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12. A Rigged Rank Test

12

A Rigged Rank Test

FLOR

B y the time I walked into the sunlight of the training yard, I didn't want to fight anymore. I needed to.

"Wills!" Sergeant yelled from across the yard. "Stretch and do bag work until your opponent is ready. You're fighting last, at the request of our Head Enforcer." He nodded across the training grounds at Margarette, who was walking away as fast as her boots could move.

The word opponent got my blood racing. Who would I be fighting? I didn't care, but I hoped they were strong and healed fast. I had a lot of aggression to work out.

I obeyed Sergeant's shouted command mindlessly, imagining the heavy punching bag was Margarette's perfect face, hinting that the price of acceptance at Northern was marrying her son. Then I replaced her face with Vanessa's. That was far more satisfying. I didn't stop until I heard a voice shouting and noticed the punching bag had split down one seam.

"I'll tell you this, Wills—you have more potential than I've seen in years," Sergeant said as he pulled me away from the bag. He nodded at my gloves, and I started taking them off. "I've been watching you every day since you arrived."

"You have?" I hadn't seen him around much at all, and the weird feeling that I got around him—that we were connected somehow—had made me look out for him most days. But he'd either been training with senior Enforcers at the far end of the grounds, or running patrols after rogues, from what Glen and Brand had told me.

"Yeah. You're solid. Great basic moves, stamina, flexibility. Now, the others are ready. But before your ranking match, I want to see what you can do with a weapon. Boy? You come, too." He motioned to Brand, then jogged away to speak with the other shifters who would be rank testing today.

From his concerned expression, Brand had been watching me take out my aggression on the bag. "You sure you want to test today, Flor?" he grumbled as he passed me. "There's no rush to become an Enforcer."

"Apparently, there is," I hissed, only loud enough for him to hear, I hoped. I scanned the area around us. Margarette was on the far side of the grounds talking to a red-faced, angry Patrick, so I went on. "Margarette just asked me to mate with Glen for the good of the pack."

" What? " His dark eyes blazed, and he went dangerously still. "She asked… No. I can't believe it."

I fought to control my breathing. He didn't mean he thought I was lying. He couldn't mean that. "She said it her damned self. She's clothed me, fed me, and I should be grateful. I should want to do her a favor now. If I'd known the food at Northern was so expensive, I would have hunted some fucking squirrels instead."

"I'll talk to her," he promised, looking toward where she had been, but she'd now left the yard completely. "She knows better. It must be her fear over Bradley's weakness?—"

I couldn't help the bitter chuckle that escaped. "Yeah, that's a big part of it. I even sympathize, to a point. But one thing I've learned is there's always a reason to force an unranked female to mate against her will. And if there's not, I'm sure an Alpha's mate can find one. If I never talk to another ranked shifter again, it'll be too soon." I half-expected him to make fun of me for losing my cool. I was about to join the ranked cohort, if my fight went well, anyway.

But Brand's head dipped, and he frowned, like I'd hurt his feelings. "Not all of us are without honor, Flor."

Ah, crap. I reached for his arm, letting myself relax into the strange warmth that filled me as it always did when I felt his skin on mine. "Brand, you're the only one I trust. The only one who hasn't…" I almost said pressured me into mating , but it wasn't true. Glen hadn't been the one pushing that bullshit on me. That was his mom. And Finnick had done the exact opposite. Still, I didn't know how I could stay here, feeling this way. Hunted. "You're the only one who hasn't made it weird, by claiming me or trying to. If I need to get out of here, will you still help me?"

He gulped, then nodded. "Sure, Flor. I'll always help you, no strings. Lake, remember?"

Hope flared back to life, the tiniest bit. "We'll go there together someday," I murmured. "I can see your sculptures."

"Right." His voice sounded strangled now as he led me across to the central ring. Shifters were starting to filter into the inner yard around the ring to watch. There was a crowd of unranked shifters—identifiable only by the number of the females wearing collars, and the mismatched sparring clothing they wore—gathered on one side of the slightly raised, packed earth sparring ring.

A long table, draped with a black cloth, marked the other side. Patrick stood beside the table, still looking pissed, but Margarette was nowhere to be seen. Good.

Sergeant took up position by a group of three female shifters and one male, all of them muscled and wearing fierce expressions—except Vanessa, who looked pissed to be rubbing elbows with the others. Her black clothing, similar to mine but more form-fitted, stood out. It was so much nicer than the other unranked shifters' clothing, that I wished I'd worn my old shit from Southern to make a point.

