SHADOW FANG

CHAPTER TWO

SHADOW FANG
—May the worthy prevail—

Count to five. Don’t rush in.

You move first, they crush you.
 
OCTAVIA
 My eyes flick to Mom, standing close enough to touch, yet feeling a world away. That look on her face—I've seen it a thousand times before—begs me to walk away from this madness. She doesn’t need to say it, but her eyes do. They always do. 
 I swallow my pills with a gulp of water that does little to wash away the bitter taste of dread coating my tongue.
 We stand before the Styx, the ancient proving ground where countless before me have either emerged as fighters or been shattered into nothing. For centuries, the Gauntlet has tested the worthy and broken the weak. I’m not naïve enough to think I know which side I’ll fall on.
 The imposing walls of Naxthir Brigade College rise like a fortress of cold stone and steely ambition. This is the heart of Atlax, the pulse of the Republic of Midra—and it feels like it might crush me if I let my mind wander too long. But the Styx is what lies in front of me, a stretch of 7.5 miles that could either carve me into something new or grind me to dust. 
 Around us, a sea of runners, clad in identical body-hugging lilac-blue sleeves and black pants uniforms that seem to mock us. We're already stripped of our individuality before the real culling begins. Just another nameless body to feed the Gauntlet.
 “Octavia." Mom’s voice barely rises above the sea of shuffling bodies, but I hear her. 
 Her eyes plead what her lips refuse to say: Leave. Leave now. “Are you sure? We can still go, you know. Right now.”
 I shrug off my jacket as if it will prove a point, handing it to her. The chill air bites through the thin fabric of my uniform. "Mom..." The words I want to say — that I'll be fine, that I've trained for this, that I'm not him — lodge in my throat, jagged and cold. 
 She unzips my backpack, the one I'd been too anxious to touch and pulls out something that glints in the fading light.
 "Here.” She secures the strange garnet metal contraption around my forearm, intricate and ancient. Like a vambrace but with openings. Flowing lines twist and intertwine, the metal pulsing once it clamps my skin. It’s cold at first, then warm—almost alive. "A family heirloom. Yours now."
 There are no rules against it... but there will be whispers.
 "Mom, I—" I start to protest, worried about losing it during the trial, but she cuts me off.
 "It should’ve been given to you sooner.” She steps closer, her voice low and quick, fear barely hidden behind her brittle smile. “You’ll see me soon,” she whispers, almost like a prayer. “Don’t die, Octavia. You fight. Once you make it through, find Lance. He’ll have your medication. I’ve packed enough to last until your bags arrive. But don’t let anyone see it. If they do… it could mean death. Or worse.”
 The air rushes from my lungs. She thinks I can make it.
 "I thought you wanted me to walk away," I murmur, more to myself than to her.
 Mom glances toward the crowd, swearing under her breath. “Of course I do,” she mutters, before exhaling sharply. “But I know you. You’ve never been the kind to listen.” She squeezes my shoulder, her voice softening in a way that makes the knot in my chest tighten. "So go. Fight like hell." 
 In her eyes, I see the mother I know—the one who raised me to be stubborn enough to face this hell. And yet, the fear lingers beneath her gaze, a shadow that could suffocate me if I let it.
 I hesitate, wanting to hug her, to seek comfort one last time. But that would make this feel like a goodbye, and I can't bear the thought. Instead, I force a smile and turn away before I can say something stupid.
 The Styx gate towers before me, its surface etched with the carved hands of our founders. 
 I stop at the threshold, my entire being screaming at me to look back—to see if Mom is still watching. But I don’t. If I do, I might break.
 And I can’t afford to break.
 I step through.
 Ahead lies the verification station—aptly called the Styx Post. It's where they separate the wheat from the chaff, the runners from the watchers.
 Two stages, I remind myself.
 The Gauntlet has two stages, and it’s the first one that Lance feared—where my lack of wolf senses might just be my death sentence. The "blind trail," they call it. No sight, but the blood in your veins screaming for survival. If I survive that phase, then maybe I might have a chance, that's if the other candidate doesn't kill me before the Gauntlet does. 
 I scan the faces around me as I join the line, trying to steel myself against the rising tide of anxiety. A girl catches my eye, tall and lean, with almond-shaped eyes, slightly upturned, jet-black hair falling just above her chin. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat, and the hatred I see there makes me flinch. She looks like she'd rather be anywhere but here.
 And then, just beyond her—my heart stops. For a moment, I swear I see Levi in the crowd. But then I blink and he's gone, swallowed by the sea of lilac blue and black.
 I shake my head. Get a grip, Octavia. There’s no place for ghosts here. Focus or get killed.
 The girl in front of me moves, drawing my attention. She's what they call "fit for the run"—a shifter, no doubt. She belongs here, I think, biting down on the bitterness that rises unbidden. 
 I don’t.
 Her kind will tear through the Gauntlet as wolves chasing prey, while I... Well, I just hope I’ll still be standing by the end.
 Four clerks sit at the head of the line, taking down every runner’s details. The lines stretch back for what feels like miles, a hundred of us, maybe more, waiting our turn. 
