I grit my teeth, pulling myself towards Damien to steady my swaying figure. The scene before us is a brutal one, but it's nothing I haven't seen before. An abundance of coal black smoke suffocates half of the scape, settlements up in a roar of gold flames as they tease the sky and torment those who try to escape to refuge. There are too many people to count, and they're all headed towards the East as if it's a beacon. And I can see why: rogues are scattered around the city like beautiful stars in the night sky. Except these rogues are not beautiful in the slightest: in fact, they're the opposite. But that's not the only thing that causes my heart to skip a beat involuntarily.
The wall has collapsed. It no longer exists. Shards of stone slide down a heap of rubble like a landslide, marking where the barricade had once stood strong.
Tears streak my eyes, and I let them come. I never wanted to become Alpha Queen, let alone Second in Command, because of this very reason. A rogue war, like the other hundred noted in history, had been bound to happen as soon as the Alpha Trials had been announced: a kingless kingdom. What better time to attack?
My legs give way. My eyesight is blurry. Everything is distorted. My hand slips from Damien's like a stone falling into water.
And I'm back to where it all begun: 'innocent' people being attacked and slaughtered mercilessly by monsters. This was the world, and no matter how much I wanted to change it, I couldn't. Something inside me told me I didn't want it to change anyway.
But I'm back on my feet before I can compensate my actions. Instead of reaching for Damien's hand this time, I reach for my sword. At the moment, it's the only constant in my life. Despite its dull blade and heftier weight than the weapon the king gave me, it's still mine. I haven't been able to call something mine in years.
"Aurora?" Damien questions as my legs wobble. I use the wall to steady me, the stone biting into my palms like a vicious predator.
I feel my eyes shift colour, the darkness of the castle room becoming as vivid as luminous paint. Even though I cannot see my face, I know exactly what it looks like: feral, the gold of my irises adding a certain rationality to my appearance. I only look like this when I'm forced into a corner with nowhere to run.
"They're winning," I realise with horror. My knuckles click as I clasp the hilt of my sword even tighter than previously. "She was right. We'll lose."
Something touches my face, but my skin has turned numb. I can't tell what it is, but as soon as Damien's face appears in front of mine, hovering like a ghost, it's clear that his hands are grasping my face tenderly. I lean into one of his hands, although I don't feel his thumb wipe away one of my tears.
I blink, the world turning into a chasm of black. When I open my eyes, Damien's lips are on mine. Unlike my skin, my lips feel every movement of Damien's as though I'm subconsciously mapping them. My head feels light, both from the realisation that we are losing the war, and the sparks igniting my veins into a whirl of embers and ashes. I had never felt so alive, yet I had never felt so doomed.
The kiss is short, but as soon as he pulls away, I feel alive, the fire inside me raging that I had been forced to contain over the previous two weeks since the Alpha Trials. My eyes flicker back to their original, dull hazel, fire in my bones, electricity in my veins, and thunder in my heart. It was strange what a person could do to someone just by a simple kiss.
Damien begins to pull away, but my hands clasp behind his neck, keeping his face only centimetres away from my own. His warm breath fans against my skin. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, but not from fear; from a feeling rising in my bones that echoes through me like a storm.
I bow my head forward, resting it on his forehead. Damien sighs, his hands slipping down to my waist. I'm still panting with exhilaration, my breaths sharp and uncontrolled.
"We're not going to lose," Damien whispers. Wind scatters my hair that has escaped my French braid across my face. The brunette tresses tickle my cheeks like feathers. "And even if we do, it won't be over. It'll never be over."
I swallow the lump stuck in my throat, breaking away from the close proximity. We were needed on the battlefield.
"I know we won't," I state blandly, shaking my head. Feelings had to come later. "We need to go. We're not going to save them by staying locked up in the castle."
Damien nods, leading the way down the stairs. Despite my residency in the castle, I still have no idea where I am. Every stone corridor and rough staircase appears the same as the one before it. Hallways merge into one, a straight line of wall stretching out for eternity before me like limbo. At the beginning, nothing. At the end, darkness. The only way to distinguish the different passageways are the intervals of the windows, and bright, unique tapestries clutching onto the wall.
◆◆◆
s. It feels foreign beneath like my shoes, as if I've never been outside before. The emerald of the evergreen trees guarding the kingdom feel out of place in the abundance of scarlet light as it devours the battlefield. White snow glares at me with greedy eyes, the contrast between the red hot flames and the sterile, cold substance making my eyes ache irritably.
The rogues are everywhere, and none of the Arla werewolves are in sight.
In spite of our argument, I scour the landscape for Josh, but he's nowhere to be seen. Nor is Azra, with her piercing azure eyes that could make even the most innocent person feel corrupted.
