CHAPTER 106: COWARDS IN PRIVATE

{Elira}

~**^**~

I laughed — breathless, shaky — but it was real. The kind of laugh that comes when the weight you’ve carried for years suddenly lifts.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t thinking about shame or failure.

I was thinking about her.

My wolf.

And I couldn’t wait to be alone, to speak to her, to ask her everything I’d been holding inside.

---

We drifted back toward the arena stands, my legs still tingling from the run.

My chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, the phantom sensation of paws against earth still imprinted somewhere inside me.

The others fanned out beside me, and without a word, we all made for the refreshment table.

Cold bottles of water were piled in tubs of ice, condensation running down the sides like tiny rivers. I grabbed one, the chill biting into my fingers, and twisted the cap open.

The first gulp was bliss — sharp and clean, the kind of drink that seemed to wash every ache away.

Then we found a spot with a good view and sank onto the benches. One by one, the remaining groups lined up at the starting lines, the whistle blowing, drones humming overhead as the monitor screens lit up with their progress.

The crowd’s cheers rose and fell in waves, and I let myself soak it in — the laughter, the shouting, the clapping.

I felt oddly... lighter. Like the embarrassment I’d feared so badly just this morning had been burned off somewhere between the start and finish lines.

When the final group crossed the line, an instructor’s voice boomed through the speakers, rich and commanding.

"Wolf race concluded. All participants, well done. Next event: third-year combat session. All students, please remain seated."

The air shifted instantly. Conversations spiked. My roommates straightened in unison.

"Oh, finally!" Nari grinned, rubbing her hands together. "I’ve been waiting all week to see someone get thrown into the dirt."

The announcement continued — outlining the rules: no weapons beyond what the school provided, victory only by submission or being knocked out of bounds, medics on standby for safety.

And, to my mild disappointment, the reminder that the combat session was optional.

It wasn’t until the instructor explicitly said, "No members of the student council are signed up to participate" that I felt my mood dip.

I’d been curious — no, eager — to see Regina and her clique out there. To watch someone else’s confidence tested under the pressure of a real fight.

Nari snorted. "Figures. Those pompous peacocks never risk dirtying their feathers. What’s worse is the school lets them get away with it."

I followed her gaze and spotted them easily: the six council members, standing off to one side in their perfectly fitted sportswear, looking like they’d stepped straight out of a photo shoot.

Even without participating, they commanded attention—or maybe demanded it.

Juniper tilted her head. "Or maybe they are scared of getting their faces rearranged."

The image hit me so fast I burst out laughing, my voice mixing with the chorus from the others.

Tamryn leaned forward, smirking. "Please. They’d rather be called cowards in private than disgraced in public."

The laughter came again, lighter this time, my ribs aching just enough to remind me I was alive. Still, as the noise ebbed, I found myself glancing at the council’s little cluster.

Were they really afraid? Or was this just another part of their untouchable game?

The moment the first two third-year students stepped into the combat ring, the arena seemed to inhale.

The chatter faded into a tense, buzzing quiet, broken only by the announcer’s voice as rules were restated and the fighters took their stances.

A whistle blew — sharp, slicing the air — and the match erupted into motion.

The ground was a blend of packed dirt and sand, and every footfall sent little clouds swirling upward.

Shouts rose from the stands as one student lunged forward, aiming a strike at their opponent’s ribs.

The other ducked under it, spinning, kicking up grit. I could almost feel the impact of every hit in my own bones, even from this distance.

Some matches ended quickly — a sharp throw, a sudden pin. Others dragged on, sweat dripping from the fighters’ temples as they circled each other, breaths heaving, waiting for the smallest slip.

We watched a string of victories and defeats, and my friends were more animated than they’d been all morning.

Cambria kept leaning forward and predicting moves seconds before they happened. Nari shouted advice at people who couldn’t possibly hear her. Tamryn, arms crossed, seemed to be silently judging everyone’s technique.

When the last official match ended and applause filled the air, I thought that was it. But then Lennon, standing near the instructors, stepped forward and took the stand.

