THE ROGUE WOLF

by Klaire London

  "You are a coward, Titus, who deserves no name. And you will die one too," I finish, my palms beginning to become sweaty around the handle of my blade.

  Titus laughs at my comments. "Are you done now?" He asks, clearly unimpressed, but I know that it's just a cover up: he knows I'm telling the truth.

  I shrug my shoulders. "I could go on all day, but I've got a fight to win," I spit through gritted teeth, and tear at the tall male, plunging my sword straight into his stomach. The sword manages to slice through flesh for a mere second before Titus punches me in the skull, causing me to back away from my advance.

  Titus glares at the incision in his stomach. He places his left hand over the wound which comes away stained a deep scarlet. Yet his balance never falters, and his face never once shows any sign of pain. Sadly, the wound will be healed in a matter of minutes.

  "You really thought that that would kill me?" I can hear a laugh behind his sullen tone.

  "No," I say blandly, my teeth still clenched. I knew he was the strongest opponent I would face, but it was going to be harder killing this beast than I had originally thought, but werewolves were always hard to kill anyway. With their much faster rate of healing, Titus's wound would have vanished during the battle.

  We don't need to speak anymore words, and for that, I am relieved. The bitter conversation we had exchanged was enough to show one another the hatred writhing through our bodies like coiling snakes ready to pounce.

  And Titus is the first to spring. Yet again, he swings his sword with all his might, and I only have time to bring my own above my head to protect my neck.

  My opponent's sword is deflected, but he quickly attempts to batter me again with another swipe of the silver blade. Sunlight gleams off the shiny surface, blinding me for a second, and I squint as I tighten my grip around my blade.

  It's not enough. I feel the blade ripped from my fingers as Titus bashed it away, exerting his sheer power over my tiny frame, leaving me exposed to his wrath.

  With nothing to protect myself, I instinctively curl my empty fingers into fists. I felt completely and utterly exposed, as if I was no longer protected by my own skin, but for some reason I also felt comforted.

  As I scrutinized the male in front of me, he no longer seemed daunting. He seemed like the coward he was, swivelled away behind his sword as if the silver was his lifeline.

  From the momentum of his swipe, Titus is forced to spin around, and I take the clear opportunity to leap on his back. I thrash my legs and punch him in the head, but his hand is swiftly clasped around my forearm before I can continue my attack.

  Like a feral hurricane, he flings me on the ground, causing me to groan as the impact rattles through my shoulder. I let out a short, sharp breath as the pain begins to consume my body, but I knew that my shoulder blade was not broken: it would hurt even more if it was.

  I shield my eyes from the blinding sun, but it offers little protection from the rays until the huge, bulky shadow of Titus swallows me, the shadow of his sword to my right.

  Titus raises his lips, canines elongated into a grotesque smile. "Have fun dying, rogue."

  "Fun isn't usually the thing I associate with death," I spit at the older man as me places both hands on the sword, raising it above my head. He stands with the sword aimed at my chest, ready to go in for the killing blow.

  I gulp as I lay still, petrified in fear. My eyes are wide open, only able to observe the events as they spun out before me. At least, that's what I wanted him to think.

  In the blink of an eye, the sword is plummeted towards the ground, straight towards my breastbone. Like a lightning bolt, an instinct shoots through me, and in a millisecond I manage to roll out of the way just before the sword makes a loud thump as it hits the bare sand.

  A smirk lands on my face.

  A roar of rage rips from Titus's vocal chords as he notices that my deceased body was not on the end of his sword. I can imagine what his face looks like, but I don't look because I have better ways to use my time.

  This time, my legs obey and I am able to cause Titus's larger body to come crashing to the ground. I watch as his hands flail in front of him, dropping the sword in the process.

  Caged by his toppled body, the blade lies under the man as he blinks away the fury in his eyes. I can sense that he's close to shifting, but I demand my body to keep calm. Panicking would cause me to make rash decisions, which would lead to my demise.

  Narrowing my eyes, I realise that I can't retrieve his sword, unless...

  As Titus staggers to a crouching position on all fours, I kick him so hard that he lands on his side, the sword no longer protected by his body. As quick as a cheetah, I sweep up his sword, and turn to get my own.

  I see the fallen battle blade meters away, but my attempt to spring away is unforgiving. Titus's hand is gripping my ankle desperately as he realises my plan: if I took away his weapon, then I would have a much greater chance of winning this battle. No matter how fast I was, I was no match for him.

  Almost tripping, I manage to wiggle my foot in such a way that Titus lets go, and I stumble the few yards towards my previous weapon, greedily gathering it up in my hands.

