Wildborn

The Big Bad Wolf

Thursday and Friday passed in an unremarkable blur. Conditioning drills, Combat Training, Medicum prep with Ivy. Bri moved through the motions, adjusting, absorbing, organizing. She even managed to check in on all of her committees an extra time, and fulfill her commitments and delivery times early while helping the lighting group decide on lantern placements for next Saturday’s event.

But the real change came on Saturday afternoon. After their lunch, Grandma Riona gathered the family in their apartment. “Time for new paperwork,” she said briskly.

New paperwork? Bri had barely opened her mouth to ask before Beta Antonio walked in with a stack of folders and a smirk on his face. “Congratulations,” he said, holding out a sealed envelope to each of them. “You’re officially the Ricci's now.”

“Ricci?” Bri blinked.

Antonio chuckled. “Means ‘curly’ in Italian. Figured it suited you.” He gave a pointed look at her head.

Lena giggled, clutching her envelope like it was a birthday card.

Bri opened hers. Inside was a new birth certificate listing her name as Brielle Aria Ricci, daughter of Alberto Ricci and Marina Ricci. A matching Social Security card sat beneath it. There were bank routing forms, a school transcript, and a state-issued ID card with her new last name printed in sleek, official lettering.

She flipped back to the birth certificate. “Who’s Alberto Ricci?”

“Don’t ask,” Grandma Riona said with a perfectly straight face.

Bri snorted.

Her mother, meanwhile, seemed unusually quiet.

“Mom?”

“I… changed mine,” she said after a pause. “Ricci, obviously. But I picked a new first name too. Marina.”

She said it like she was trying the sound of it out, like slipping into a dress she’d decided already suited her.

“Marina,” Bri repeated.

Her mom lifted her chin slightly. “It felt right. Clean. Like starting over.”

Bri studied her for a second before nodding. “It’s pretty.”

Her mom smiled faintly, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle on the envelope in her hands. “Exactly. A fresh start.”

By the time the sun dipped behind the forest, they had new identities, new accounts, and new futures.

Sunday dawned early, and with it came a subtle shift in the air. Combat Training began like any other morning. Bri jogged the perimeter track with her squad and joined stretching lines.

Then Delta Vincenzo called her over to him.

“You’re reassigned Ricci. Advanced group. Underground.”

Bri’s eyebrows shot up. “Underground ….”

Sera appeared at her side, looking far too amused. “Guess what?” she said with a crooked grin. “I got out of advanced training by partnering with you. And now you’ve dragged me right back in.”

Bri laughed. “Payback?”

“Oh, definitely.”

Bri gave a wave to Fin, Kennan, and the rest, then slipped away with Sera moving toward the edge of the field. Sera led her through a narrow passageway behind the weapons shed, then down a steep stone stairwell that spiraled below ground.

Bri hadn’t even noticed the door before. The staircase opened into a massive subterranean cavern. Torchlight flickered across the curved, stone walls, and the air carried the faint metallic tang of sweat, oil, and old magic. Three distinct arenas stretched across the expanse like separate worlds.

The first was a combat ring, padded and lined with wooden dummies, training poles, and sparring pads. The second rose high above the floor, a maze of stone pillars and narrow beams suspended in air, ropes and bars connecting them in dizzying lattices. The third shimmered with shifting light, a basin of water, rippling beneath floating platforms and dangling ropes.

“Welcome to the Pit,” Sera announced, voice echoing off the cavern walls. “Where we separate the wolves from the pups.”

Bri followed her into the first arena. Soriah was already there, stretching alongside a group of Year Three trainees.

“Hey,” Soriah greeted. “Glad you’re joining us.” Her tone was measured, neither warm nor dismissive, an acknowledgment, nothing more.

They began with paired drills, cycling through familiar stances and movement sequences. When Soriah called for them to draw their weapons, Bri slipped her hands into the grips of her Wind and Fire Wheels.

