”

“You’ve got a point,” Echo nods, clearly pleased with our little talent show.

“So, what’s your gift then?” I ask, genuinely curious.

"My sense of smell is sharper than most wolves," Echo declares, pride practically radiating from her, "and I’ve got a photographic memory. That’s why Maggie put me in charge of the Black List. I make sure no traitors slip through the cracks."

“Speaking of the list, who started it?” I ask, tapping my chin thoughtfully.

“An anonymous rogue,” Echo responds. “It lists those who’ve mistreated us—bullies, traitors, cheaters.”

“I'd bet my last slice of bacon that it was a woman who started it,” Catherine speculates with a knowing grin.

“Probably,” I laugh. “And how does the list operate?”

“It’s a unique communication system, universal among rogues. Every month, couriers visit different bases to update the list. Say, if you help a rogue by teaching her ex a lesson, she might return the favor if she runs into Aiden," Echo explains. “Of course, cheaters don’t make the grade for more… permanent solutions like beheading or hanging.” she adds, sounding slightly disappointed.

"Wait," I interrupt, my eyes widening with surprise, "There are other rogues besides us?"

"Of course," Catherine replies, casually dropping the bombshell. "Maggie’s just the leader here. There are rogue bases to the north, south, east, and west, each with their own leaders."

“Are the Lycans aware of this?” I press further, intrigued.

"I'm not sure," Echo shrugs, pulling a face that suggests it's all rather tedious to consider. “But I doubt they care. They seem to take out rogues whenever they get the chance.”

“But what if there are enough of us to challenge the Lycans?” I suggest, bursting with newfound enthusiasm. “Maybe we can unite all the rogues and overthrow the Lycans.”

“I love your ambition, dear,” Catherine says warmly, “but it’s not quite practical.”

“Why not?” I ask, brows furrowing as I contemplate this new idea.

"Different rogue groups really are a mixed bag," Maggie chimes in as she emerges from her tent, joining our conversation. "Take the northern rogues, for instance. Led by Dominic Walker, they're all about vengeance. Newbies there get to throw a pack revenge party—ransacking, enslaving, or worse. Sure, it’s brutal, but nothing bonds people faster than a shared grudge. The Avengers are not keen on teaming up with rogues from other areas, and frankly, the feeling's mutual. Meanwhile, the western rogues led by Lawerence Hall focus on honing their abilities. They call themselves the Hermits, for they don't give a wolf's tail about politics or conflicts. Now, the eastern rogues who call themselves Rebels are the ambitious underdogs led by Will Sanderson. They want equality, willing to scrap with Lycans for it, but they barely have the numbers to fill a howling choir since the Lycans have nearly wiped them out."

"And what about you?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"Non-violent resistance is our principle," Maggie replies with a playful grin. "Well, mostly. We do team up with other rogues to give offenders on the list a little... reminder."

Catherine further explains, "We welcome all rogues, offering them a place to reset and pursue lives they truly want. This is why we are called the Healers."Her eyes are earnest as she adds, "You must believe in love and goodness in the world, and that you deserve all its wonders. That's what helps you rise after every fall. Our way has gradually shifted the perception of rogues. When they join new packs, they leave an impression. It's a slow burn, but change is happening."

"That's admirable," I say, suddenly struck by a flash of insight.

Luna Nora's assassin training may not be my path. Here, surrounded by laughter and camaraderie, I find what might be my true refuge.

As I mentally weigh these options, the sizzle of bacon snaps me back to the present. Distracted, the knife slips, nicking my hand. To my amazement, the wound closes swiftly, leaving only the faintest of scars.

Everyone stares, jaws approaching the ground. Maggie finally breaks the silence. "Looks like you've got the hang of your gift, Elizabeth. Well done! Maybe that’ll keep you ticking long enough to find your fated mate."

Echo interjects with her usual candidness, "But without a wolf scent, her mate’s radar won’t pick her up."

"Be positive, Echo. The spark between mates would always remain. It might lead Elizabeth to her fated mate, " Catherine adds with a reassuring smile.

A fated mate—a deep soul connection—a concept both foreign and alluring to me.

I've heard of it but never dared to hope for one. After all, most werewolves just pick the most compatible partner, rarely finding their fated mate. Some choose to wait it out alone, others split when Mr. or Ms. Certainly comes along.

I think of my bond with Aiden. In hindsight, it was a joke. I couldn’t fathom why I married him in the first place. It was the stupidest decision of my life.

But in a way, Aiden and Cherry suit each other: the perfect match of jerk and b***h.

What would the Moon Goddess have planned for me? Could I find my mate? Through him, could I redefine my destiny?

Buzzing with possibilities, I announce jokingly, "I've decided—every new person I meet gets a handshake. Gotta see if anything sparks!"

"I’m all for it, darling. A small gesture that could change everything," Catherine agrees with a wink.

I close my eyes, took a deep breath, the scent of earth and wood smoke grounding me. I’m no longer that scared, runaway girl. I’m stronger, wiser, and for the first time, truly hopeful.

With Echo’s combat skills, Catherine’s hunting expertise, and Maggie’s insights, I feel ready to face whatever challenges await.

Staring into the fire, I silently vow. I will fight, I will persevere, and perhaps one day, at the most unexpected moment, I’ll find my fated mate.

"There’s one more thing," I clear my throat, feeling a shift within me.

Maggie nudges Catherine, who peels herself away from a bacon slice, attentive.

"I want to stay," I say, meeting their gazes squarely. "No more assassin camps—I want to be a rogue, like you. Helping outcasts. Would you have me?" My sincerity brims over as I add, "I promise I'll train harder."

"Yes, Elizabeth," Maggie stands with joy, wrapping me in a warm hug. "Of course, we want you, even if you do slack off now and then."

Her humor sparks laughter among us. Her embrace is firm and reassuring, reminding me of Alpha Hugh. I barely keep it together as tears well up and I manage, "Thank you."

"Nothing to thank," she says with a grin. "We've hardly lifted a paw."

"Your kindness has given me a new life," I whisper.

"Then pass on that kindness, Elizabeth," Maggie smiles.