Moonbound: The Shadowed Beta's Daughter

CHAPTER 3

"Look at the way she is holding it." It may bite her.

Some boys by the armory door spoke loudly. Rowan didn't own it. Torin, Kaelen's son. Someone I "lost" last week.

The elderwood case felt hot to grip as I walked. My fingers were numb when I returned the hair. My mind heard the secret's cry, drowning out the morning's taunts.

"Maybe it is," laughed another. "Is there a story behind Blackclaw silver?"

Stayed stationary. I had mastered not flinching. She became more angry as she pondered about what made her see a silver-white strand.

Fighting was controlled in the training yard. The cool morning air smelled like perspiration, wet dirt, and heated metal. Ring fights always had practice swords hitting each other. I kept to the boundaries, acquired water skins, and blended into the safe background.

Today, no.

My name was listed today. I carried my mom's ghost in a box today. I had to train today.

After repeatedly hitting the fence, the wood cracked in one location, leaving a space. I carefully set the case down and grabbed a basic training knife. The utilitarian weight felt excellent after the ceremony silver.

"First lesson," a cold voice murmured.

Garok, the training master, stood in front of our group of poor trainees, including the young, hopeless, and untalented. His kids were all three years younger than me. He constantly reminded me. He appeared disgusted, his eyes sweeping over us like flint.

Removing weapons. Because most of you must know how to surrender your firearm politely.

Soft snorts. My face was emotionless.

He showed the move, which featured a quick wrist pivot and a stride into their space. Simple. Finished items. "Make a group of two."

All others ran. Only I remained, the weird one. Garok sighed with irritation. "Blackclaw." Please join me.

Heat rose up my neck again. Being around the master somehow revealed my shortcomings.

He defended himself with a loose practice sword. "Fight." "Keep it if you can."

When I surged, my impact was slow and clear. In my wrath, I wanted to stab him in the ribs and leave as fast as possible before daybreak. Didn't let myself. *Uncomfortable Aerys. Aerys, slow down.

He stole my firearm and seemed to despise me. My knife made a sound when it fell.

"One more time." Get going, girl. You hit nothing little.

Got the blade again. I surveyed the yard nonchalantly. Done. Rowan fought Caelan Frostvale in the grounds beside high-quality gear racks.

Rowan possessed crisp, powerful hits and brilliant, explosive energy. Rowan's attempts seemed panicky as Caelan blocked with a simple style like a figure come to life. They moved gracefully and killed. Exhausted, Rowan laughed after nearly missing. "Almost had you that time!"

Caelan nodded respectfully but didn't smile. "You have better footwork."

They were in a bright place where people knew them. A world that valued skill over mockery. Rowan never looked at my embarrassment.

"Blackclaw, look at your enemy!" It was loud from Garok.

My lips tasted harsh when I swiftly turned my head. My sibling. I enjoyed the brightness and rehearsed failure in the dark as the heir.

This time, I struck with some honesty. Hit was faster and slant was sharper.

Eye size changed for Garok. He took my firearm, although it was hard. Saying nasty things about me. He frowned more. "Improved." Why don't you always succeed?

People like you give me that "I can't figure you out" look when I do.

When I received my knife back, I whispered, "I don't know, sir."

We practiced for an hour. I have arm ache. A mound of soft, colorful pride lay there. The buried lock of hair held a burning coal.

When Garok freed us, I was excited and had white dagger hilt fingers. Just before leaving, a shadow passed over me.

Caelan Frostvale stood with a handkerchief around his neck. His session ended. I was surprised by his size and calmness when I saw him up close.

"Your grip is wrong," he said. No preamble. Do not mock them.

I blinked, and my puzzled expression returned. "Hey, sir?"

He pointed to my hand. "On the parry backhand." The way you hold it suggests you're afraid. The thumb should be near to the spine, not around it.You lose power. He demonstrated with his practice blade and huge hands. "Try it."

Good suggestion. The excellent advice. Advice Garok wanted to provide but didn't. A frantic, dumb thank you fought skepticism.

I mimicked his grip.

