My Cursed Mate's Revenge

Chapter 7: A Dying Man Murdered

One month earlier:

Freya

It has been one month since my father’s disastrous announcement to our pack. One month since I fainted in front of our pack. One month since learning my stepmother will be in charge of our pack until my wolf appears.

If my wolf appears…

My father’s condition has grown steadily worse, something I did not think would have been possible four short weeks ago.

I have hardly left his side. I have barely spoken a word to another soul. I have withered into a shell of a person. I am lost, buried in my grief, alone.

A knock sounded at the door as it opened slowly, and Clara poked her head into the room.

“I just wanted to let you know that my shift is ending and thought you may wish to go outside for some fresh air in the training grounds? It’s a bit hot in here, thought you might need a break.”

I had stopped feeling anything the moment my father’s Alpha command took hold. I wasn’t sure I would ever feel again. Perhaps some sparring time would not be a bad thing…

I nodded and followed her silently out of the room and down the hall towards the training yards. We walked in silence, the halls absent of other pack members in the late hour- or was it early?

I slept so sporadically while watching over my father that I could not even be sure what day it was anymore. We arrived in the barrack’s practice armory, both grabbing our padding size and weapons, before stepping through the doors that connected to the yard. The fresh air and bright light hit me so hard that for a moment, I felt like I had stepped into another world.

It was early morning then.

Weak sunlight reflected off a thin layer of fresh snow. My eyes watered as they adjusted to the light. I walked to the benches surrounding the largest sparring ring and set my gear down before donning the training pads. I picked a wooden staff from the rack and dusted off the snow before stepping to the center of the ring.

Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply and felt the staff settle into my hands, letting its familiar weight calm me. I smelled the must of the training pads Clara wore, her elderberry soap mixing in a not entirely unpleasant way.

I felt the vibrations in my feet as each step brought her closer, and heard the layer of snow shift as she slid into the fighting stance I knew was favored by the Snow Mountain guards. My body moved in time with hers, a perfect reflection of the standard fighting stance.

My eyes remained closed.

“Well that’s new…”

She chuckled, and I couldn’t help the small smile that pulled up my lip as I waited for her to begin. The staff in her hands quickly shifted forward, a feigned attack that I am certain would have made a less experienced fighter flinch.

But a split second before the staff had moved, I heard her foot slide back just far enough to brace for the pull back, a dead giveaway that she did not plan to follow through with a true attack.

They always thought it was a trick.

It was an easier lie to feed themselves than when they were forced to swallow the truth- that this ability was crafted. That it took hours of sweat, weeks of blood, months of pain, years of lessons and countless fights and training. These skills were not a hobby, they were not something to be picked up at leisure or out of mere boredom. They were honed like the edge of a freshly sharpened blade, designed with deadly precision layered into every facet of my being.

And many of these layers had been built in darkness. They were the product of a young woman, desperate to prove her worth to her people.

Clara stepped to the side and began to circle me. I became a mirror, a reflection matching her every move with my own. She began to attack with a vengeance that many would assume her kind and patient nature incapable of.

My staff met hers strike for strike, each of my movements perfectly timed to hers, an effortless dance of defense. There was a rhythm to her strikes, a steady cadence of attacks that became easier and easier to defend against.

The rest of the world fell away with each breath in and out, until the only things that existed were the staff in my hand and the warrior facing me. My strikes began to meet hers sooner, disrupting her steady stream of attacks.

Her steps became less sure. She swung with a splintered confidence, less power behind each hit and hesitation interrupting each step. Before she could recover, I shifted the staff in my hands and began to attack in earnest.

The speed of each strike came faster than the last and with no discernible pattern. Backpedaling in a desperate attempt to escape, she tripped and lost her staff, my final strike stopping a hair’s breadth away from the side of her head.

I opened my eyes.

Clara smiled up at me, shocked joy clear on her face. The world outside of our sparring ring came back into sharp focus, bringing the sounds of the gathered guards crashing in.

“I had heard you were good. I was not prepared for that,” Clara beamed as I offered my hand and helped her up, “I hope you’re ready for them to chase you for weeks, begging for training.”

She nodded towards the guards surrounding the ring, many of whom looked as though they were already preparing themselves to beg. I laughed, feeling honored but knowing that I would not be able to do their training justice while my father’s condition remained unchanged. Understanding settled in Clara’s eyes and she walked to the bench, exchanging the practice staff for dulled practice blades.

