Z glanced at the thaumaturge and his pulse skipped. There was something eager in the look, but Z didn’t know what he was expected to do. Did Jael want him to bow? Or clasp his hand to his heart like the others had?
Before he could decide, Z felt a jolt through his nerves, like an electric shock. And then he was pacing toward the line of soldiers, his feet no longer under his control.
Blood rushed to his face.
Mind control.
A surge of defiance crawled up from the base of his throat. Z scrunched his face up, and, with every bit of concentration he had, he forced his legs to freeze. He found himself in an awkward stance, his legs caught midstep, his hands fisted at his sides. He was already panting with the effort.
He pried open his eyes and looked at Master Jael. He was surprised to find amusement, not anger, in the thaumaturge’s expression. Through his teeth, he said, “Thank you, Master, but I can walk without your help.”
Jael grinned, and with a snap Z felt the hold on his mind release.
“But of course,” Jael said. “Please, join the line.”
Letting out a breath, Z turned toward his new pack.
He gasped. The leader—Alpha Brock—was now less than an arm’s distance away, a snarl showing the points of his canines.
Before Z could think, a fist collided with his jaw, knocking him onto the floor and shoving the wind out of him. For a moment his lungs burned with the need for air and his head rang from the punch. The pain in his jaw was the worst, his gums still sore from the surgery. The throbbing brought tears to his eyes.
“Don’t ever disrespect Master Jael again,” said Alpha Brock. With a grunt, he landed a kick to Z’s ribs.
Z cried out and crunched into a ball, trying to protect his stomach, but another kick didn’t follow. Tasting blood, he spit onto the chalky ground. He was glad that none of his new teeth came with it.
Shaking, he risked a glance at Master Jael, but the thaumaturge was standing calmly back, his hands in his sleeves. When he caught Z’s gaze, his eyebrows rose without mercy and he said, very slowly, “Get up and join your pack.”
Standing seemed impossible. The world was spinning and he wondered if that one kick hadn’t broken a rib.
But more afraid of the repercussions of ignoring an order than of the pain, Z pulled himself to all fours and, with a grunt, pushed himself onto wobbly legs. The Alpha stared down at him as Z stumbled to the end of the line. The other soldiers had not moved.
“You will soon learn,” said Master Jael, “that your placement in this pack is determined by strength, courage, and the ability to defend yourself. You will not see such mercy again.”
*
Z began to lose track of time. First the days and then the weeks and months merged into constant training. Formations. Strategies and tactics. And fights—so many fights. Like wolves in the wild sometimes fight for dominance, these soldiers fought all the time. Constantly trying to best one another, to show off, to prove their worth, to improve their station. Almost all of them seemed to have a thirst for violence that Z couldn’t claim, though he often pretended to desire the taste of blood and the crunch of bones as much as any of them. There wasn’t much choice.
He didn’t win all his fights, but he didn’t lose them all, either. After a year and a half—or what he guessed was close to a year and a half, with neither the long days nor the long nights to judge by—he found himself solidly in the middle of his pack. An average beta. After that one punch from Alpha Brock, he had never again allowed himself to be caught by surprise, and he had developed a knack for parrying and blocking. Offensive tactics didn’t come as naturally, but he could often avoid being hit for long enough to tire out his opponent.
It would never make him Alpha, but it kept him from becoming the tormented Omega.
Alpha Brock, on the other hand, remained ever on top of the pack. Undefeated, he picked more fights than any of them, as though he had to constantly remind himself and everyone else how much better he was. Z tried to stay out of his way, but it was impossible to avoid him entirely, and when Brock wanted to fight, there was no denying him. Z had received more bruises and scars from those fists than he could count.
The pack was standing around watching an impromptu brawl between Betas Wynn and Troya on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon when Z caught the scent of Master Jael approaching, along with another scent. Familiar and strange at the same time.
Z tore his eyes from the fight as the others picked up on the scents. The two fighters took another moment, but in a breath, they had released each other, and together they all rushed to line up for Jael’s entrance. Z recognized the cadence of Jael’s footsteps beside something awkward and shuffling. Jael had not brought anyone new to their barracks since Z himself had joined the pack.
Master Jael stepped out of the cave and into the training cavern, a new conscript at his side.