"Before we close," his voice rolled across the arena, "I’d like to invite one more demonstration match. Thorne Wexler—"

My eyebrows shot up. The name alone drew a wave of murmurs.

"—show everyone what it means to fight, and win, against your enemy."

A figure detached himself from the student council’s cluster. Thorne Wexler.

From this distance, his build looked almost delicate — lean, not the bulked-up frame I’d expect from a fighter.

His face was unreadable, cold as stone, as if this wasn’t worth his time but he’d do it anyway.

Lennon scanned the crowd, then pointed. "And you—" He called another third-year male student, broad-shouldered and clearly well-liked by the cheers that erupted.

They entered the ring.

There was no handshake, no nod. Just silence thick enough to feel.

Then the whistle blew.

Thorne didn’t charge. He moved like water — smooth, unhurried — and when his opponent struck, he was already gone, slipping aside in a blur.

The other boy tried again, faster this time, but Thorne’s counter was brutal: a precise elbow to the ribs, a sweep of the leg that sent him stumbling.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

He never wasted a movement. Each dodge, each strike, felt calculated. The other student was stronger on paper — heavier, louder — but Thorne dismantled him piece by piece, until a final twist and shove sent the boy sprawling out of bounds.

A brief silence passed, then cheers, loud and disbelieving.

I blinked, realizing my mouth was slightly open. "He’s..." I didn’t even know how to finish that sentence.

Cambria leaned closer. "That was... terrifying."

Juniper nodded, still watching the ring. "I didn’t think—"

"I take back what I said," Tamryn cut in, her voice low but firm. "About the student council members being weak."

We all stayed quiet after that, eyes still locked on Thorne as he stepped out of the ring.

His face hadn’t changed at all. It was cold and remote, as if he hadn’t just destroyed someone in under three minutes.

And I couldn’t decide if that made him more impressive — or more dangerous.

---

The crowd was still buzzing as everyone streamed out of the arena, the air thick with chatter and laughter.

My roommates flanked me on either side, as if they were my personal guard, weaving through the throng toward the cafeteria.

Finally, away from the press of other voices, Cambria bumped my shoulder lightly. "We can actually celebrate you properly now," she said, her smile warm and proud.

"That was amazing, Elira," Nari said, tilting her head to study me as though trying to figure out a secret. "How did you even do it? You were so nervous this morning."

I thought about it for a second, replaying the moment in my mind—the rush of energy, the pull of something bigger than me.

"Honestly?" I said, grinning, "It’s all thanks to the Moon Goddess."

Cambria reached over and patted my shoulder, her palm firm and steady. "Then consider this just the beginning of many wonderful things."

I nodded, my throat feeling oddly tight. "Thank you."

"Fortunately," Juniper said with a sly smile, "no more public embarrassment."

We laughed together, the tension from earlier completely gone.

Inside the cafeteria, the warm aroma of roasted meat and freshly baked bread wrapped around me, and my stomach suddenly remembered it hadn’t eaten much since breakfast.

We each grabbed a tray, moving down the line to pile it high — steaming vegetables, thick slices of bread, creamy pasta, golden-brown roast chicken.

Our usual table waited for us at the far back, next to the window where sunlight poured in like molten gold.

The chatter of the room was a comfortable backdrop, not the hostile attention I used to dread.

We had barely settled down when my phone chimed. I picked it up, expecting maybe a random notification — but my breath caught when I saw it was from my group chat with the brothers.

Lennon had sent a photo.

My heart squeezed as I tapped it open. There I was — the red wolf — captured mid-run, my fur catching the light, my body stretched in motion.

More images followed, each from different angles, even one snapped from the massive arena screen. Then came a ten-second video clip, the crowd’s cheers muffled by the focus on my racing form.

A smile tugged so hard at my face I was afraid it might split in two. I didn’t even try to hide it.

’He took pictures,’ I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. ’And a video of me.’

Gratitude swelled in my chest, warm and overwhelming.

I’d have something to remember this day by forever — proof that I had shifted, that I had raced, that I had been... more than I thought I could be.