THE ROGUE WOLF

by Klaire London

  "Well, in that case, no."

  "I thought that you'd say no," Damien sighs as he stands back up, straightening his back. I hear the sharp, echoing click as his spine snaps into a more preferred position.

  I shake my head, eyebrows still a delicate lattice of misperception. "Then why did you ask in the first place?" The question pours from my mouth like an uncontrollable river before I can block the flow. Furious with myself, I divert my sight so that it is looking into the open doors before me, leading into a luxurious room carpeted with ruby carpet encrusted with gold.

  "It was worth a try," Damien exhaled, his hand brushing my upper arm to gain my attention. His attempt to make me stare into his hazel orbs succeeds: I slap his arm away from my limb, but stop when I see the snarl rising on his face like a tsunami. If there was one thing I didn't want to do, it was piss off Damien. "Now. Since you're my second in command, you must do everything I say," he orders, but the hint of his infamous ghost smile and twitch of his lips signals to me that he's joking. I hope he is because there's no chance in living hell that I'm going to dance with him. I couldn't walk in a straight line most of the time, let alone dance elegantly like everyone else was. It was as if they had all completed multiple lessons before attending the occasion – since when did werewolves dance?

  "If you order me to do anything I don't agree to, then I'll kick you in the balls," I warn, raising an eyebrow. His ghost smile is still there, haunting his handsome features, as if he thinks I am joking. Trust me, I'm not.

  Damien chuckles at my remark. "You don't mean that."

  "Oh, I'm being serious," I reply sternly. At some point in the previous minute I had crossed my arms over my chest. Thin tresses battered my face as the wind tormented them in the winter's ruthless hold. "I can demonstrate if you'd like."

  Damien flashes his white teeth. "You know what, I'm fine," he defines clearly before continuing. "So about this Second in Command position. It's important that you follow my orders. I am your king, and you are the second most important werewolf in the whole city. You will be an inspirational figure for the rest of the city to look up to."

  I cringe at his words. Whereas some craved celebrity status, I preferred an isolated lifestyle, surrounded by those I could trust. I was not inspirational, or someone to look up to, or quite frankly a leader.

  "Tomorrow, I want you to train with everyone else, and get ready for the war ahead of us. The rogues have not declared war yet, but they will soon, and when they do, I need you to lead the charge on the battlefield." He glances at me with stern eyes made of steel. It looked as though he was indestructible.

  I hold up my hand to stop him. "Wait, I'm supposed to be training? Shouldn't I be the one teaching?"

  "You use your anger to fight, but your technique isn't perfected," Damien summarises in a sentence.

  I let out a shocked breath. "But I beat you in combat. I won the Alpha Trials. If anyone needs to train, then it's you."

  Damien releases yet another shaky breath. It was clear he was not used to arguing or being told what to do. "The only reason you won is because your rage and fear was stronger than my strategy. Whatever's happened in your life, it drives you to make it through to the next day," Damien pauses, noticing my unease. My stomach begins to churn as I feel the rest of my body float away into the pit of regret. I did not want to think about my past life twice in one night. "You need to learn to fight properly."

  "But-" I open my mouth in protest, but Damien rudely cuts off my words with his overpowering voice.

  "I'll see you tomorrow in the courtyard, eight O'clock sharp," He growls, sauntering away, and back to his party.

  I rub my shoulders vigorously as I stand outside in the courtyard, shivering in my thin fighting jacket. Since last night, the light wind had picked up to a gale, a paranormal whistling noise echoing throughout the kingdom as the wind's hands made their way through the tiniest cracks in the castle walls. The sky above my head was stormy, grey clouds pregnant with rain water ready to give birth and spray us with the clean liquid contained within them.

  It was one of those days where the moon was still visible during daylight. As I peered up through the canopy of gloomy water vapour, the crescent moon shone like a tiny thread of light within the obscurity. In a week, the moon would almost be full, ready to continue its eternal cycle.

  I clutch a bow in my hand. After the brief from Damien, I had chosen to practice with my least competent weapon, which happened to be a bow and arrow. Damien had told us to work on our weaknesses, and I was fulfilling his pleas, perhaps the only time I ever would in my lifetime.

  I stretch the string back so that my cool, smooth fingers rest against my face. The feeling is strange, sending shivers down my spine, the alien sensation on my cheek on diminishing when I send the arrow flying.

  Arrows lay strewn around the cloth target: only one has been able to puncture the hanging fabric. Like I have said, I'm pretty useless. I can't get to grips with the elasticity of the bow string, nor can I point the arrow in the correct direction.

  "Breath in," someone beside me murmurs, and I am surprised to see Azra hold a bow confidently.

  "What?" I question, lowering my bow.

  Azra rolls her eyes as she takes an arrow from the stand beside her, loads her bow, and aims at the target. The arrow then slices straight through the middle like an accurate shooting star.