  Staying alert, I stare up at the crowd, turning a fraction of a degree to face the beautiful eyes of Azra. I don't mean to, but something about the roar of the crowd entices me in. I ignore the fact that her lips are pressed into a thin line, and concentrate my hearing as an exasperated growl slices the air behind me. Even though it's only been one second, I can feel time sliding away. Titus would be on his feet in two more seconds if he wasn't already.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as werewolf instincts take over. I could sense something behind me, and there was only one explanation for what it was.

  My heart suddenly begins to beat so quickly, it seems as though it's trying to break out of the cage of my chest. Each beat sends a jolt of adrenaline through my body, and finally I pluck up the courage to turn around.

  Before me stands a huge werewolf, brown and scarred muzzle almost at the same height as my head. He was just as powerful as I remembered. He was still the monster who had killed my mother with one swipe of his claws.

  Nothing in the rules said that we couldn't shift into our wolf forms, and he was clearly using this to his advantage.

  Stay calm, Aurora. Stay calm.

  But I can't. Fighting a fully grown werewolf and surviving was almost impossible, especially for a weaker she-wolf like me. Unless I shifted, there was no chance I could win this battle.

  It takes every ounce of the will in my body not to shift. I had the swords, and to me, they were more useful than claws. I could win this fight without shifting, and I would prove that. After all, I had trained with swords for my entire life. Finally getting to use them was like unleashing an atomic bomb.

  The wolf growls solemnly at me as if it has something lodged in its throat. I study the huge blemish that runs across the nose of the animal, making the black skin appear to have a ruby undertone. He had been through a series of battles, and he had the scars to show for it, but so did I.

  The ground beneath my feet falls away once more, leaving me and Titus alone, floating between eternity and death. We were back on the brink of life and death, this one attack determining who would fall off the end, and who would be launched into the sky.

  "Bring it on, you coward!" I scream, beginning to twist my body, ready to get enough power in the blade so that it would kill my arch enemy in a single hit.

  The wolf doesn't need to be told to attack as he begins to bound towards me, paws touching infinity as they pound against the non-existent ground. I watch as the muscles contract and relax, the boulder of muscle barrelling towards me at such a fast rate that I can't think. I can't think.

  My mind is a jumble of thoughts, all racing around at the speed of light. It's impossible to make out what's going on as the questions whizz through the tranquillity. My whole body screamed at me, telling me not to die.

  I bli
nk, shake my head furiously, shattering my thought processes. The solution to my problems was simple: throw the sword and kill Titus. Then the pain would be over, and I would have my revenge.

  The world sets into place, and with a battle cry I launch my sword through the air. I watch as it revolves through the air, each turn causing me to skip yet another beat of my heart.

  And as the wolf rears up, jaws open wide, ready to take a bite out of my flesh, the sword meets its underbelly. The jaws automatically flop as the creature lets out an animalistic whine, death consuming Titus's body in a matter of seconds.

  I saunter over, the other blade fisted in my hand as I raise it above my head. Sunlight gleams of the handle, refracting onto Titus's matted fur like a beacon. With one swift movement, I bring down the weapon, straight through what I presume to be his heart. The action takes a mere second.

  The werewolf writhed before transforming back to its human form, the pair of swords still embedded deep within my enemy's chest. It was obvious that there was no way he could heal his wounds now.

  Blood sprays from the man's mouth as his body spasms, and it takes all the will in the world to stop me from spitting on his body. He may be a murderer, but I was not disrespectful to the dead. Too many innocent – and tainted – people had died before my eyes to allow myself to fall in the trap of not respecting their lives as I should. But I would not respect Titus's life: I would forget it.

  The grown wolf stops wriggling mercilessly on the ground for what seems like centuries. His deep, fathomless eyes capture my own, and for a moment I see the puppy within his pale orbs: his true soul that had been draped by the power hungry monster for numerous years finally revealed itself in death.

  I dropped the other sword, the metal poisoning my grip. I watched helplessly as the man's body began to go rigid and still, the breath leaving him like a gentle gust of wind.

  I had won. I was going to be in the final, against either Josh or Damien.

  I could become Queen.

  I almost throw up at the thought. I never wanted to be queen, but at the moment it looked like my only way out of the Alpha Trials. If Josh lost to Damien, then maybe I would have to win, just to survive.

  Or maybe dying was better than becoming queen...

  A sudden wave of nausea overcomes me as I begin to stumble out of the arena, hand placed over my mouth. Not only had I just killed Titus, I had become more of a murderer too.

  But something else was wrong. My sharp werewolf instincts were going wild, as if the world had begun to crumble away beneath my feet.