 I clear my throat, more to steady myself than to start a conversation, but I try anyway. "It's ironic, isn't it?" I mumble to the girl ahead, trying not to sound as terrified as I feel. "Training for years, just to maybe get killed by a trap on day one." The words fall flat, even to me.
 She ignores me as the line inches forward and another candidate disappears through the door. 
 I sigh, glancing around. Most here look like they’re carved out of stone.
 But then someone speaks.
 "That's one way to look at it."
 I turn and see a girl with chestnut hair, pulled back in a messy braided bun. Her marigold eyes have a mischievous glint, like she’s daring the world to knock her down just so she can laugh in its face.
 "I'm Renna," she says with a grin.
 "Octavia.”
 She doesn’t have the muscle of the others, but there’s a raw edge to her, a kind of wired energy that tells me not to underestimate her. 
 "Nervous?" Renna asks.
 I shrug. "Isn’t everyone?” I mutter, glancing at a group that looks more like they’re preparing for a victory lap than an ordeal. "Though some look like they’re already picking out where to hang their trophies."
 Renna chuckles. "They’re bluffing. Everyone’s scared. No matter how tough they act, it's all for show."
 Her laughter is infectious, and I feel some of the tightness in my chest ease. I crack a small smile. "You don’t look nervous at all."
 Renna leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I just try to imagine the Gauntlet as... a really intense game of tag. And everyone else? They're just overgrown puppies chasing their tails."
 I snort. “You're kidding."
 “Who says I am?” Renna shrugs as if she's dead serious. "It helps." Maybe.
 We shuffle forward with the line, and I steal another glance at the crowd. Some of these people—this isn’t their first Gauntlet. I feel a flicker of fright rise in my chest. How many of them survived last time? How many didn’t?
 "Have you run the Gauntlet before?" I ask her, trying to sound casual. 
 Renna gives me a look that could curdle milk. "Do I look like I have a death wish?" She jerks her chin towards the swarm of candidates. "But some of them have. The ones who made it through but didn't make the cut? They’re the ones to worry about." Her eyes narrow, focusing on a particular figure. "Like that one with the red hair."
 I nod, trying not to stare at the male a few lines over. He's the kind Lance would tell me to avoid—dangerous, with eyes that promise violence. I inhale sharply and look away. The Gauntlet is dangerous enough without adding bloodthirsty competitors to the mix.
 "Next," a bored voice calls, and suddenly I'm at the front of the line.
 Renna leans in again, voice a low whisper. "Definitely some sweaty wolf-boy tension around here, huh?" 
 I can’t help but glance back at the males, and my throat tightens. Panic thrums in my veins as I approach the desk. The clerk barely spares me a glance, holding out a quill. 
 I take it, forcing myself to sign the scroll with a hand that doesn’t shake, at least not on the outside. The moment I finish, the clerk calls the next runner behind me, Renna.
 Stepping toward the narrow passage behind the desk, I swallow hard, each breath an effort to keep panic at bay. It feels like walking the plank, an invisible force pulling me closer to the edge. The corridor spits me out onto a stretch of open land, and the sight waiting for me steals the air from my lungs.
 The terrain is harsher than I’d imagined. Before me stretches a sloping hill, the incline treacherous. The line of runners, those who’ve already crossed the Styx post, gathers at the starting point, mere shadows against a sky that’s fast losing light.
 No packs, no gear. Just us, our wits, and whatever hell the Gauntlet throws our way. 
 Somewhere far to the northeast is Naxthir College, the end goal we’re supposed to reach. But the run takes us west first, downhill. The slope alone could break bones, but it’s the traps waiting for us that make my blood run cold. Hidden pits, snares, maybe even something worse. It's designed to cull the herd, thinning out those too weak or too unlucky to survive. Then the cave, a path where I'll have to make the highest and farthest jump with only a slim iron pillar to balance on as I land. It will be the long thing between my feet and the chasm.
 Three painful and scary leaps that may cost me my life if I make the slightest mistake while landing.
 And then, there’s the bridge, it comes after the cave, after the binds are off, the one Lance also hammered into my mind during training. You reach the bridge, you run, don’t wait, listen, run, and count. You delay, you get crushed. 
 I can’t see it from here, but I know it’s waiting. As if that weren’t enough, with the blindfolds off, it won’t just be the traps hunting us. The other runners will be out for blood, too.
 My palms grow clammy and I rub them against my thighs, trying to ground myself, but the sensation doesn’t leave. The fear was real, the bone-deep kind.
 I glance around at the others. They’re all calculating, some with the kind of feral gleam that makes me wonder if I’ll survive the night. Further down, a flash of red hair catches my attention again. The guy Renna had pointed out earlier—tall, built like he belongs here, with eyes that gleam in the fading light. He notices me staring and grins, not the friendly kind, but the one that makes my stomach flip with unease. I tear my gaze away, silently cursing myself.
 Renna sidles up beside me, offering a crooked smile. "You ready?" 
 I shake my head, laughing bitterly. "Not even close."