"Where's Zara?" I enquire, raising my voice above the howling voices and battle cries. Earlier, this city had been peaceful, with the underlying murmur of voices and bird song the only sound stirring the silence.
Damien's face is lined with ridges of anger. Instead of one blade, he has opted for two. I recognise them as the two swords the previous King kept by his side, and stowed away in his weapon cabinet. The metal is engraved with a strange pattern, the silver reflecting the ominous leaves of curling ivy as they run up the blade, spiralling around a moon positioned just above the hilt. The leaves appear to be suffocating the iron.
"Gone," Damien murmurs, his eyes downcast towards the ground. "The Guards should've gotten her out of the city by now."
"Alex?" I say desperately. "The others?"
"They'll be safe," Damien reassures me with the hint of a smile.
I drop my sword, flicking my claws out as the first rogue notices us. He lunges towards us, his long hair catching alight from a burning residence beside him. The knots become a halo of gold as he lashes out with a simple dagger, but I duck before he can inflict any damage.
My claws swipe across his throat in an arc, tearing open a gaping smile in the man's flesh. He coughs up blood, gasping for breath as he begins to tremble from the lack of oxygen. The body falls to the floor, streaking fire as it lays to rest in the dirt.
The rogue's death catches the attention of more bloodthirsty beasts. They all scowl at the pair of us, eyes red with bloodlust and anguish. Coming out of this situation alive would be like surviving a tsunami.
"Come on!" I yell, blood trickling into my eyes. I don't have the time to wipe it away - a red blotch appears in my vision like a permanent blemish. It must've sprayed onto my face when I ripped out the rogue's throat.
I feel feral: a wild animal entrapped in the vortex of a tornado. But then again, hadn't I always been this creature below the mask? Below the armour? Stripped down to nothing, I was wolf and human. Beast and reason. Monster and anger.
I had been called a rogue for a reason: I kill my own kind blindly. But doesn't that make all of us rogues?
Maybe there are no rogues and werewolves, just like there's no 'good guys' and 'bad guys.' There's never black and white; just different shades of grey distorting the world into a translucent veil of lies and torment.
Damien is the first to spring into action. His sure-footed strides keep him out of the path of hungry flames as he surges forward like a panther. His target looks much more powerful than the king himself, but with a clean swipe of his swords, the male's head rolls across the mud, the straw-like hair catching aflame.
I howl in agony before I can stop myself. My father had taught me to never show any weakness during battle. The fact that I've abandoned my father's lesson hurts more than the wound on my shoulder. I'm sure that if he saw me now, he would be horrified at what I've become. Or maybe he would be proud that I'm fighting on the right side.
Or maybe he doesn't care, or can't, because he's dead.
I elbow the rogue in the stomach - or what I think is the stomach. My elbow makes contact with flesh, a tingling reverberation spiralling up the limb and through my body like an uncoiling spring.
I hear a grunt, and that's enough to make me believe that my action has successfully put him out of action for me to focus on another target.
I pick her out easily. The female seems mismatched, a blotch on an imperfect establishment. It's peculiar to see a female rogue in this environment, her long hair braided just like mine, except twice the length, and much darker than my own.
Just like me, she bears no weapons; just claws and teeth as she half-transforms. I mirror her actions, claws raking at my sides, the ivory clicking together familiarly as I clench and unclench the thin fingers in anticipation. Shivers run up my spine as my skin begins to prickle with a sensation that now feels like second nature.
An ear-splitting crack rings out into the battlefield as my bones shift. I grit my teeth to try and contain my cry of paroxysm within my mouth, but I end up biting my tongue instead. As my teeth sharpen, blood spills into my mouth until it tingles on my taste buds, uninvited.
The rogue growls as a response, opening her mouth to show her curiously long canines, unable to shift further than her semi-wolf state. I had always found it unfair, and unusual, as to why not all females were able to shift like all males were. The werewolf society had always been sexist - much to my disgust - but the reason for the rare female shifters was beyond me. Perhaps it was something to do with genetics; something that was far beyond my comprehension.
The girl is older than me by at least five years, and the scars on her skin are enough to indicate her experiences in battle. She holds her head high in competition, the lines in her neck standing stark, as if they were a metal spike on barbed wire. She looks like an alpha, but it is clear that she no longer resembles the pack member she once was. Her eyes droop with sleepless nights, dark bags looming at the pits of her eye sockets.
A hiss sounds from her lips. I except a growl or a howl from the woman, but it is clear that she is distinctly different.
I bound forwards, rising above the ashes and smoke like a jet. My brown pelt ruffles in the wind as I glance down at my paws, making sure that I miss the flames littering the mud. Water hits the bare flesh of my paws, shocking me into an adrenaline fuelled silence.