The twin rings caught the torchlight as she spun them, the air humming around her in faint vibration. The outer edges were sharpened crescents of steel, forged in an unbroken circle with inner handles bound in dark leather. In motion, they seemed to blur, the wind curling around them like a living thing.

Bri began with Form Drills Delta Vincenzo had taught her, moving through tight figure-eight motions that built rhythm and balance. The wheels demanded precision, too loose, and they clashed together; too rigid, and they dragged against her body’s flow. She found the sweet spot between control and release, the moment when the weapons became extensions of her breath.

Then came Contact Practice against wooden dummies. She moved in circles, pivoting on the balls of her feet, slicing in quick arcs that knocked splinters from the targets. The blades weren’t made for brute strength, they were about momentum, redirection, grace through speed. Her motions drew glances from nearby combatants. Even while holding back and new weapons, she couldn’t entirely hide the precision that came from years of unspoken training with David and Cale. She counted heartbeats between reactions, forcing herself to lag to appear merely capable, not gifted. Each deliberate delay felt like fighting underwater.

Next came the elevated arena.

A low whistle escaped Bri as she looked up at the jagged maze of stone and rope. The first pillar rose ten feet high, the next fifteen, the next twenty. Each surface barely held the width of a boot.

“Don’t think,” Sera advised. “Move.”

The drills began with Balance Training, hopping between pillars in timed succession, learning to shift momentum from leg to leg without losing center. Each wobble tested her core; each landing demanded split-second recalibration.

From there, they added motion forcing the trainees to move like predators rather than soldiers. Sera took to the ropes with her usual enthusiasm, flipping from one to the next like a gymnast.

Bri was steadier, slower, but deliberate. Her goal wasn’t to impress but to learn the rhythm of instability: how the world shifted underfoot and how to adjust without panic. Every pillar tested her balance and patience skills just as vital as any blade.

The third arena was alive with sound, the gentle slap of water against stone, the groan of ropes swaying overhead. Mist hung low over the basin, cool against flushed skin.

They began with grip drills, swinging from rope to rope before dropping onto the floating platforms below. Each one drifted unpredictably, tilting with every step. The exercise was about agility and adaptability and learning to recover instead of resist.

Sera excelled here, her balance catlike even when the platform shifted beneath her. Bri followed closely, cautious but steady. When Sera challenged her to a playful push duel, both ended up in the water with matching yelps and laughter.

Amidst all this, she noticed the eyes first, watching from the shadows near the cavern exit.

Tall. Easily 6’5”. His build was lean but predatory; broad shoulders, slim waist. Olive skin with a cool undertone, inky-black hair tousled on top and shaved close at the sides. Black ink peeked from the collar of his shirt and the hem of his rolled sleeves, and a tattoo shimmered silver-black along his forearm.

Eira stirred.

He’s… curious, she whispered.

Bri didn’t look again. By the end of the session, her arms ached, her legs trembled, and her lungs burned but her spirit felt alive. Beta Antonio walked up and clapped her shoulder. “Good instincts. Welcome to the advanced group.”

Bri nodded, sweat dripping down her temple, both her and Eira soaring with pride.

Sera gave her a teasing grin. “You’re officially advanced now.”

Bri smiled back, tired but satisfied.

“Let’s hope I can stay that way,” she murmured.

Back in the East Wing, she found a folded note slipped under her door:

Bri,

No Medicum today. You're progressing beautifully. Take the rest of the weekend to enjoy yourself.

See you Monday.

—Ivy

She smiled.

Sera found her shortly after. “You. Me. Honeyfire Market. You need a break.”

Bri remembered the banner across the town square from their shopping day “I’m in.”

They dressed down into lightweight sweaters and leggings and had Gamma Matteo take them to town.

When they reached the Honeyfire Market the air shimmered faintly with heat and scent: sugar and smoke, roasting meat, crushed herbs, and the faint ozone tang of magic.

The market got its name from the golden flame torches that crowned every stall which flickered like liquid honey instead of fire. When the wind stirred, those flames rippled rather than swayed, catching the gleam of every coin tossed, every laugh that burst through the crowd.