  It's my turn to roll my eyes. "Damien told us to work on our weaknesses."

  "And I decided to help you instead," She shrugs, placing the bow over her agile body before parading over to me with some sort of ancient, paranormal elegance. "If Damien thinks that I'm going to start following his orders, then he's wrong. He beat up Josh. He's lucky his head is still on his shoulders."

  I nod slowly, biting my lip as I raise my bow once more and load an arrow into the delicate weapon. This bow was crafted from wood – most likely oak – with intricate carvings chipped into the wood, and polished to create a glossy finish.

  "Now take a deep breath in," Azra instructs. I know that she's good with the weapon, but part of me doesn't want to listen: I hated following orders.

  "Azra, I really do-"

  "Do you want to be able to shoot this thing or what?" She retorted, and out of the corner of my eye I saw her arms fold across her chest.

  I grit my teeth. "Yes."

  "Fine. Then you'll do as I say," Azra states simply, rising only her heels for a moment before dropping back down to her usual height. Her small body is soon behind me, so that she can see where I'm aiming the arrow. I hadn't realised quite how small she was until now: her figure was much more petite, and her height a few inches less than my own. But even so, her tiny size made me respect her more. With less body weight to throw around in hand to hand combat, she was at a clear disadvantage, especially up against males, but her battle strategies were formulated with excellence, giving her the upper edge in combat.

  "Relax," Is the second instruction the teenager gives me after I have taken my deep breath, filling my lungs with rich oxygen. "Now, aim the arrow slightly higher than where you want it to go." I raise the weapon in my grasp so that the shaft of the arrow is just above the central point of the wooden stump, covered in the brown material of old, unwanted clothes. "That's it," Azra confirms, agreeing that my hand is in the correct place. "Stay calm, and shoot."

  I inhale once more, another round of voluptuous air filling my lungs to the brink, and I begin to feel as though they're about to burst. Then, with all my hidden calmness, I fire the arrow and watch it glide through the air.

  The wooden arrow strikes the wooden target in the bottom left hand side, but on the target nonetheless.

  I see Azra beam at me from the corner of my eye. Her whole face lights up, crinkles forming at the sides of her eyes. She looked beautiful in that moment: she was calm, and happy, something I rarely saw. She was already stunning as it was, but with her elated smile and straight teeth, her beauty became boundless like a fresh cobweb after a morn
ing frost.

  And after a second, her smile was dropped, her laughter lines disappeared, and her face turned a ghastly pale. For a moment I think that she's staring directly at me, but then I notice her eyes focus in on something behind me. I am just about close enough to see the glassy reflection in her orbs: a horse carrying a rider through the gates which had clanked open without either of us noticing.

  I curiously glance over my shoulder, and immediately regret doing so. A charcoal pigmented horse neighs mercilessly as its dark eyes give it a demonic appearance. The creature adorns a white sock on its back right foot, but apart from the slight change in colour, the beast appears before us like a monster.

  But it wasn't the only monster present: saddled on the back of the stoic horse sat a rogue, his thick deer-hide coat wrapping around him like coiling serpents, ready to use their venom on any unfortunate human who tries to stop the rider.

  Damien storms forward in a whirlwind from behind us where he was teaching a ten-year-old how to use an axe. His face is slack of expression, painted red with anger and rage as I had been when Noah's life was unjustly claimed.

  Despite the rampant rogue entering the city walls and the fuming Damien, my mind drifts to Josh. Where was he? He had wandered off during training, opting for a different stall, and since then I hadn't caught a glimpse of his brown shock of hair.

  As if to answer my thoughts, Josh rushes over, panting heavily as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He must've been doing a physical station, most likely hand to hand combat.

  After his defeat again Damien, he had never been the same. Part of him had died when his head hit the arena floor. It was as if someone had taken away a chunk of his soul, followed by the majority of his self-esteem. He rarely smiled. He never took compliments. Something had crushed his spirits, and I could feel my heart deteriorating just looking at him. It pained me to see someone in such a vulnerable, lifeless state, without being able to help them.

  The ache was almost unbearable: It tore at my heart strings; it savagely pulled apart my soul. And there was nothing I could do to ease the pain.

  Josh opens his mouth in a belated gasp, as if he's about to form words, but his lips then press together and his expression turns rigid.

  Last night had been the first time since the Alpha Trials Josh had acted like his old self, and something told me that I would never be able to see that cheeky, pudding-loving side of my friend again unless I turned in my grave to bring him back to reality.

  My attention focuses in on Damien and his fighting gear. Long gone is the red velvet cape and gold crown which had bejewelled his shorter tresses. Now in his sturdy clothes made for battle, including a belt stockpiled with an assortment of daggers and a long, recently forged sword, he looked poised to kill.