I moved to do the same. The fresh air and exertion helped my head to feel the clearest it had in so long. We worked our way through every set of weapons quickly, some of our matches ending faster than the others. As each match ended, the crowd steadily grew until the end of our final bout.

We finish and look up to find the yard shockingly empty- except for a single figure standing back from our ring.

“Clara, you are dismissed for the day. Thank you for taking the time to distract my stepdaughter.”

Moira stepped to the side as Clara nodded, collected her discarded equipment and stepped into the armory.

“I am glad to see you have taken a moment for yourself during this trying time. Once again thrusting your responsibilities onto myself and Astor. As if the burden we are carrying for you already were not enough.”

Her condescending tone dug its claws deep into my bones. Spikes of anger shot through my body, my jaw clenching and grinding my teeth together painfully. I kept the expression on my face blank, not wanting to give her any indication of how deeply her words were affecting me.

As if I wanted her to be in charge of my pack.

As if I chose for my wolf to not appear, for the pack leadership to pass to Astor on my 23rd birthday. The thought of not taking my father’s place, of watching Moira and Astor dismantle the work my family has spent generations building made me physically ill.

“The pack is losing confidence in you. Rumors have begun to spread, saying the same sickness that has taken your father has now taken hold over you. Likely started after your little…episode at our announcement.”

Her eyes travel up my body, taking in the dirt and sweat from my training covering every inch of my body. Disdain was written in every line of her face.

“Clean yourself up before crawling back to your father. Get out of my sight.”

The Luna command tugged me forward violently. I fought it long enough to collect my things and enter the armory, closing the door behind me. Clara jumped up from her seat to help me clean and return everything to the racks.

We worked in silence quickly, until the bench was clear of everything I had carried in. Clara frowned, looking between the racks of daggers and the weapons registry.

“There’s one missing,” she says, before moving to the door to the yard and cracking it open just enough to peek outside before opening it fully, “Moira is gone. Do you see it anywhere?”

We both stepped back outside, but the dagger was nowhere to be found.

“Maybe one of the guards who was here earlier forgot to return it, it's happened before,” Clara says, shrugging the moment off and clearly pushing the event from her mind.

Panic surged through me, nameless and unprompted. There was no reason for me to feel this, no reason for me to push past Clara and rush down the halls. I flew through the twists and turns, slipping only once and bruising my shoulder on the stone wall. I did not pass another pack member in my desperate rush through our halls and towards my father’s quarters.

Two guards were posted at the entrance, confusion on their faces as I flew into the hallway. I slowed as I saw them.

The guards were still there.

My father was fine. Clara was right. It was just a forgetful guard…..the mental assurances did nothing to stop the feeling of unease that was settled in my gut, heavy and unrelenting.

“Is everything ok, Freya?” the guard asked, looking between me and his partner.

I nodded, winded from my run and gestured towards the door. He opens it for me, the heat from the room quickly spilling out and filling the hall. My labored breathing worsened in the heat, but I moved forward, entering the room. The roaring fire was the only source of light, casting unnatural shadows on the wall that seemed to track my every step towards his sick bed.

The feeling of unease grew. The heat surrounded me, smoke choking my lungs and causing my eyes to water.

“Father…” I called into the darkness, the shadows stirring at the sound of my distressed, whispered plea.

Please respond, please do something, anything to let me know that you hear me, that you’re alright. Please be alright.

The silence was smothering.

I reached the edge of his bed. His face was turned away from the fireplace, unchanged since I had last sat by his side. I placed my hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

“Father…please wake up. Please, say something.”

He did not move.

He did not speak.

He did not breathe.

My eyes moved from his face towards the blankets twisted over his body. I moved to untangle them, pulling at the blankets slowly as sobs fought to escape my body. My efforts met resistance. My fingers reached forward blindly, my sight hindered by the tears and darkness.

The shadows continued to stir around me.

A guard entered with a torch in his hand, asking if he could help right as my hand grasped what had caused the resistance in the blankets.

The shadows grew frenzied.

The tears streamed down my face.

The sobs violently shook my body.

The guard saw my bent form leaning over my father’s body.

My hand wrapped around the missing training dagger, buried in my father’s chest.