Stalls stretched endlessly in winding rows, each one bursting with color and personality. The spice vendors were impossible to miss, their tables covered in mounds of ochre powders, ruby flakes, and bundles of dried leaves tied with twine. Whenever one of them ground herbs with a mortar and pestle, the air around their booth shimmered with faint illusionary trails of scent, guiding would-be customers by the nose.

Nearby, a baker pulled trays of honeyed flatbread from a clay oven. The bread hissed as he brushed it with butter and rose-petal glaze, the scent so intoxicating Bri’s stomach twisted in response. Next to him, a meat vendor worked a skewer pit, rows of sizzling game layered with root vegetables and brushed with a fiery amber sauce. Each time he turned the rack, sparks flared skyward like fireflies escaping captivity. A few stalls down, a sweet maker displayed spun confections; sugar shapes of wings, animals, even miniature wolves ready to dissolve on the tongue.

The soundscape of Honeyfire was its own living entity. Drummers pounded out intricate rhythms from a side platform, joined by a flute that trilled and wove through the air like birdsong. The cadence changed every few minutes as different musicians took over, each from a different family, weaving together a medley that was equal parts festival and competition.

Games of skill filled the central row. At one end, a ring toss booth glowed with shifting light. A dart stall drew crowds with bursts of color every time a target was hit, earning free drinks or trinkets. Further along, a strength trial pit had been set up, a game that required contestants to swing a hammer onto a glowing platform. But the challenge wasn’t brute force; it was control. Too much strength, and the rune cracked; too little, and the light barely flickered. The key was balance, a lesson every wolf, young or old, understood intimately.

Children darted through the crowd chasing enchanted fireflies in glass orbs, their laughter echoing through the warm evening air. Vendors shouted in friendly competition over whose wares were superior, and bursts of laughter erupted as someone invariably lost at a game.

In the center of it all rose the Honeyfire Cauldron, a massive iron pot mounted on an open hearth. Inside, a thick golden brew simmered and sparkled. It was the market’s namesake drink. Sera claimed a single cup could warm you through a snowstorm or make you fall in love with the first person you saw. She had heard numerous legends of it over the years, but was pretty sure it was just a honey mead.

Sera called it “liquid courage.”

Bri called it “trouble in a cup.”

By the time Bri and Sera wandered through the entirety of the market, the crowd had doubled. The golden glow of Honeyfire’s torches lit the cavernous streets in a perpetual twilight that never dimmed. The laughter, the warmth, the scents, it all blurred into something vibrant and alive, a perfect contradiction: wild yet home, chaotic yet familiar.

Sera nudged Bri toward a booth selling roasted almonds dusted in crystallized sugar.

“Training reward,” she said with a grin. “No one survives Beta Antonio’s regimen without something sweet after.”

Bri laughed softly, taking a handful. The sugar cracked between her teeth, caramel and smoke mixing on her tongue. Then something caught Bri's gaze, or rather, someone.

Across the green stood the male from training. No longer in shadow, he was dressed in tailored black jeans and a soft, slate-gray henley that clung to him in all the right ways. His forearm tattoo gleamed beneath the afternoon sun. He stood beside Soriah and two of her friends, listening but not engaged.

Bri took in the whole picture before she could stop herself.

Well. He's… unfairly good-looking. “Who is that?” Bri asked.

“Dom. Dominic Varro,” Sera said with a sigh. “Trouble incarnate. Don’t let the jawline fool you. He’s exactly what he looks. Sharp, dangerous, and always watching. The big bad wolf of Lunebrook.”

Bri didn’t reply. Dominic glanced their way, just once. A flicker of recognition. Then gone.

Sera scowled. “Don’t get any ideas. He’s not your type. He's everyone's type. And what's worse. He knows it.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to.”

They wandered off to the fried dough booth, giggling.

But Bri couldn’t shake the chill of that gaze.

Dominic Varro.