33. Luna
LUNA
Father won’t meet my eyes.
Every Shadow Sanctum brother and sister surrounds me as I make my way to the arena, yet, it’s almost silent. There are soft murmurs among the masses. A crying child. An elderly Nurturer having a coughing fit.
But mostly, people stand with their hands shoved inside pockets, their shoulders up to their ears.
Father stands in the middle of the snow-shoveled arena on a mat of frosted, hardened earth. He faces the crowd, keeping his back to me as Alaric and I simultaneously enter the circle.
I’m careful to keep my steps even and my back strong. Every step is an ache in my ribs, but the closer Alaric and I get, the more distant the pain. I cup my wrist and come to a standstill as Father begins his speech, one we’ve all heard a hundred times.
“A wound left to fester poisons the body. A grievance left to rot poisons the Unit," Father starts, his voice measured, business as usual. Though I know better. I know by the way he doesn’t look at me.
I point my neutral gaze at Alaric, but he too avoids my eyes, choosing instead to stare past my shoulder.
"Tonight, we do not rejoice. Tonight, we do not celebrate. What is about to happen is not a test of strength, nor of skill, nor of will. It is a necessity, nothing more.
"We are the Shadow Sanctum, bound not by blood, but by purpose. The Unit must endure. The Unit must remain whole. When conflict threatens our harmony, it must be excised before it spreads. The cost is heavy. The loss is real. And yet, we do not hesitate."
Father turns his gaze to Alaric, then just to the right of me.
If you weren’t standing in my body, you’d assume he was addressing me as the fighter I am.
His expression is unreadable. Neither pride nor sorrow, only certainty shows in the hardened lines of his face, the weight of tradition heavy in his voice.
Hidden as he is, it’s here he shows his true colors.
He is capable of managing his emotions. As long as there’s an audience.
"You, fellow Keepers, stand here because the Unit demands resolution. You stand here because your grievance has outgrown words. And so, with steel and with sacrifice, you will bring this matter to its rightful end."
He exhales, as if bearing the weight of all who have fought before. The first time I stood in this circle, I thought him wise and strong, a warrior with battle scars and stories too gruesome to tell.
I was twelve then. My opponent was a boy a few years older than me who slipped a frog in the back of my sister’s dress.
My father felt it was an opportunity to prove myself.
I can still feel the tremble in my hands, not from fear of death but from the terror of bearing the weight of his disappointment.
I glance down; splay my palms. Not a tremor in sight.
Why must a lion prove itself to a jackal?
"One of you will not rise,” Father comes to the end of his speech.
I let my hands hang limp at my sides, energy pulsing through my fingertips. The bandage around my torso tightens as my belly stretches with two long, final breaths.
“This is a tragedy. But the greater tragedy would be allowing discord to weaken us all. The Unit must come before the self. Only then will we prosper."
He spreads his arms wide and looks up at the sky like a devil waiting for wings. As his arms lift, hundreds of brothers and sisters chant at once. "The Unit before the self."
My eyes close. I take a moment to feel the earth beneath my feet, let it ground me. A soft breeze kisses my cheeks and wisps the few stubborn strands of hair that managed to free themselves from my topknot. Some things cannot be caged.
The horn blares, and I picture Father jerking his arms down. I’ve seen the confidence in his strides from the ring, but I know he wishes to leap.
There’s a moment of pause. The crowd holds a collective breath, which is convenient because now more than ever I need my ears.
Alaric is smart. When he comes at an opponent, he doesn’t growl or roar or grunt like an amateur. He comes like a cougar, more of a pounce than a barrel. Strength plus agility—his fights are rarely lost.
But in moments like these, moments it’s necessary… I am one with the earth.
The ground crunches with his jump, and the wind shifts. My eyes snap open as I twist and arch so sharply, my shoulders nearly touch the ground.
He rolls in a tight ball—smooth—and hops back up in one fluid movement. His fists rise in front of him as he bounces on his toes. Boots. They’ll hurt if they hit me. I should be careful of that.
I match his fighting stance, shifting my feet out of respect for the warrior he is, the warrior he’s always been. When a few children at the front begin to cheer, I nearly snipe at them.
As Father said, this is a tragedy. A necessary tragedy.
Sawyer should be at the trap by now.
Alaric shuffles toward me and strikes his fist toward my face with his left hand—he’s right handed—but of course, I evade it like he knew I would.
It’s the hit to the stomach with the right he was hoping to surprise me with, but as soon as his arm jabs, I twist my body, grab his wrist and crash my weight onto his elbow socket while driving my hip upwards.
He howls as ligaments tear. His knees buckle, but he’s quick to stumble back on his feet.
