A Tale Wrought In Silver and Blood

Chapter Three

The claw was reaching to tear at her face, and there was nothing that Satrina could do about it. She had, prior to that moment, contorted her form to the absolute limits of even her exceptional Lycan physiology. She had dodged and dodged, weaving between the preceding blows and thrusts of claw and hands that were harder than steel with the grace bestowed by supernatural flexibility, reflexes and long practice. She had engaged in a dance of avoidance with her legs and her body, evading razor-sharp slices that came dangerously close to marring her sweat-drenched skin a couple of times. She hadn’t been aware, even as she’d done all this, that she was being herded into a trap.

She realized the truth soon enough, and she lamented how she had almost obliviously fallen right into it. She’d been preoccupied with trying desperately to weather the storm of blows and sneak in a hit or two in-between the unrelenting deluge. Her distraction, or shall we say laser sharp focus so acute that it had rendered her tunnel-visioned, had prevented her from noticing. Soon enough though, she’d caught on to the plan of her opponent, to the way the tempo of the conflict was being precisely orchestrated to bring her to a single conclusion. She could now see the maws of the trap reaching down for her, closing around her, ready to devour their prey.

She thought not.

She drew more strength from the wolf within, charging at the claws slicing down towards her with a roar of defiance. Her wolf made itself prominent in the reverberating growls echoing from her roar and in the way her muscles bulked almost unnaturally, becoming even more defined and prominent than they already were.

The claw slashed at her face. She felt the pain, but the power coursing within her gave her the strength to ignore it for the moment. Instead, she moved into the guard of her opponent, slammed a splayed palm on the muscled flatness of their stomach, and heaved with an audible roar. Fixing her stance for leverage, she pushed them backwards with all her summoned might.

Lycans, at their base form with barely any infusion of strength from their inner wolf, were powerful enough to dent steel if they punched hard enough. Calling on the wolf within multiplied this strength exponentially to almost unheard of levels. In their bipedal werewolf form, Lycans could bench-press tons of weight with little to no effort. Lifting and hurling a car would barely take a moment of thought or exertion to perform the action. Satrina wasn’t as strong as that at the moment, but in that instance of desperation, she came close.

There was an almost audible ‘thoom!’ as a miniature shockwave bloomed from the point of impact. Her opponent folded up like so much laundry, and their breath violently escaped their lungs with a strained gasp that sent some particles of spittle spraying in the air. Satrina’s arm strained for a single second, and it felt as if she was pushing back against the world itself. The moment after, however, her opponent was summarily catapulted backwards.

Satrina, panting with exertion and sweating from stress and nearly overheating, felt a twinge of frustration bloom in her chest. Of course, she’d taken the best Satrina could give and had still come out relatively spotless from the experience, at least in contrast to the litany of bruises and cuts that composed a painful symphony on Satrina’s flesh, even if she could feel them healing by the second.

Her opponent straightened up from her crouch, her bulky body shrinking somewhat into a more sinuous frame. She was nearly shirtless, with only a small navy blue tank top protecting the modesty of her upper torso, so Satrina had a front row seat watching as the massive hand-shaped bruise branded on the woman’s stomach in the shape of her palms healed and faded away almost as fast as it could form. The woman returned her scowl with an encouraging grin that sent a shiver racing through her for a moment, which she immediately stamped down. Her scowl turned fiercer.

“There’s no need for that face, Luna Satrina. That was an excellent move you pulled just then. You’re getting better.” The woman said as she walked towards a rack of towels in the corner, taking one of them and using it to wipe away her sweat.

“I don’t think so. I haven’t yet managed to put you on your back despite how long I’ve been at It.” she grumbled as she straightened up and walked over to claim her own towel. She could perceive the musky scent of her sweat filling the room, and though Lycans were a physical species by nature, Satrina was finding that she didn’t much like it.

By the time she was done wiping herself down, even if her clothes still felt drenched and sticky with sweat, the woman she’d been sparring with had taken a seat at a wooden bench next to the rack, and was now guzzling down a bottle of fresh water with an almost animalistic ferocity. As she took a seat next to her and fetched her own bottle, a flash of bright metal caught her eye and she found herself focusing on a silver pendant with a crescent moon emblem that hung from the neck of the woman next to her. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on it absentmindedly as she took several gulps of water.

Nervous? a soft voice with a graveled undertone questioned. Satrina blinked out of the reverie she’d unknowingly fallen into and met the gold-flecked gaze of her sparring partner. She stopped her drinking with a pop, wiping her mouth in order to buy a few seconds to order her thoughts.

“I suppose so.” She said at last, meeting the woman’s gaze and wondering what she thought of her reply. The woman simply nodded her head.

“Understandable. You shouldn’t be, though. There’s no point to it, and you might find yourself enjoying it later on.” The woman replied. Satrina pursed her lips sardonically and muttered mutinously;

I’m sure we’re all devotees to the Moon-Mother in one way or the other, but I don’t think I’d enjoy proselytizing and whatnot, Ardent Areia. I don’t have the temperament for it, you see. She said, smiling at the end of her statement. Wasn’t that the truth? Judging by all that she’d seen of the behaviors and codes of conduct of the Ardents of the Silver Theocracy, Satrina knew beyond a shadow of doubt that were she to be inducted into its ranks, she would chaff almost violently against the institution at best, and probably collapse into a caricature of herself after sufficient pressure at the absolute worst. The fact that her parents refused to pay heed to her protests and were still hell-bent on pushing her into the practice was a major point of contention between them. It’s not like this was like the old days, where Moon-Touched Lycans were so controlled by the Argent Dynasty that they seemed almost taboo. Sure, a Moon-Touched still couldn’t ascend to any meaningful leadership positions in Argentian society without the explicit say so of the royal family, but otherwise they were free to do their lives as they wished. Sure, Satrina didn't know exactly what she would do with herself beyond getting married or joining a pack or something, but that wasn’t really any fault of her own, now was it?

She’d been coddled from childhood, shielded from the world at large to the extent that she’d never even joined a pack, which was like a rite of passage for any Lycan worth their inner wolf. She hadn’t even known where to start with taking her place in the world, and though at twenty-two Satrina was starting to earn an amount of freedom that was slowly letting her grow into herself, she was under no delusions that she was anything even approaching world-wise yet. And here her parents came in, talking about her joining the Silver Theocracy as if she should be glad that she would be trapped again in yet another gilded prison for whoever knows how long.

A snort from Areia broke through the fog of her thoughts. She narrowed her eyes at the woman, who was smirking knowingly at her.

“What’s so funny?” she asked. Areia rolled her eyes.

“You,” she said, and Satrina didn’t know if she should be offended or amused, “you’re the one who’s so funny. The Theocracy isn’t just filled with priests and acolytes who gather every full moon to sing praises to the Moon-Mother, you know. I’m sure you’ll find it a lot more… interesting, once you get inducted.”

Satrina raised her brows skeptically; “Interesting? Like what?”

Before Areia could reply, a steel door at the far end of the makeshift gym slid open, and her father walked in.