Ready for sorting
739 Words
*Isla*
I'm jolted awake not by a bell, but by a sound… a low, resonant sound that vibrates through the wooden floorboards and into my bones. It's the Alpha's Call, a psychic summons that pulls every wolf on campus out of their beds or tells us to assemble.
I sit up, my muscles screaming in protest, a fresh wave of pain radiating from my shoulder and down my leg. Liora is already moving, her movements quick and economical. There are no lazy mornings here, and I need to ignore the pain, I can show weakness on my second day here.
We pull on the rough grey training tunic and trousers we were issued, the fabric scratchy against my skin. The mess hall is a cavernous space filled with the low hum of hundreds of conversations and the clatter of wooden bowls. The food is bland… porridge, dried meat, and a dark, bitter brew that's supposed to wake you up.
I eat mechanically, forcing down the fuel my body is craving and no doubt will be needing, my eyes scanning the room. I see my brother Ian laughing with a group of second-years, and for a moment, my chest tightens. He looks so at ease, so certain he belongs. Then I spot Cedric, sitting with a few other second-years, and he catches my eye for a split second. He offers a small, tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes, then quickly looks away. An already familiar knot of disappointment forms in my stomach. Same old Cedric. Too worried about what others think.
After the meal, we're herded out into the courtyard. The air is crisp and sharp. At the front stand several instructors, their faces grim and imposing. They are elite warriors, their scars a testament to their years of service. One of them, a woman with a long silver braid and eyes the color of a winter sky, steps forward.
"Provisionals and cadets!" Her voice cuts through the morning air, sharp and clear. "Welcome to your second day. Yesterday you proved you have the grit to stand on this ground. Today, we begin to shape that grit into steel. You will be sorted into your training companies. You will live, train, eat, and fight with your company for the duration of your time here. Your loyalty is to them above all else. Your success is their success. Your failure is theirs, too."
She gestures to a large, wooden board standing beside her, covered in names. "When your name is called, step forward. You will receive your company insignia. Your company leader will be waiting to take you to your designated training grounds. Do not keep them waiting."
A hush falls over the crowd. Names begin to be called out. "Soren of the Red Paw!" A beefy boy with a nervous expression steps forward and is handed a patch of dark red fabric with a stylized claw print. "Elara of the Sunstone Pack!" A tall, elegant girl accepts a patch of brilliant yellow, a burning sun at its center.
My hands are clammy. I can feel Liora beside me, a knot of silent tension. I don't know where I want to be, only where I don't. I want away from Ian's shadow, and I desperately want to avoid the being in Cedric's company, having him hover over me. I want to be with Liora, as She is the only other person I know. That's all.
"Astrid of the Frostwind Pack!"
"Bjorn of the Ironfang!"
Names are read, people step up, getting sorted. I hold my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs with every syllable.
"Liora Elva!"
Liora gives my arm a quick, hard squeeze before stepping forward. "The Nightshade Company," the instructor announces, handing her a patch of deep purple, nearly black, fabric embroidered with a single, silver thorned vine.
The instructor keeps calling names, her voice a steady, indifferent drone. I'm not listening anymore, just waiting. The courtyard is thinning out as cadets are sent to their corners.
"Isla Ulvehjerte."
My name hangs in the air. My name. My father's name. I can feel a hundred pairs of eyes turn to me. whispers start. Ulvehjerte. The General's daughter. I force my chin up, my shoulders back, ignoring the throb in the left one. I limp forward, each step a deliberate act of defiance towards everyone that thinks me weak.
I hold out my hand, waiting for my patch.
- Writer