I see it like my brain is a computer. A kick to the back, two elbow jabs to the spine, and a quick snap of the neck. Done. Lesson learned among the Keepers.
And in the two seconds it takes for me to see this play out, I realize my mistake. I need to slow down.
Instead of capitalizing on the attack, I back up a couple steps, my fists raised as I wait. His right arm dangles limply. He cradles it a moment before letting go and raising the left, his breathing turning ragged a minute in.
My ribs complain at the contortions I’ve been forcing on my body, and instead of blocking it out, I invite it in. I hone in on it, feeling each bruised muscle, every nick of bone.
And when Alaric comes at me a third time, I raise my fists to my face as if I’m going to block a punch that isn’t coming. He’s one arm down and zero for two; he isn’t stupid enough to throw a fist.
He tries another trick move. Instead of telegraphing his next strike, Alaric moves with the sharp, decisive speed of a trained fighter.
He doesn’t waste time with feints or hesitation.
Instead, he shifts his weight unexpectedly, switching stances mid-motion, his injured arm held close to his body as he pivots.
His booted foot swings low—not at my ribs this time, but at my ankle. A sweep. A good one.
Smart. Me on the ground is the only way brute force wins.
I react instinctively, leaping just enough to let his kick pass beneath me, but he’s already anticipating my counter. Before I even land, he explodes upward, driving his left fist toward my side with crushing force.
It connects.
My teeth clamp down on my tongue while pain lances through my ribs, and I stagger, exhaling sharply at the impact. My vision pulses with the throb of my wounds, but I don’t block it out. I let it settle, let it bloom. Taste the blood that fills my mouth.
A murmur ripples through the crowd, a burst of anxiety from people who believe me to be invincible. I try not to think of the cruelty I’ll have to inflict to repair my reputation.
I steady my breathing and meet Alaric’s gaze. His expression is fierce and controlled. There’s no gloating, no hesitation, only unwavering focus.
Good. He isn’t making this easy.
I lick blood from my lip and shift my stance, raising my hands in invitation. "Again."
Alaric doesn’t hesitate. He lunges, using the force of his momentum rather than strength alone, turning his body to compensate for his injured arm. His footwork is precise, disciplined. He’s adjusting to the damage, adapting his fighting style on the fly.
Impressive.
He aims for my temple this time, and I barely slip past the blow; the wind of it grazes my cheek. He’s faster than before. It’s amazing what our bodies and minds are capable of when we believe we’re running out of time.
I twist behind him, but he pivots before I can fully capitalize on the opening and swings his elbow backward in a sharp arc.
I could dodge.
I don’t.
The impact cracks against my already bruised cheekbone and whips my head sideways. A collective gasp shudders through the gathered Keepers. Blood drips from the corner of my mouth.
And in that moment, as I recover, I meet my father’s gaze.
He stands at the edge of the arena, his cold eyes fixed on me. For the briefest instant, I see a flicker of concern, a split-second of hesitation in his ironclad composure. Too concealed to call it remorse, too visible to say it isn’t regret.
If I died, it’d be because he wounded me. Thorne would believe it. Then the Keepers would believe it. Then everyone else would follow suit.
A self-destructive and quite possibly insane urge comes over me as the blood sweetens on my tongue. If I lay down, it’d cost me my life, but Father…
Father would lose everything.
As if he can see the thoughts swirling in my head, Thorne swoops in with a, “Come on, Luna,” in the most pained, worried voice. It steals my fire and leaves embers in its wake.
This isn’t easy for him to watch.
I let the pain settle deep in my bones, let it show in the slight bend of my knees, the shift of my shoulders.
I’m sorry, my love.
Alaric’s breath comes faster now. He’s spent. He knows it. I know it. But he doesn’t falter. He raises his good fist while shifting his stance, ready for more.
Sawyer must be at the fence by now. Or close. Close enough.
I exhale, slow and measured.
This time, I don’t wait for him to move.
I surge forward, knocking his weakened arm aside, stepping inside his guard before he can react. My palm slams into his collarbone and forces him backward—just enough to knock him off balance.
Then I drop low, sweep his legs out from under him, and before he can hit the ground, I drive my knee into his sternum, pinning him down with bone-crushing force.
The crowd silences. Almost. A woman’s cry sounds just past the front row. A mate. A friend.
A choked sound escapes Alaric as the breath leaves his lungs.
I stay there for a moment, the weight of my knee pressing into his chest, watching as the finality sets in.
Alaric goes still beneath me. His head falls back against the frozen ground. Not in surrender, but in understanding. Acceptance.
A warrior’s death.
I cover his ears with my palms, my gaze never leaving his as I whisper, "You fought well."
Then, with a final exhale, comes the crack.