The Fourteen

Chapter 3: There's Blood on Your Shirt

There was one skill every Northerner knew. Self-defence. After all, brutality and ferocity did not come out of nothing. I was no exception, especially as Crown Princess to the Northern Wolf throne.

Traditionally, Alpha succession was hereditary; though any Alpha could lose their status if bested in battle by another pack member. The Measquit family have ruled the Northern wolves for decades.

Our family tree was painted on one of the walls of the Northern palace, beginning with the first Measquit Alpha, Lord Otsoa. The tree started at the very top of the 50m building, and branched five generations. It currently ended with my brother and I.

Terrified of losing the family position, my father had kick started my training long before any others in my age group. When most kids were learning their alphabet, I was learning the Alpha position. My first toy had been my Cherrywood bow. It was quickly trailed by some bejeweled daggers.

At four, I began sparring with my instructor, Arobyrn; but he left when I no longer needed his services. By five, I knew how to throw daggers and topple warriors twice my size.

I learnt the theory behind bending and spell casting from my reluctant mother at age six; since supernatural powers did not start until age twelve, I was stuck with books and no practical experience. One year later, I had mastered the art of combat. Thus by the age of eight, I was riding out on horseback alongside the other soldiers, to battle. That was the age I made my first kill.

Fast-forward seven years, and I was the idol warrior my father wanted me to be. But nothing was ever good enough for him; only after I could hold my own against all of the palace guards and some of the higher ranking pack members, was I allowed to attend one of the Supernatural Boarding Schools.

So when Brooke attacked, I was prepared. She went for my left side, hoping to expose a weak spot. I met her head-on, swinging my left leg at her waist; the impact was backed by a bombshell of werewolf strength. Brooke's attack was stopped instantly.

Daggers in hand, I pounced on her prone body. The Alpha rolled; my blades sunk halfway into the sparring mat. A growl reverberated behind me. I turned to see my blonde roommate replaced by a snarling silver wolf.

I had completely forgotten that it was three days before the full moon; I prepared to shift as well.

"No shifting pup. That's one of the rules I forgot to mention, pups aren't allowed to shift until they graduate training, on the full moon, and become fully-fledged pack members." Brooke barked at me in Wolfish.

Every supernatural race had a unique language. Our origin tongue was a first-language to us. Since I was a hybrid, I spoke both Wolfish and the shayman dialect. Both wolf skin-walkers and werewolves spoke the Wolfish language.

But I was clearly disadvantaged by that rule. Unfortunately for her, I had enough experience grappling with wolves in my human form. Brooke launched herself skyward.

My purple hilted knifes sang with glory as I slashed the air; my opponent was forced to change direction mid-attack, lest be sliced from the belly up. She landed with heavy thud on the mats. Though she recovered rather quickly, turning on me with claws extended.

Slipping past my defenses, she clamped her jaws on my right calf. Despite the pain, I back flipped with the grace of a seasoned warrior.

Momentum got the better of Brooke as she was propelled to the edge of the ring, slamming to the ground. She got up, but was unmistakably winded.

I parted with the knife in my left hand. Airborne, it flew head over hilt towards my target. The calculations were precise; the dagger's guard should hit my opponent's neck.