chapter 4: The Weight of Morning
1509 Words
Dawn came late and low, dragging light behind it like a wounded thing.
The hearth had burned down to embers by the time I stirred. My body ached in new and specific ways—thighs stiff from sprinting, back knotted tight from dodging too many crushing blows, and a low, steady throb in my ribs that warned me not to breathe too deep.
Neasa had left a basin of warmed water near the fire. Steam still rose from it, curling in lazy spirals. Beside it sat clean bandages, a neatly folded shirt, and a bowl of something gray-green that smelled faintly of sage and rot.
I washed in silence, slow and deliberate, teeth clenched against the sting as I peeled off yesterday’s wrappings. My skin was a battlefield—scrapes, bruises, a faint ring of teeth around my forearm from the strength trial's final opponent. I’d won that round only by baiting him into a fall, using mud-slick stone to turn his own weight against him. The elders hadn't been impressed. But they hadn't stopped me either.
By the time I stepped out of the cottage, the sky was a colorless bruise. Fog hung low in the hills, thicker than the day before, clinging to the earth like a living thing. The cold bit sharper, like something hungry had crept in with the night.
Cathal was waiting again.
He stood at the edge of the path like a statue carved from ash and frost—arms folded, eyes unreadable, the collar of his coat high enough to shadow half his face.
I approached, slower this time, testing the stiffness in my legs. “Morning,” I said, voice hoarse.
He didn’t answer. Just turned, boots crunching into frost-covered moss, and started walking.
I followed.
The path today was longer—deeper into the hills, past cairns and silent streams, past places where the wind didn’t move and the trees bent away from the trail like they knew what came next. I tried, once, to speak.
“You don’t have to escort me every day,” I said, half a jest.
Cathal didn’t even glance back. “I’m not here for you.”
A beat. I frowned. “Then what are you here for?”
Silence.
I let it sit between us like a stone dropped in water. No ripples. Just weight.
Eventually we reached a stone outcropping overlooking a ring of black soil. A training ground, I realized—but older. The kind of place that remembered blood. Wolves ringed the clearing, some in partial form, some cloaked in heavy wool and leathers, eyes gleaming through the mist. The elders stood near the center, flanked by a pair of younger pack members holding short spears.
Today, it was combat.
A proper trial.
My name was called before I had time to stretch. Before I could ask what the rules were. Before I could breathe.
The first opponent was taller than me, broader, fast on his feet and eager to prove something. He shifted partially before the fight began—claws, longer limbs, that unnatural lean wolves got when they tried to split the difference between forms.
He charged.
I didn’t meet him head-on. I couldn’t afford to. Instead, I let him come, sidestepped at the last second, hooked his ankle with mine, and shoved. He stumbled, recovered faster than I thought, and landed a claw across my chest that tore the shirt Neasa gave me and left fire in its place.
The crowd murmured. One of the elders clicked their tongue.
I spat blood, wiped it from my lip, and smiled just to spite them.
This time, I took the offensive. I didn’t shift—I couldn’t, not without making a scene—but I fought smart. Dirty. Used the terrain again. When he lunged, I threw sand in his eyes. When he grabbed me, I bit down on the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger until he howled.
When he fell, he didn’t rise.
Someone dragged him from the ring. The second came in before I’d caught my breath.
And the third was waiting before the second hit the ground.
They didn’t want me to win.
They wanted me broken.
By the time I dropped the fourth, my vision was tunneling. My right eye had swollen mostly shut. My knuckles were raw. Something was wrong in my ankle, but I didn’t stop.
I stood in the center of the ring, panting, swaying, blood dripping into the black soil like it belonged there.
One of the elders leaned toward Cathal. I didn’t catch the words, but I caught the tone—sharp, disapproving. As if this display should’ve been reined in. As if the Alpha had allowed too much.
Cathal’s expression didn’t shift.
He said nothing.
Did nothing.
And for the first time since I arrived, I hated him for it.
The crowd had started to disperse after the fourth opponent hit the dirt.
I didn’t move. I stood in the center of the ring, soaked in sweat and blood and damp earth, barely holding myself upright—but upright all the same.
I was waiting for someone to call it.
To say I was done.
Instead, the oldest elder lifted her chin and called across the field.
“Alpha.”
The word hit like a cold stone.
I turned my head and found Cathal still standing at the edge of the crowd. Coat still on. Arms still folded. Face carved out of frost and stone.
He didn’t speak.
He stepped forward.
A ripple of tension rolled through the gathered wolves. A low, uncertain growl came from someone at the edge. Even a few of the elders shifted where they stood, unsure.
I didn’t flinch.
He shrugged out of his coat, folded it neatly, and handed it off without a word. Then he stepped into the ring. Not shifting. Not speaking.
Just watching me.
Measuring me.
The air turned sharp as a blade.
“No rules?” I asked, breath ragged.
Cathal’s voice was flat. “Don’t die.”
I huffed something like a laugh. “I’ll do my best to disappoint you.”
He moved first.
Fast.
Faster than anyone that day. His fist came for my ribs, and I twisted just enough that it caught muscle, not bone. I stumbled. Caught my balance. Spat blood.
“You could’ve waited till tomorrow,” I growled, circling him.
“You’d still be this reckless.”
“Then you knew I wasn’t going to say no.”
“I wanted to see how far you’d drag yourself just to spite me.”
I swung for his jaw—missed.
He didn’t.
His elbow cracked against my sternum, and the world went white. I gasped, staggered, grabbed a fistful of his shirt just to stay upright—and kneed him in the thigh out of raw instinct. It barely made him blink.
“Had enough?” he asked.
“Not even f*****g close.”
My next punch caught him in the side. His shoulder twisted, and for a second I thought I might’ve hurt him.
Then he slammed me to the ground.
I hit hard enough to see stars—but I refused to stay down. I rolled, clawed for leverage, kicked out, even as the crowd murmured like wolves around a fresh kill.
Cathal didn’t mock me. Didn’t toy with me.
He just kept coming.
And I kept getting up.
Every hit hurt worse. Every second burned more. But I dragged myself to my feet over and over again, even when my knees buckled, even when the edges of my vision went black.
I fought like a wounded dog with nothing left but hate in its teeth.
Because I wanted them to see it.
I wanted Cathal to see it—that no matter what he thought of me, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of breaking.
At one point I think I laughed. Wild, breathless, bloody. “This the part where I earn your respect?”
Cathal knocked the wind out of me with a single strike and sent me sprawling again.
“Respect is earned through wisdom,” he said coldly. “Not suicide.”
I groaned. “Guess I’ll have to settle for your irritation instead.”
He knelt beside me, one knee pressing into my chest—not pinning me hard enough to break anything. Just enough to end it. Enough to force me to feel my own limits.
“Done?” he asked.
I glared up at him. Could barely breathe. Could barely see. But I dragged one last, rattling breath into my lungs and whispered, “You’ll have to do better than that.”
He didn’t move. Just stared down at me with something I couldn’t read.
Then he stood.
“You’re done.”
I lay there a few more seconds.
Then forced myself upright, coughing blood into the soil as I rose.
Because he didn’t get to carry me.
He didn’t get to win that easy.
- Writer
