The Luna Academy

Unexpected Trouble

“Line up!”

Elder Barrett’s voice cuts through the tension between Oliver and me. The training hall trembles as boots scrape against the stone, while echoes climb the vaulted ceiling. Joining the other blue shirts in the front rows, I slip somewhere into the middle, unsure of the protocol.

“First years, today you’ll pair up and practice your stance and opening movements. The rest will begin our matches to determine this month’s top fighter—and thereby the winner of the coveted single room…”

The crowd erupts with cheers, though I don’t understand why. We each have our own rooms in the witches’ dorms. Maybe wolves have to share, because the idea of this seems to have the air buzzing with competition. Elder Barrett raises his hand, and silence falls again.

“Don’t worry, first years. You will also have the chance for the reward. Each of you will face one another, and that remaining fighter will then be able to battle in the final match.”

“As if that’ll ever happen!” a guy from the back shouts, drawing laughter.

“Enough, Buck. Maybe if you actually kept your fists up, you’d make it past the second round this year,” Edler Barrett scolds.

The students around Buck burst out laughing again, forcing a sharp breath from my lips at the childish display.

“We’ll do half an hour of warm-ups before battles begin. First years, after your match, you may watch the upper-level student fight and hopefully learn something,” Elder Barrett instructs, then blows his whistle, causing the formation to break apart.

Unsure what to do, I follow the other blue shirts through a back door into a chamber that feels more like a subterranean forge than a gym. Heat swirls through the space, laced with the wild musk of wolves. Rows of punching bags hang from chains that groan with every swing, while dummies line the far wall, each one etched with strange symbols.

At the center, a sunken ring glows beneath a single spotlight. Red mats are spaced out to accommodate several matches at once. Upon closer inspection of one, I spot stains of blood and dust smeared across its surface. The seasoned students, dressed in purple and black shirts, move toward the mats and start pairing off.

Glancing at the other blue shirts, I see they’re doing the same. With everyone already paired off, I walk to one of the punching bags, its leather cracked and worn from constant use. I square up in front of it, ignoring the clang of chains and the rhythmic thud of fists filling the room like a heartbeat.

Stretching my arms across my chest, I roll my shoulders loose before getting into my stance. I line my waist with my shoulders, draw my right arm back, and prepare to strike. The second I swing, a voice startles me, causing me to swipe at the bag instead.

“New girl,” a guy calls.

I turn, unsure if he’s really calling out to me. A man with white hair stretches out his hand.

“Hi there, I’m Sylas.”

The man’s confidence radiates from the lazy curve of his smile, like someone who’s used to winning every fight, and heart, crossing his path. His uniform is the same shade of deep blue as mine, but the fabric fits like armor, sleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms dusted with chalk. The purple hue in his eyes catches the reflection of the wayward light above, reminding me of Elara’s.

I hesitantly take his hand, unsure of his intentions.

“Everyone seems to be avoiding you like the plague,” Sylas notes, “so I figured I had to see what all the talk was about.”

“Hmph,” I spit the sound out, unimpressed.

“Fiery, aren’t you? I like that. Most girls usually drop to my feet when they meet me,” Sylas teases.

Such arrogance. He circles me like an artist studying a painting from every angle.

“You don’t seem frightening…” He pauses, leaning in close enough that I’m able to catch the faint scent radiating off him, making my cheeks blush. “…Maybe frightened.”

“Don’t presume to know me,” I push back, refusing to move.

I grab the swaying punching bag and steady it once more.

“You might want to take a step back,” I warn.

Sylas smiles and moves behind the bag, holding it in place for me.

“Give it your best shot,” he dares.

I smirk, meeting his gaze head-on.

“Fine, but you asked for it.”

I settle back into position and drive my fist forward. The impact lands dead-center, solid enough to make the bag—and Sylas—grunt from behind it. The sound of his breath whooshing out fills me with smug satisfaction. I can’t help but smile, watching his grin falter as he straightens, rubbing his chest. A few nearby students glance over, whispers flickering through the room like sparks.

“That’s quite the punch you’ve got there,” Sylas manages to cough out.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles as stares, sharp as daggers, pin me in place. The heavy air in the room stills, and even the chain-bound bags seem to sway slower. The feeling is all too familiar, crawling beneath my skin Where is she?

I steady my expression and turn slowly. Elara’s unmistakable white hair gleams under the lights. Three girls flank her like guards. Her glare burns through me, but I refuse to look away. When one of the girls tugs at her attention, I silently thank her for the relief.

My gaze catches movement behind her and lands on Oliver, half-hidden behind Elara as if he’s using her as a shield. He stays hunched until he finally lifts his head, and for a split second, our eyes meet. Before the moment can settle, Sylas grabs my wrist and turns me back toward him.

“Come and join me. I’ll introduce you to the others,” Sylas offers.

He tugs me toward the group of first-years. When we step up, their chatter dies, except for a few girls ogling him.

“Everyone, this is Alyssa,” Sylas announces, pushing me forward gently. “Don’t let her size fool you men. She can kick your ass.”

“Yeah, right!” one of them calls.

“We’ll see,” another adds.

“She’s going to have to get through us first.”

A girl with pitch-black hair cropped into a sharp pixie cut pushes to the front, her voice steady and edged with challenge, “I’m Jada.”

She extends her hand. When I reach for it, she grabs my forearm instead, and instinctively, I grab hers. Her skin is cool compared to the underground air, but her grip is unyielding, strength coiled like a snake ready to strike. If she squeezed any tighter, she’d snap me in half.

I’m going to have to watch out for her. The last thing I need is to end up on the mat with her.

Jada releases me from her grip and pushes past me, snatching the first guy she sees and dragging him toward the mat. My eyes stay fixed on her, and she knows it. Her smirk makes that painfully clear when she glances back. The two begin to spar as the others gather around to watch. The man she’s facing towers over her by at least a foot and a half, but Jada doesn’t look the least bit concerned.

They take their positions on the mat, and someone from the onlookers starts counting down. The instant he shouts zero, Jada strikes.

The man dodges but she catches the hem of his shirt. With a swift twist, she grabs the fabric, pivots, and flings him clean over her shoulder, slamming him onto the mat with a bone-jarring thud. Cheers erupt, mixed in with a few students who wince at the impact. The man quickly catches his breath, then pushes back to his feet, fury burning in his eyes.

He lunges, swinging wide, but she sidesteps. I think he’s missed his chance until he grabs her by the waist and slams her down in retaliation. Gasps echo through the chamber. He raises a fist, aiming for her face, but she rolls aside at the last second. In a fluid motion, she kicks off the mat, twisting her body upright. Before he can reset, her knuckles c***k against his jaw with a satisfying snap which makes the crowd howl.

The man staggers back, clutching his chin, more enraged than hurt. He braces to strike again, but Elder Barrett’s voice booms through the chamber, silencing everything.

“First years, line up along the mats!”