My jaw opens, ready to strike the girl down. She punches me out of the way, her power knocking me automatically to the ground.
I'm back on all fours faster than I knew I could move. I swipe with my claws, the terrifyingly long talons tearing into the woman's leg with ease. I hear the scrape of bone; feel it against my lengthened nails.
The rogue falls onto one leg, and, as much as it pains me to take another life, I finish her off before she can take her last breath.
My shoulder has already begun to heal, but another rogue rips at my hind as I turn around. This time, the rogue has transformed into a wolf, his black fur submerged into the darkness surrounding us. The light is fading rapidly, but with my heightened senses, it is effortless to distinguish the yellow of his glowing irises and white scars running across his face in a spider web lattice.
I bend backwards to try and bite the werewolf as both of his sets of claws leave deep gashes on my legs. The effort is quickly overruled by the rogue as he grabs my muzzle with his teeth. I yelp with pain, the animalistic whine sounding more pathetic than any other sound I have ever made.
I was not a good fighter in my wolf form. In fact, I was far from it. I had spent so long using a sword to battle my wars for me, I was now unable to battle them myself.
My body clatters to the ground, my bones grinding against each other harshly at the impact. My head thuds with a numb sensation, but it's gone as soon as I blink. I can no longer feel the throbbing in my shoulder: everywhere hurts, even my eyes as they glare at the scrutiny before me.
I try to get up, but another wolf knocks me down. I pant, kicking out with my four legs, but whatever flesh I hit seems as solid as a wall, refusing to budge. I can't escape. Was this finally the end of my torment?
I peer at the rogue above me. A scar runs across his chin, white against the black. There is no grey in sight. It makes the wolf seem unrealistic, but I know as a fact that it is very real, and that this very real wolf is about to rip my throat out.
He will relish my death. The snarl adorned by his wolf jaw is enough to tell me that.
Abruptly, the snarl falls off the rogue's face before he can take my life joyously. Blood spurts from his mouth, dripping onto my face in hot, sticky droplets. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, the wolf's body falling on top of me before I can move out of its way.
The weight knocks the air from my lungs, as if one hundred kilogram weights have been rested on my chest. I open my mouth to suck in a breath, but I can't. My lungs have been compressed so much that I cannot create a great enough pressure difference to breath.
My hands frantically scrabble to free me from the cage of death, and with all my might I push the corpse off my body. To my horror, my grey shifting clothes are smothered with blood, the abdomen and shoulder area ripped to nothing but shreds.
Finally, air floods into my lungs so rapidly it's like I'm flying. Without realising, I begin to hyperventilate, my legs wobbling as I feebly wrench myself up off the floor.
My eyesight is hazy, and as I finally manage to stand on my own two feet, I see that the battlefield is clear. For now.
Damien stands in the centre of a clearing, his whole body heaving as he breathes heavily. Bodies lie at his feet, mutilated and sliced in half. To him, this was life. He had been raised to be a ruthless Alpha ever since he was born, and being King didn't diminish that responsibility from him at all.
"Aura!" I turn my head in the opposite direction.
A black silhouette appears in the haze of my eyesight. I have to blink rapidly to make sure that I'm not dreaming. That the boy is real. But of course he is real. Holding his stomach with a line of crimson staining his garments and clothes, Josh appears from the ashes, dust in his hair, golden fire rising behind him like wings.
A smile catches my face. I haven't seen, or even spoken to Josh for days.
But Josh isn't smiling. As he comes more into focus, I can see the lines of worry on his face marking the skin like contour lines on a map. "Aura!" He screams in desperation, sprinting towards me, but my mind's too slow. I can feel the seconds wind down, one trillion times faster than average.
I catch a glimpse of white-silver. Pitch black eyes. The gold hilt of a sword.
And that's when the blade rips straight through my body.
18 | Battle
❝But if I'm it, the last of my kind, the last page of human history, like hell I'm going to let the story end this way. I may be the last one, but I am the one still standing. I am the one turning to face the faceless hunter in the woods on an abandoned highway. I am the one not running, but facing. Because if I am the last one, then I am humanity. And if this is humanity's last war, then I am the battlefield.❞
Everything is numb. My limbs, my joints, my skin; it's all weightless. My eyes blink. The world doesn't exist. Only the ground, I, and the sword are at play in this scape of nightmares.
An inferno rages from the right side of my abdomen, and I glance down in horror to see that the blade has gone straight through body like it's nothing more than snow. A cri
mson circle of blood bellows from the wound freely, the sword the origin, the diameter of the distorted shape ever growing.
THE ROGUE WOLF Page 21
