Jael entered, along with the forty-nine other thaumaturges, all in black coats. They spread out so that they formed a funnel from the entryway. Jael’s gaze found his pack and narrowed. A subtle warning.
Z drew his shoulders back until the muscles began to complain.
The silence was startling after the feast’s chaos. Z found a piece of meat stuck in a molar and tried to work it out without moving his jaw too much.
They waited.
And then, a new scent. Something floral and warm that reminded him of his mother.
A woman stepped out from the wide cavern, wearing a gauzy dress that billowed around her feet and a sheer veil that covered her face and drifted past her elbows. On top of the veil sat a delicate white crown, carved from shimmering regolith stone.
Z was glad that he was not the only one who gasped. He instantly peeled his gaze away from Her Majesty and stared straight ahead, at the black cavern wall. His palms began to sweat, but he resisted the urge to wipe them on his pants or check his face for remnants of his meal.
The piece of meat blissfully relinquished its hold on his tooth, and he swallowed.
“Gentlemen,” said the queen. “I am here to congratulate you on the progress you’ve all made as soldiers in my formidable new army. I have been monitoring your training sessions for many months now, and I am pleased with what I’ve seen.”
A low rustle slipped through them—the faintest of fidgets. Z did not know how she could have watched them without their knowing. Maybe their training sessions had been recorded.
“You are all aware,” the queen continued, “that you are among the soldiers being considered for a unique mission that will aid in the hostilities between Luna and Earth. This is a role of honor, reserved for those who have risen above the confines of their past, the limitations of their bodies, and the fear of the unknown. They will be my most prized soldiers, chosen not only for their strength and bravery, but also for their intelligence, cunning, and adaptability. My court and I will be making our final selections soon.”
Her words were blurred in Z’s thoughts and he could think of nothing past a bead of sweat making its way down his temple and how his fingers were beginning to twitch with too much energy and no outlet.
The queen, who had been as still as the soldiers until now, a faceless sheet speaking to them, lifted one arm and gestured to the thaumaturges. “I’m sure that I do not need to remind your thaumaturges that those who are in control of the selected packs will receive instant advancement in their court status.”
Z dared a glance at Jael and saw that his dark eyes had gone fierce, his jaw set.
“Gentlemen.”
Z snapped his gaze back to the wall.
“Your thaumaturges have asked for the opportunity to showcase some of their brightest soldiers. I look forward to the demonstration.” She swirled her fingers through the air and the thaumaturges spread out into the crowd.
Jael’s walk was tense as he reached them. “Alpha Brock,” he snapped, “you will be fighting. No teeth, no claws—I want to show your skill. Understood?”
Brock fisted his hand against his chest. “Yes, Master Jael. Who will be my opponent?”
Jael’s gaze swept to Beta Wynn. Though technically all Betas had the same rank in the pack, everyone kept a mental record of wins and losses, of victories and failures, and everyone knew that Wynn wasn’t far behind Brock in his abilities.
But then Jael let out a slow breath. “Ze’ev.”
Z’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Master Jael, heat flooding his face. But Jael showed no humor or uncertainty, only a stern determination as he paced past the others and came to stand before him. Their gazes clashed, and it was with some shock that Z realized he was now taller than Master Jael too.
“She wants a show,” he said. “This time, don’t hold back.”
Z’s brow twitched, but he tried to remain neutral as he saluted his thaumaturge.
His thoughts were frenzied as they were marched into the largest training room. Her Majesty had been escorted onto a platform on one end and placed atop a throne so that she could watch the proceedings in comfort.
Fifty packs. Fifty fights.
Z’s stomach was roiling as they began. He couldn’t focus on the brawls. He was only seeing Jael’s dark eyes, hearing his words over and over again. This time, don’t hold back.
Did Jael think he faked his losses? Did Jael believe he was capable of defeating Brock, or did he only want to ensure that he lasted as long as he could?
Only once did he dare to glance over at his opponent and saw that Brock had a furious scowl. He obviously didn’t think Z was a worthy opponent, not in front of the queen herself.
Ran, too, looked sullen, and although not a person in the room would have expected Ran to be chosen as one of Jael’s examples, Z sensed that Ran had fantasized about such a chance to prove himself more than once.
Finally, their turn came.
Jael bowed to Her Majesty and introduced them—Alpha Brock fighting Beta Kesley.
Z could smell the blood from the previous fights, still warm and salty, mingling with the regolith dust. He and Brock trekked to the fighting circle and stared at each other.
Only when he sank into his fighting stance did he feel the panic and confusion subside.
He didn’t win all his fights, but he won more than he lost. He had become strong and fast. He would not make a fool of himself in front of Her Majesty.
And if they impressed her, perhaps she would choose their pack for her special mission. He would never have to go through the rest of the surgeries. He would never become a mindless beast in her army.
Brock’s eyes flashed. There was a burning in his gaze that Z didn’t recognize, but he was sure it carried a promise of pain.
Brock came at him first with a right hook aimed at his jaw. Z ducked easily—too easily. Brock feinted at the last moment and drove his other fist into Z’s side. Z clenched his teeth and pushed himself back, retaliating with a front kick to Brock’s stomach.
They backed away from each other, bouncing on the balls of their feet, hands poised in front of their faces. A trickle of sweat dropped down Z’s spine.
He squinted, watching the way Brock’s body swayed, noticing how he briefly clenched his left fist.
A roundhouse kick was coming.
No sooner had he thought it than Brock whipped forward, aiming his foot at Z’s head.
He caught it and pulled, throwing Brock onto his side.
Z danced out of Brock’s reach, panting. Salt was beginning to sting his eyes. Brock didn’t stay down long. He flashed his sharp teeth and rushed forward—
Jab to the ribs. Elbow to the face. Sideswipe kick.
He saw them all happening an instant before they did. Block. Block. Jump. Attack.
Teeth snapped as he landed an uppercut to Brock’s jaw. A left hook to his side.
Brock withdrew, face contorted in fury. It was difficult for Z to hide his own surprise at this newfound skill.
But it wasn’t new. It was from years of sitting on the sidelines, watching and studying and inspecting every fight, every brawl, every punch thrown, every victory won. He knew how Brock fought.
And he suspected that if he were pitted against any one of his pack members, he would have seen the same signs, recognized the same tricks and tells.
He could beat them.
He could beat all of them.
Brock stretched his neck to one side and Z heard the sound of his spine popping. Brock shook it out like a dog, then sank into his stance again.
His eyes glinted.
Bolstered, Z shot forward.
Jab. Blocked.
Cross. Blocked.