Sergeant called out, "One of the ranked shifters assisting today is Curtis Yellen. He will be fighting Flor Wills last." He pointed to a skinny male, who swallowed hard when my name was announced. "Also, Patrick Hillier, Erik Adair, Steven Bates, and Stan?—"

"Sergeant," Patrick interrupted. "Stan was the one who… choked."

The yard went quiet, though I didn't know why. For some reason, a few of the unranked females were clutching each other's hands, and I wondered if he'd been a friend. But then one of them met my eyes for an instant. She wore a collar, and she was pretty, if almost as thin as me. But I recognized the gleam in her eyes.

She was glad he was dead.

One of the males barked out, "He was murdered." The woman flinched.

Sergeant spat on the ground. "There wasn't a mark on him. No trace of poison, no silver dust. He was executed by the moon, as far as I can tell. And if any of the rest of you males happen to find yourselves in or near the unranked girls' rooms some night, like Stan did? If the moon doesn't wreak her vengeance on you, I will."

Ah, so he'd needed to die. I didn't know the guy, but I nodded at the female and mouthed, Good riddance. The corners of her lips turned up, and she nodded back.

Sergeant stared every one of the males who tried to meet his eyes into submission, then he spoke. "Patrick, can you do two rounds?"

Patrick looked down. "Yes, Sergeant." He didn't sound happy about it.

What followed was disturbing. Vanessa took the ring first, choosing to fight in human form. Her opponent was the one named Erik Adair. He was massive, not as burly as Brand, but he dwarfed Vanessa. She moved with the ease of years of practice, but so did he, and his reach and sheer strength so far exceeded hers that the match up didn't seem fair.

About five minutes into the round, it became clear that a point was being made here. Vanessa was being punished.

Her fighting was beautiful to watch, though, and the fight went on for a lot longer than anyone expected, from the crowd's reactions. Ten minutes in, Erik caught a break when a hard punch landed on Vanessa's temple, and she staggered. He bent her arm behind her back, taking her to the ground, then holding her cheek to the packed earth until she yielded.

No one seemed surprised, no one cheered, and when Vanessa returned to the sidelines, the only one who stood beside her was Clara.

"Vanessa, you'll have another chance at the next full moon to regain ranked status," Sergeant announced. "Train harder."

Vanessa didn't reply, but her jaw was trembling with suppressed rage.

Next, the other three shifters who were trying to earn their rank went up against Patrick and a massive shifter I'd only seen from a distance, Steven. When the Enforcers stood next to the unranked shifters, I wrinkled my nose.

This was who they had to beat? They were the top Enforcers here. Curtis wasn't even an Enforcer. Why was I fighting him?

Maybe this was just their bad luck. Mine usually ran that way, and I was due for a change. But after what Vanessa had said at breakfast about there being no way I could lose, this seemed suspicious.

I wanted to ask Brand, but the fights distracted me. They were sparring hand-to-hand, no weapons. Though each one of the unranked opponents were given the choice, none of them elected to take wolf form for their fights.

The females were fast, strong, and creative, but they were no match for the most senior Enforcers of the pack, though the crowd cheered them on. Patrick looked almost embarrassed when he fought the first woman, and Steven seemed just as troubled defeating his first opponent in under a minute. By the time the sole unranked male stepped into the ring to face Patrick, the whole crowd was subdued.

The women hadn't complained when they'd lost, but this guy spoke up. "You know this is bullshit. I've been trying to earn rank for five years, Enforcer." He pointed to one of the defeated females. "She's been in the ring twelve times. There have only been a handful of instances when the ‘random selection' put an opponent any of us had any hope of beating in this ring. Only two unranked wolves have earned their rank here in a decade."

Patrick scowled. "Are you accusing me of something?"

The man swallowed hard. "No. Not you. I just want you to wake the fuck up." He went quiet, shaking his head. "Never mind. Let's just get this over with."

I stared at the back of Sergeant's head while Patrick delivered the quick defeat. They shook hands at the side of the ring when it was over, and Patrick leaned down to whisper something in the man's ear. Something that made the guy slump, even more defeated than he'd been in the ring.

"Is it rigged?" I breathed the question to Brand.