  "What is the meaning of this?" He bellowed at the top of his voice, mere meters from the rogue.

  The rogue stayed sat in the saddle of his horse. His hair was a thick, woven mess of murky tresses, flying into his face as he opened his mouth to speak. For a rogue, he didn't look to savage, but his measly face was still covered in a fair amount of healed white scars.

  "Hunter, leader of the rogues, has officially declared war on Arla and King Damien of the Northern region," The werewolf spoke calmly, his voice carrying over the gathered crowd due to the gale. "There is no debate against this war. Whether you choose to ignore this announcement, or accept our declaration, you will perish."

  "Well, isn't this cheery?" Azra whispers so quietly, I am only just able to pick it up among the howling wind and mutters of other Arla residents.

  I snort at her comment, but given the situation I find myself in, I quickly stop, and then furrow my eyebrows. "I thought that we were already at war?"

  Azra shakes her head. "A war can only begin when it is declared by one of the sides. Damien didn't want to declare war immediately because he wanted to train for as long as possible until the rogues declared war first," she says in a hushed tone, constantly flicking her eyes around her to check that no one else could hear her words.

  I nod, "makes sense." It does, but only partially. Any normal werewolf who had recently been introduced into such a community would think that we were at war the moment they attacked the city, or when the brutes killed the king.

  As I continue to study the male rogue, I notice that his body is particularly his broad shoulders, reminding me of Titus's overly excessive ones.

  My brain switches like an automatic rifle, and before I am unable to hit the kill switch, the rage kicks in like a roaring wildfire.

  I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but there's one outstanding reason why I hate the real rogues more than anything else stalking the face of this planet. The reason I have a passionate distaste is because of my old best friend, Cordia, back at Shadow Claw pack. One day, when we were taking a trip to the Scarlet Bone pack to gather much needed supplies, when Cordia had run off, chasing an artic wolf – a rare sighting, for it was seen to be a blessing, especially since we were in close relation. When we had caught up with the young girl, her body was mauled to shreds, with her limbs strewn on the bloody snow. A note had been pinned to her crimson chest with a long, gruesome dagger.

  The yellow piece of paper had read, 'never cross our territory again,' in messy scrawl. There had been no question that it was the rogues. Only they could have performed such an ominous and heart stirring slaughter. Only rogues had the capacity to be that heartless.

  Butterflies erupt violently in my stomach as if it had been tainted with poison. I feel my body cramp, and then abruptly wake up. The whole world flashes before my eyes like a crystal ball: I see the rogue in his corrupted saddle, his face bland, yet seemingly holding a smirk that could chase any sane werewolf to hell.

  I think of Cordia. I think of the king. And then I think of Titus, and no matter how much I try to close my eyes and deflect them from the rogue, all I can see when I stare into the real rogue's face is the man who ruined my life.

  My hands feel numb as the fumble with whatever is unfortunate to lie in them. I don't realise that I've loaded an arrow into my bow until I take a deep, flustering breath, remembering what Azra had taught me moments ago.

  I hear a whizz as I release the bow string. For a second everything blurs, and all I can see is the manipulated and minimalistic figure of the rogue. All I can hear is the – for once – steady, rhythmic hammer of my heart. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

  Thump. This time, the noise isn't my heart.

  My gaze focuses once more, the haze clearing in a blink. The rogue's body slackens, his faint smirk drops, and his huge figure falls to the ground, landing on the arrow stuck in his abdomen.

  The rogue doesn't die immediately. He spits up blood onto the muddy floor and rolls over, taking his weight off the arrow. His tummy fluctuates like waves of the sea, moving up and down as he helplessly gasps for air. The relentless horse, missing its rider, neighs in dismay and begins to gallop off in the direction it came, leaving the expiring rogue to die without his animal companion.

  I should be sorry, but I'm not. Cordia was dead because of his kind, and we were stuck in this position because of him. I wouldn't even be here if they hadn't needed a ruler so desperately.

  Every single person in the courtyard stares at me in shocked silence, but only Azra is the one to comment on my rebellious stunt.

  "Nice shot," she murmurs, even though my aim had been sloppy and landed the blow a long way from the heart, where I was aiming.

  Damien takes the opportunity to climb up onto one of the steps, his presence overwhelming as he stands taller than anyone else in the crowd. "Prepare the troops. Twelve groups will be sent to protect and escort each pack back to the castle. Half will be put into groups. The other half will stay here to protect us," his voice booms, resonating eerily across the courtyard-turned-battlefield. "We leave tonight."

  Damien steps down, his expression as hard and unfathomable as a great white shark. Hazel orbs focus o
n mine as he marches straight towards me.

  Before I can jerk my arm from his reach, he grabs it and pulls me away from Azra and Josh so that they are unable to hear our conversation. His takes two seconds to blink before speaking in his predictable outraged tone. "What the hell was that for?"