Indra's Heart

THIRTY-TWO

"Okay! You all have officially completed ten full weeks of training in the greatest rogue academy to exist. So you know what that means, right?" Cheif Johnson's eyes dart from face to face, searching for anyone bold enough to answer him. Our unit has been cryptically reduced and the sergeants are quiet for once, their expressions rather hard. Naturally, I'm beyond concerned for whatever's to come.

"That we will battle each other again, sir?" A voice behind me meekly offers.

"No." The Chief slowly stomps down the line. "That has been done time and time again. Today you will prove yourselves to the entire pack by kicking things up a notch, or eight."

"We will be fighting The Elite, sir." Shawn expresses confidently, keeping his stance tight.

"Whitaker, you are a goddessdamn genius!" Chief Johnson praises, reclaiming his spot in between the trainees and staff. "We started with one hundred and five cadets, but only thirty of you were chosen for this particular task as you have been deemed the best. Do not celebrate yet though. All thirty of you will enter in an unarmed, one on one match with each member of The Elite. This will be a test for everyone because if they cannot beat you rookies then do they deserve to be the top of anything?"

"No, sir!" We yell in unison, and my stomach plummets to my feet. I barely made it past Cadet Owens, but now I'm expected to battle Airoclaw's finest? The very same group of warriors that contains the future alpha? I need more time. I need more practice.

"Exactly." He pumps his fist. "The seventy-five who did not make it will become warriors eventually, but they will have lower ranks. You will probably hear them cheering you on from the stands. I have organized the unit from least to most impressive, so that is how we will march out there, with cadet number thirty cadet leading us. That is also the order in which you will fight, much like Number Eight of The Elite will go first on his team. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

Chief Johnson yells out a command that has us turning our bodies to the right, and forming a single file line in one swift motion. I knew that I'd had the most improvement thus far, but I'm astonished to find myself towards the very back.

"Move out!" Sergeant Reeves shouts and we follow the Chief into the full stadium. The daunting reality that I will be getting my ass handed to me in front of a massive audience has my palms sweating. After all, I've never participated in an official match before. Alpha Chantel examines the entire thing through a large window above the left side of the field, tapping her nails against her armrest. Several of the beads hanging from her jeweled headpiece blow under the cool AC in her glass cube.

"Good morning, Airoclaw." Darren adjusts his shirt collar as he rises on a platform on the right. "Are you ready to witness thirty cadets that have earned the respect of Saph Raven's trusted Chief go against The Elite Warriors of Airoclaw in the ring?"

He extends the microphone away from his body and cups his ears. "Good! Up first, Number Eight: Tyce Mallory versus cadet number thirty."

Two males step into the arena located in the center of the field, one in finely crafted navy blue fabric, the other in a brown paper uniform identical to mine. The monitors above broadcast the nervous perspiration trickling down the cadet's brow, and Tyce's pageant worthy smile.

"We all know the rules — first person to be thrown over the ropes, loses."

A flag is waved in the air, but before his opponent can react, Tyce kicks him in the face and knocks the cadet out of the arena head first. He lands onto the ground with a thud that I'm sure adds to his dizziness. The referee raises Tyce's hand up in victory, and the audience gives him a hearty round of applause.

"Well, that was fast. They do not call him the great Number Eight for nothing!" Darren chuckles. "One down, twenty-nine to go!"

The next five cadets are thrown over the ropes almost as quickly as the first, and with each win, Number Eight is praised louder and louder. The seventh cadet to enter the arena is a woman. She immediately dodges Tyce's initial strike, and manages to land a blow to his stomach. Her foot comes flying in his direction, but he catches it and twists until she crashes onto the mat, howling in pain. With little effort, she's tossed out of bounds and into the trimmed grass.

Tyce Mallory is defeated in the twelfth match.

"Uh oh! Number Seven: Callum Harlow, come on out."

Number Seven moves smoothly in round two, picking up right where his teammate left off. His opponent isn't as formidable, missing each and every hit. Callum zips behind him and tightly places his arm around his neck, weakening him enough to throw him over. Eight more cadets make it into the ring, but only half of them advance past Tyce and Callum. So far, just one cadet has defeated Ferryn and De'von.

"Twenty down, ten more to go!"

I grimace as Luke uppercuts Cadet Marshall before going across her face in a seamless backflip that renders her temporarily unconscious. The crowd goes wild when she hits the ground, loving every bit of the polished acrobatic display. All I can focus on is the blood she spits onto the greenery beneath her. She was already battered from the previous matches, but this one was surely the most challenging. I clap for her anyway.

"Number Four has won his second match of the day. Who will be the one to go all the way?"

Two more cadets leave the arena with bruised faces, and wounded egos at halfway mark, but it's cadet number seven that makes it all the way to Jaxon Bridges. The nervous whispers in the crowd are unmistakable. Despite having already fought five incredibly skilled warriors, Shawn Whitaker is still standing tall. His brown skin is glistening with sweat, and his swollen eyes are focused on the sneering male before him.

As soon as the flag is waved, Jaxon delivers a powerful punch to Shawn's face that makes him stagger. Blood pours from his now crooked nose, and I pinch my mouth with worry. Shawn doesn't let his injuries stop him though, dodging the next couple of swings and even landing a punch of his own. I can't help but to cheer.

Shawn throws his fist again, but the specially trained warrior catches his arm and snaps it, causing the cadet to let out a bloodcurdling shriek. He falls onto the floor and I know that it's over. Jaxon is about to throw him over the rails and win the match. Broken arm and all. It's not all bad though. At least he will be able to say that he actually struck Number Three.

That doesn't happen.

In mere seconds, Jaxon delivers bone crushing blow after another to his opponent's face. He doesn't stop at two or three or even five. I am uncomfortably being exposed to the infamous strength that I've heard so much about, and I hate it. Shawn's head slumps to the side, and his good arm goes limp as well. I run towards the arena, my voice cutting into the newfound silence. "Throw him over! He isn't fighting back anymore!"

Chief Johnson drags me back to my post, chastising me under his breath about respecting customs. I'm restrained between his muscular forelimbs, watching Jaxon continue to pulverize my roommate before eventually pushing him through the ropes. Shawn's body lands like a sack of potatoes. "Stop! Let me go."

Finally, the referee intervenes, checks Shawn's pulse. His features are completely void of emotion when he looks up and shakes his head. Jaxon stares into the camera with pride as his hand his raised, and a moment passes before the audience remembers to clap. It is very short lived.

Shawn Whitaker is dead.

Paramedics rush to the scene to take his body while other pack officials spray the blood off the arena floor. I feel bile rising in my throat as I stare at Jaxon on the screen, wiping his stained hands while someone brings a straw to his lips.

It's Darren's oddly cheerful tone that cuts through the shocked whispers over the fallen cadet. "Twenty-four down, six more to go!"