 “Good. Means you’re still sane.” Her eyes flick to the starting line, and her expression hardens. “Once that shot goes off, it’s hell out there. Don’t get too close to anyone.”
 Her words settled deep in my bones, a warning I already knew but needed to hear again.
 I clench my jaw, cursing inwardly. 
 Someone sidles up next to me, and I glance over to find a guy with short curly waves staring at the redhead too. His voice is barely more than a whisper when he says, “That’s Tyson Evander. Nephew of the Grand Marshal.”
 “What about him?” 
 "He killed a student last year," he rumors, his voice quieter, almost conspiratorial. "Didn't make the top hundred. After crossing the finish line, he snapped. Stabbed a poor guy in front of everyone. Didn’t even flinch.”
 Holy s**t. 
 My mouth goes dry. “How do you know this?”
 He shrugs, a faint dimple forming. “People talk. Stay clear of him. He doesn’t work with anyone, doesn’t need to. For him, it’s all survival. Same goes for one by the line.”
 Great. Just what I needed—another predator to avoid. I force a nod, trying to keep my hands from trembling. “I’m Octavia,” I say, more out of reflex than anything.
 “Rai,” he replies, smirking slightly. “First time?”
 I nod, feeling more foolish by the second. “I’m guessing it’s not yours.”
 He chuckles, eyes barely visible. “No. And if you want advice? Don’t die. And good luck out there.”
 I manage a shaky smile, but the truth behind his words leaves me cold. Renna gives me a sidelong glance, probably sensing the unease radiating off me.
 Before I can say anything else, a blaring horn splits the air, the kind of sound that shakes you to the core. Everyone freezes, tension rippling through the group. My heart slams into my ribs as the voice crackles over the speakers.
 “Attention, all candidates,” a voice booms through the air, its weight heavier than any words I’ve heard today. “I am Overseer Darrow of the Naxthir Brigade College, and it gives me great pleasure to welcome each and every one of you to this year’s Gauntlet. For over three centuries, the Gauntlet has forged the strongest among us. Today marks its 231st trial.”
 “421 of you stand here. Only 120 will earn the right to enter our hallowed halls. The rules are absolute—”
 I feel a shock ripple through the crowd, but no one dares speak. My lips move, tasting the number as if saying it aloud would make it more real.
 "Barely more than a quarter of us will make it."
 Renna nods beside me. "Better odds than I expected." But I hear the tremor in her voice.
 Rai only nods.
 “Your binds are sacred. Tampering means instant disqualification. The first stage is The Blind Trail. Trust your instincts, not your eyes. This is not a test of strength alone, but of will, cunning, and the unbreakable spirit of Naxthir. The binds only … and will come off once you reach the tunnel. Candidates, take your positions. May the worthy prevail."
 We shuffle forward, a sea of lilac and black. My fingers brush against the strange metal contraption on my forearm and Mom's words echo in my mind: “Don’t die, Octavia. You fight.”
 I inhale sharply, forcing my breath to steady. I can smell my own fear—sharp, bitter, clinging to me like a second skin. Above, the sky bruises into deep indigo, the last vestiges of sunlight swallowed by the encroaching night. 
 A hand grips my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin. "Remember," Renna hisses, "trust no one."
 I nod, my voice lost somewhere in the mess of nerves twisting inside me. 
 “See you on the other side.”
 To my left, a hulking male with close-cropped hair rolls his shoulders, muscles shifting under his uniform like coiled steel. I glance away before he catches me staring, my stomach churning with anxiety. They’ll know I don’t belong. A sheep in wolf’s clothing. At any moment, one of them will smell it on me. The absence of wolf blood. The lack of primal instinct. 
 My breath quickens, hands shaking as I shove them behind my back. Focus.
 The thud of boots approaching snaps me from my spiraling thoughts. Overseers—stone-faced and unyielding—approach, carrying black fabric. My heart kicks into overdrive as one moves toward me. Before I can steel myself, the world goes dark as the blindfold is fastened over my eyes.
 I bite down on my lip, hard, to keep from screaming. It’s nothing like the controlled training Lance put me through. This darkness is real, oppressive. Suffocating. My breath comes in shallow bursts, the panic rising like floodwater in my chest.
 A leather strap tightens around my wrists, binding them behind my back. Cold sweat trickles down my spine. I’m not a shifter. The thought hammers in my head, louder and louder until I can barely think. I don’t have the instincts for this.
 But then Lance’s voice comes to me, quiet but firm. “Focus, Avi. Use your other senses. Listen. Feel. You’re more than your eyes.”
 I close my eyes beneath the blindfold, taking a deep breath. The air is cool, tinged with the scent of damp earth and sweat. Under my boots, I feel the ground shift—uneven, rocky. Small details, but they ground me, tether me to reality.
 A hum builds in the air. Low at first, almost imperceptible, but it grows, vibrating in my bones.
 “Candidates,” Darrow’s voice breaks the silence. “Your fate awaits. The 231st Gauntlet begins in 3…”
 I dig my heels into the ground, trying to remember the instructions. Count to five. Don’t rush in. You move first, they crush you.
 “2…”
 My breath hitches. A prayer, a curse, a desperate plea – I'm not sure which – dies on my lips. Just survive.
 “1…”
 The gunshot cracks through the air, and the ground erupts beneath me.