"I never would have thought so, though I haven't actually been present for one of these," he replied, just as quietly. "It's odd, now that I think of it. I was always assigned to run the borders during the ranking fights, with the other Heirs." Our eyes met. "I was asked to go with Glen and Finn today, but I refused."

I swallowed a ball of rage, and mouthed one name. A question. Glen?

Brand shook his head. "Glen isn't any part of it, if it is. He would have spoken out. He would have told me."

"Sergeant?" I whispered, a little louder. Brand's eyes darted away as a shadow fell between us.

"Yes, it's time," the man whose honor I'd been questioning called out.

Had he heard us? His expression was as stony as ever, but when I met his eyes, there was something there I hadn't seen before. It looked a lot like shame.

I didn't have time to wonder. "Flor, I'd like to do things a little differently with you." I wasn't sure if he was asking, so I just nodded. "I've already seen you do basic hand fighting with our Enforcers-in-training, so I'm giving you a pass on that part of the assessment. Before you spar against young Curtis here"—he nodded to the skinny shifter, who looked like he might puke at any moment—"I'd like to find out if you have natural skill with a blade. Have you ever handled a sword?"

"Never touched one," I said truthfully.

Sergeant grunted, then barked a command at an unranked shifter who stood by the cloth-covered table. The guy rolled the cloth away, exposing a row of swords in every size and shape I could imagine.

Sergeant's young helper tried to hand us both short swords, but Brand shook his head. He had a long bag with him, and pulled out his sword belt and two swords, perfectly sized for him.

I stifled a sigh as I hefted the one I'd been given. It didn't feel like the right length or weight for me, but I didn't want to complain. I'd fought with a lot worse.

"Let's see your sword technique," Sergeant instructed. "No fighting just yet, just forms. You know some forms?" I shrugged, then moved clumsily through some basic patterns until Sergeant caught me glaring at the blade. "Get her a better sword."

Brand interrupted. "I'll give her one."

He had an extra in his sword belt and kneeled to pull it out, but Sergeant thumped him on the back of the head. "She's not seven feet tall."

"The only smaller ones are the children's swords, Sergeant." He gestured to the table.

"Hey!" I complained. "I can handle a big sword." I held my hand out toward Brand. "Give me yours, and I'll show you."

Shifters all around us started coughing, like they'd been caught in a dust storm. Somebody muttered, "No way a little thing like her can take his sword." Some of the teenagers giggled.

Brand's cheeks were bright red over his beard. "This whole place is full of perverts," I muttered, feeling my anger at Glen flare again. Closing my eyes, I took a few deep breaths.

Sergeant had jogged away to his cabin, but was on his way back in less than a minute with a new sword, a much smaller one. It wasn't really a child's blade, definitely not a toy. In fact, it was a work of art. Delicate silver etchings scrolled up and down both sides of the shimmering steel, blooming flowers and vines and berries. He handed it to me hilt-first, over his forearm. It seemed like a formal presentation somehow.

The sword was light and precisely balanced, a weapon for a master fighter. "I can't use this," I protested. "It's too valuable."

Sergeant cursed, but there was no anger in his voice. "Did you or did you not place yourself between our Alpha and his mate, and an attacking enemy Enforcer?"

The whole yard had gone silent again. I nodded mutely.

"Did you or did you not use a steak knife to kill that Enforcer so he could not murder my Alpha and his mate?"

I nodded again. When he put it that way, I sounded like a badass.

Slightly elongated canines peeked out over his lips, and his eyes glinted bright gold. I heard gasps all around; apparently, Sergeant didn't show his wolf side often. "And did you or did you not then decapitate that individual with that steak knife, delivering the traditional dishonorable death sentence as any shifter in leadership of the Northern pack would have been within their rights to do?" His snarl broadened. "But at the hands of an unranked teenage girl, which made it even more dishonorable?" I let out a warning growl, until he went on. "Thus earning not only my undying admiration, but also the permanent loan of my mother's sword?"

"Yes," I snapped. "And if I could do it again, I would." Wait. His admiration ? His mother's… "Y-your mother's sword?"

For an instant, his snarl became a smile filled with a warm respect and humor, then vanished, like the flick of a moth's wing. "Yes. Keep it oiled and polished. And remember, the value of a blade exists only in the heart and hands of its wielder."

I swallowed hard. "You sound like Del… like Del used to."

"Del? Delmar Talbot?" He froze when I nodded. "You knew Del?"

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