  I can't look at the people surrounding me, because one glance at the crowd roaring my name would tear a hole through my soul.

  What had I gotten myself into? I didn't want to be their queen. I was socially awkward, and I could never lead a pack, let alone a kingdom.

  I feel tears begin to burn my eyes, but I force them down. A girl who had just defeated her greatest enemy was too strong to even show any sign of tears.

  "Aurora?" Josh asks as I race out through the gate and back into the dank safety of the hallways below the arena. Now only stood multiple guards where the other competitors used to chat and watch their competition intensely.

  I had come all this way, and for what? Nothing. To avoid death.

  I shake my head as I hurl myself onto the ground, my back aligning with the icy stones of the hallway. I bring my legs into my chest, and sit there as Josh and Damien disappear to decide who would fight against me in the final.

  Maybe I can run away, I tell myself, trying to comfort my thoughts. Why are you so afraid of death anyway, Aurora? Your parents have gone through it, so surely you can too.

  I know that the voice in my head is right. Why should I be afraid of something so inevitable and unavoidable such as death? The answer: human nature. My brain and my body would not allow me to die without a fight.

  One of the guards groans as he hauls Titus's corpse into the catacombs, the weapon I implanted in his chest still firmly held in position. The guard then drops the body, right in my line of sight, and I almost feel as though he's doing it on purpose.

  "You should watch the fight," the older guard recommends, his bushy grey eyebrows shadowing part of his eyes. "See what you're up against."

  I don't bother to argue with the authoritative werewolf. Maybe if I got to look at how both Josh and Damien fought, I would have an idea of what I was truly up against. Maybe I could even use their own tactics against them.

  Swallowing the tight ball of vehemence stuck in my throat, I clamber to my feet and peak out of the one meter slot at the two male werewolves.

  I was expecting to fight to be long and hard, but one minute in, I can see that Josh is already tiring. Neither have been given weapons for the round, and Damien continuously batters and dodges Josh's punches as he continues to persist in knocking his opponent out.

  Josh throws another punch towards Damien's head, but Damien easily ducks the sloppy and uncoordinated attack. That's when I realise Damien's battle strategy: he was wearing Josh out.

  "Josh!" I call out, trying to alert him to Damien's tactic, but the roar of the crowd is too loud for him to even contemplate hearing. He was going to lose if Damien kept up his tiring tactic.

  The events spin out in front of me as I am helpless to stop them from occurring. Once minute, Josh throws all his might into one more punch, but Damien swiftly grabs his arms, and twists it behind his back.

  Through the yells of encouragement and dismay from above, I am able to hear Josh as he whimpers and moans from the pain. The noise sounded like an atomic blast, each groan causing my heart to thump faster as I began to worry that Damien would seal the deal by killing him.

  And when I think that it's almost over, and that Damien has decided to kill the Alpha before him, Damien kicks Josh so ferociously in the head, I watch as spit flies from my friend's mouth before his head touches the ground.

  Josh was defeated. Damien had won. And that only meant one thing: I had to win so that I wouldn't die. I had to become queen.

  And cell by cell, my body begins to shut down. I didn't want to be queen. Correction: I wouldn't be queen.

  I am Aurora Thompson, and I am a rogue, not royalty.

  The piercing of a horn diverts my thoughts, and immediately I glance into the perplexed faces lining the stands of the arena. Some of the onlookers looked petrified, whereas others tugged at their weapons. Something was wrong, just as I had suspected, and it wasn't the fact that Josh had been knocked out cold.

  Guards rush past me, bashing my shoulder with little care as they hurry off to their unknown duties. Each had a sword welded in their grip, their eyes stony and emotions non-existent on their wise faces.

  "Hey!" I call after them. "What the hell is going on?"

  I only hear a muffled reply. "War."

  My heart begins to thump even faster than it had done during my spar with Titus.

  War? With who? Was this why the Alpha Kind wanted an heir so desperately? Because they had been at war this whole time?

  Crap. That's why they killed our rogue pack. That's why they hate rogues in the first place. Because the only explanation I can come up with for this war is that it's the rogues: the real ones who don't hesitate before decapitating a child's head from its body.

  I quickly turn my gaze back to the arena, and see that all hell has broken loose. The king stands from his chair, waving his arms to try and calm his people, but his power has been lost. He can't do anything to settle the chaos of the crowd.

  As I look closer, I see a werewolf with tattered clothes and a cut along his forehead. His beard was so intricately tangled, it looked as though he had a bird's nest perched on his chin. But what gave him away was his bold, steady movements, his heavy footsteps lumbering his body towards the king.