The Cursed Extra-Chapter 105: [2.53] The Wolf-Girl Wants to Kill Me

"The worst part about being underestimated is having to maintain the act."

***

The western training yard felt like stepping into a gladiator’s arena where I was scheduled to be the entertainment.

Morning mist clung to the worn stone in wispy tendrils. Curled around the bases of practice dummies and weapon racks like spectral fingers reluctant to release their grip. The familiar scent of oiled leather and cold steel mixed with something else. The sharp tang of suspicion that seemed to follow me everywhere these days.

I hobbled across the courtyard. Each step a carefully choreographed performance of pain.

My left hand pressed against my ribs while my right gripped the rough stone wall for support. Fingertips scraped against centuries-old mortar that crumbled slightly beneath my touch.

The limp wasn’t entirely fabricated. Vance’s [Power Strike] had left me genuinely battered. The memory of that brutal blow still echoed through my bones with every movement.

But I amplified every wince. Every careful breath. Every moment of hesitation.

Reinforce the persona. Always reinforce the persona.

I let my shoulders round forward. Kept my gaze fixed on the ground a few feet ahead. Moved with the shuffling gait of someone who expected the world to kick him while he was down and had simply accepted it.

The other House Onyx students parted before me like I carried some contagious disease.

Marcus Vellum actually stepped sideways into a weapon rack to avoid getting too close. His elbow connected with the wooden frame and nearly knocked over a rack of training swords. The weapons clattered against each other with a discordant metallic song. Drew a few irritated glances from nearby students.

Marcus’s face flushed red. But he still refused to meet my eyes. Apparently decided that the embarrassment of his clumsiness was preferable to any association with House Onyx’s resident punching bag.

Nice to know I’m so popular.

Thomlin Ashworth suddenly developed an intense fascination with his boots. Studied the worn leather as if it contained the secrets of the universe. His fingers worried at a loose thread on his sleeve. The morning light caught the nervous sweat beading on his forehead as he determinedly looked anywhere but in my direction.

Only Fen remained unmoved.

Her golden eyes tracked my progress with the same interest a wolf shows a wounded deer. Patient. Predatory. Utterly certain of the outcome.

"Well, well. Look what crawled out of the infirmary."

Fen’s voice carried across the yard with a predatory rumble that made several students instinctively step back. She stood near the sparring circles with her arms crossed over her chest. The torn sleeves of her modified uniform revealed the corded muscle of her forearms.

Her copper-red hair caught the morning light like living flame. Wild and untamed despite her complete disregard for any attempt at styling it.

Everything about her posture screamed barely contained violence. The slight forward tilt of her shoulders. The way her tail lashed behind her in agitated sweeps. The red fur bristling with each movement. Her pointed ears twitched at some sound I couldn’t hear. Probably tracking the heartbeats of everyone within striking distance.

Note to self: wolf-kin have really good hearing. Be more careful about what I mutter under my breath.

"Surprised you showed up at all, Leone. Most people with any sense would’ve stayed in bed after getting their ribs rearranged." Her lips curled back to reveal her sharp canines in what might charitably be called a smile. If one had never seen an actual smile before. "Then again, sense was never your strong suit, was it?"

I paused in my shuffle. Let my shoulders slump further. Made myself smaller. Wrapped my arms around my midsection as if the very act of standing was causing me pain.

Which, to be fair, it partially was.

"Had to come. Can’t afford to miss more classes."

"Can’t afford to miss classes?" Fen’s laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. Her canines flashed in the morning light as her head tilted back with genuine amusement. The sound echoed off the stone walls of the training yard. Drew the attention of students who had been pretending not to watch.

"You can barely stand upright, and you’re worried about attendance? What’s next, are you going to challenge Blackthorne to a rematch? Maybe ask him to hit you harder this time?"

She took a step forward. Her movement smooth as water and twice as dangerous.

"Or maybe you want me to finish what Thorne started. Save everyone the trouble of watching you wheeze through another training session."

Tempting offer, wolf-girl. Real tempting.

A few nervous laughs rippled through the gathered students. Most had the good sense to look uncomfortable rather than amused. House Onyx might be the dregs of Solamere. But even dregs had a pecking order. Watching Fen toy with someone lower on that order was a reminder of how quickly anyone could become the next target.

Before I could stammer out a suitably pathetic response, the familiar sound of boots on stone announced Professor Isolde De Clare’s arrival.

The rhythm of her footsteps was distinctive. Heavy. Purposeful. The stride of someone who had spent years commanding battlefields and saw no reason to change her approach for a mere academy courtyard.

She emerged from the equipment shed like a force of nature barely contained in human form. Her presence immediately shifted the atmosphere of the yard from casual cruelty to something more dangerous.

Her chestnut hair hung loose around her shoulders in wild disarray. Clearly having resisted whatever minimal effort she’d made to tame it that morning. The silver flask glinted in her hand. Its dented surface caught the light as she took a long pull from it without breaking stride.

But it was her amber eyes that made my skin crawl.

They fixed on me the moment she appeared. Tracked my movement with an intensity that set off every alarm bell in my head.

There was nothing casual about that gaze.

It was the look of a battlefield commander who had spotted something that didn’t quite fit. An irregularity in the expected pattern that demanded investigation.

Shit.

This is exactly what I didn’t want.

She’s watching me too closely.

Professor De Clare leaned against a weapon rack. The worn wood creaked slightly under her weight. She took another pull from her flask before speaking. The liquid inside sloshed audibly in the morning quiet.

"Leone. What are you doing here?"

I straightened as much as my "injuries" would allow. Put on my best impression of a dutiful student who wanted nothing more than to fulfill his obligations despite his obvious physical limitations.

My spine protested the movement. A genuine twinge of pain that I allowed to flicker across my face for her benefit.

"Reporting for training, Professor. I know I’m not at full capacity, but I thought perhaps some light exercises—"

"Nonsense."