He said "Better." He didn't smile, but his gray eyes seemed intent on something. They noticed the elderwood case at my feet. "Heavy family treasures."

Judgement. A inquiry.

I said "A reminder," which tasted like ash.

He nodded slowly, as if he knew more than I said. His tiny openness vanished as he looked over my shoulder. He appeared calm and disciplined. He said, "Work on the grip," seriously. He went after a modest nod, as was proper.

I knew why before turning.

My dad watched from the yard door. The entire situation, not just the Caelan conversation. Though his face was unreadable, his body language was evident. He saw me and Caelan conversing. He saw me hold the knife differently.

He remained silent. He wasn't required. More unpleasant than Garok's screams was his mute gaze.

The warning stated that even basic, helpful care would not be provided. Risky.

Caelan's fleeting warmth turned to terror as I packed my belongings. I moved slowly past the tool shed to the gate, head down.

Torin and his companions leaned against the wall drinking from a waterskin. Rowan was smiling and listening to a story.

"And then Frostvale just *drops* low, and like an i***t, I go right over him!" Torin patted Rowan's shoulder and added, "It was something you had to see."

Rowan laughed lightly. That guy is frigid. As they passed, he laughed with crinkled eyes, like I was part of the barrier. It wasn't meant to hurt. That was the worst. Total, unthinking refusal. He considered me background, not a person.

Eye contact was avoided. My brother laughing made me feel welcome.

With his sharp, cruel eyes, Torin noticed the elderwood case as I passed. The speaker muttered and pushed Ryan. "Ro, be careful." Now, your sister has expensive plates and knives. may fight for beta with a soup spoon.

Everyone laughed. No more Rowan's smile. We met for one terrible second. I saw it—not meanness, but a quick look of genuine humiliation. On my part. He was hurt by me. I'm destroying his sunny location by being here.

He laughed again, but fakely. He said, "Torin, shut up," but softly. A symbolic protest. To regain his space, he turned away from me and toward his pals.

Torin's comments never affected me this much. They still didn't want to participate.

I heard their laughter like a pack of dogs snapping their teeth as I continued. I thought the case hair was buzzing on my leg. Keep in mind.

I didn't enter the empty room. I went where there was no laughter.

Dusty, low-ceilinged pack records were next to the Alpha's hall. Aging leather, paper, and neglect. Over his glasses, slender Elric glanced at me. He was in charge.

"I want to see the records of pack lineages," I said, hardly affecting the particles floating in the light. "Line of Blackclaw." Over 20 years ago.

Elric gazed at me and then at the Beta's daughter's face I was wearing, apparently crying. He saw a useless girl on a mission, not a threat. His skeletal hand pointed to shelves. Third aisle. Ten-year ledgers. "Do not place anything in the wrong spot."

My pulse raced as I entered the dark. The laughs stopped. History's stillness and weight were felt here. My birth year record book was found. I calmly lifted up the weighty book and felt the spine dust with my finger.

Now was the time. Truth, verified and closed. Look up her name. Series. I'd observe her marriage to Bram and her subsequent actions.

I opened the journal on a reading stand.

Though faded, the ink was legible and the pages were fresh. A baby. Death. Patrolling duties. I found my birth record. It's "*Aerys, daughter of Bram Blackclaw, Beta Heir."

My mother wasn't addressed.

A cold drip started in my tummy. I searched a page seeking older marriage records.

I learned about my parents' wedding. "Bram Blackclaw, Beta Heir, joined with Seris of the..."

No pack name followed.

The ink was solid black. A censored smudge, like a nighttime drizzle covering the paper's lettering.

I looked. I chilled blood. I looked for a death record after flipping to my birth year. Order of execution.

Nothing. Not Seris. After the marriage, she is only remembered by that one sentence that was violently erased.

Mom had no formal background. A form clipped from the record, leaving a mark.

A piece of silver-white hair in my pocket felt cooler and heavier.

The suspense wasn't vocal or threatening. Page blankness screamed. The wolves forgot my mother,

She was deleted from the story.