Chapter 5: Blood and Shadows
1199 Words
SOPHIA'S POV
The sharp crack of wood splitting echoed through the clearing, pulling me from shallow sleep.
At first, I thought it was a nightmare.
Then the howls shattered the air — real, raw, close.
I bolted upright.
Across the camp, shapes moved in the mist. Fast. Snarling. Deadly.
Rogues.
In seconds, the Night Infernal Pack erupted into organized chaos. Warriors leapt from their huts, shifting mid-sprint. Teeth flashed. Growls tore the air apart.
I didn’t hesitate.
Grabbing the twin silver daggers strapped to my thigh, I sprinted toward the heart of the attack.
My blood sang with purpose.
This was survival.
This was familiar.
This had nothing to do with acceptance — or belonging.
The first rogue lunged at me — a wiry wolf, foam dripping from its jaws. I sidestepped with practiced ease, slicing its exposed underbelly as it sailed past.
It hit the ground hard, whimpering once before falling still.
No hesitation. No shifting.
Just cold, efficient death.
---
I heard it — a scream — sharp and terrified.
Spinning around, I spotted Marla and a younger warrior — barely more than a boy — pinned down by two rogues near the training grounds.
Without thinking, I moved.
The first rogue lunged at Marla, claws aimed for her throat. I hurled my dagger, the blade spinning end over end before sinking deep into its ribs. It collapsed mid-leap, twitching violently.
The second rogue turned on me, snarling.
I ran straight at it — ducked low — and slashed its Achilles tendons before it could react.
It dropped instantly, howling in pain. I finished it with a swift, merciful thrust.
Marla stared at me, wide-eyed.
"You— you saved us," she gasped.
I ignored her, yanking my dagger free with a sharp tug.
Because I couldn't afford gratitude.
I couldn't afford friendships.
I couldn't afford anything.
The mission.
Drake.
Save Drake, no matter the cost.
---
The ground became a battlefield of flashing fur and splattering blood.
The night rang with snarls and yelps.
Another rogue barreled toward me, bulkier than the last.
Instead of facing it head-on, I darted sideways, grabbed its ear as it lunged, and flipped it using its own momentum. Before it could rise, my blade found its throat.
Around me, some of the wolves paused — watching.
Expecting me to shift.
Expecting to see my wolf.
But no transformation came.
Only relentless, merciless movement.
Without fur, without fangs, I was a ghost through their ranks — untouchable, lethal, and burning with cold fire.
Always, in the back of my mind, it was him.
His face. His voice.
"Obey. Endure. Serve."
And I would.
No matter what it cost me.
---
The battle ended as quickly as it had begun.
Dead rogues littered the ground, their bodies steaming in the chill morning air.
The pack members panted heavily, bloodied but victorious.
I stood in the center of it all, daggers dripping crimson.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Then Cassian — the big warrior with shaggy brown hair — let out a low whistle.
"By the moon," he said, grinning wide, "you took down more rogues than half our wolves combined."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathered fighters.
Marla limped toward me, her arm bleeding but her expression awed.
"I owe you my life," she said simply, pressing her hand over her heart.
The younger boy — Kellan, I thought his name was — nodded vigorously. "You saved us both."
Warmth curled low in my stomach.
No.
I crushed it down.
I didn’t need their approval.
I didn’t need their acceptance.
I was here for Drake. For my mission.
Not for praise.
Still, part of me — the broken, hidden part — ached at the realization that I had never earned such words before.
Not from the Salvatore Clan.
Not from anyone.
And standing apart from the rest, arms crossed and face carved from stone, was Kade.
His glare was a blade across my skin.
“She’s hiding something,” he said flatly, voice carrying across the clearing. “No wolf fights like that without shifting.”
The admiration in the others flickered — doubt worming its way back into their expressions.
I stood tall, meeting Kade’s glare without flinching.
Because he was right.
I was hiding something.
And if he knew what I truly was — a Sigbin, a creature bred to serve, not rule — he would never allow me to stay here.
Maybe Luther wouldn't either.
The thought stung more than I cared to admit.
---
Later, after the dead were burned and the wounded tended, I found myself sitting alone near the smoldering pyres.
I sharpened my blades with methodical, practiced strokes, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone a steady drumbeat against my swirling thoughts.
Luther approached quietly.
His presence was unmistakable — heavy, grounding, warm in a way that made my skin ache.
"You fought like hell today," he said, crouching beside me.
I didn't look up.
"I fought because I had to," I muttered.
"Not because you wanted their approval?"
I barked a short, humorless laugh. "I don't need it."
"You deserve it, though," he said, voice low.
I set the dagger down and finally met his gaze.
"You don't know what I am," I whispered.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me with those molten gold eyes.
"Then tell me," he said softly.
I opened my mouth — and closed it again.
I couldn't.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
If he knew the truth — that I was created to serve, to obey, to be owned — he would see me differently.
He would pity me.
Or worse, despise me.
I turned my head away.
"I’m not your problem," I said.
His fingers brushed my chin, gentle but firm, tilting my face back toward his.
"You’re not a problem," he said. "You’re... everything."
The words struck like a blow.
For a heartbeat, I let myself believe him.
Let myself lean into the heat radiating from his body, into the strength of his gaze.
Let myself dream.
Then I pulled away — sharp, fast, necessary.
I rose to my feet, slipping my dagger back into its sheath.
"I need to train," I said briskly.
"At least let me—" he began, reaching for me.
But I was already gone, moving through the mist toward the practice fields, away from him, away from the danger of wanting something that could never be mine.
---
As I practiced alone, throwing dagger after dagger into the thick wooden targets until my fingers bled, I forced myself to remember:
Drake is the mission.
Saving him is the only thing that matters.
This pack, their respect, Luther's touch... they were all distractions.
Beautiful, terrible distractions.
I was not here to be loved.
I was here to be a weapon.
A slave.
A savior.
Nothing more.
And yet...
When the night deepened and I stood alone beneath the moon, a blade in each hand, I realized something terrifying:
For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to be the perfect servant anymore.
I wanted something more.
And that was more dangerous than any rogue or Beta could ever be.
- Writer
