Survivor
Chaos erupts around me—people are fleeing, screaming in terror. "Mom!" I call out desperately. Someone shouts my name in response, but before I can locate her, a body crashes to the ground before me. Everywhere I look, corpses of humans and wolves litter the blood-soaked earth. Suddenly, a man seizes my arm. "This way," he urges, pulling me through the mayhem until we reach a concealed entrance. He yanks it open, pushes me inside. "Run," he commands. "Don't look back." The door slams shut behind me. In the dimly lit passage, panic rises in my chest. I spin around, clawing at the door, but it's sealed tight. Above me, the sounds of fighting and screaming, I turn and run as fast as I can.
A pinprick of light grows at the tunnel's end, urging my legs faster. Then—a piercing scream shatters everything. My eyes fly open to find myself tangled in sweat-damp sheets, my heart hammering against my ribs. After several deep breaths, the familiar shadows of my bedroom come into focus. The clock's red numbers mock me: 5:00 AM. No point trying for more sleep now. I shuffle to the bathroom and twist the shower knob. Steam rises as I stretch onto my tiptoes, barely able to see my reflection in the mirror. My deep red hair hangs in tangles around my pale face—did my mother have this same fiery color? The question aches like an old bruise. After showering, I wrap myself in a towel and pad back to my bedroom, pulling on black yoga pants and a dark blue tank top. I braid my hair with practiced fingers, preparing for training, when a voice slides into my thoughts: "Jadon, come to my office." The Priestess. I've been with the coven since I was eight—they taught me everything from basic spells to meditation to combat. They became the family I couldn't remember.
Groaning, I dragged my feet toward the wall. Training with Christa will have to wait—again. The Priestess's summons always stretches into long conversations, eating into my practice time. I trace the familiar pattern of a doorknob on the smooth surface, watching as magic ripples outward from my fingertips. With a twist of my wrist, the wall parts, revealing Priestess Raven's office.
"Good morning, Priestess," I say, accepting her silent gesture toward the couch. As she prepares tea, her smoke-gray hair cascades over her shoulders, framing her striking violet eyes I've always envied. My own emerald gaze stares back whenever I look in mirrors—just another reminder that I'm different from everyone else here.
While the coven has been my home, only Christa and Steve truly know me. We're inseparable—a trio against whatever comes our way. Something in me still hesitates to let others in completely. The Priestess clears her throat, pulling me back to the present moment. I glance up to find her pouring amber liquid into my cup, steam curling between us. I offer an apologetic smile for my wandering mind.
"Jadon," Priestess Raven says, her voice soft with memory, "that day by the river changed everything. You were just a child, eight years old, face streaked with dirt and dried blood. But I sensed something extraordinary—the rare dual nature of witch and wolf coexisting within you."
"Ten years ago," Priestess Raven says, her voice softening, "I found a terrified child by the river and wrapped her in my robe. Our coven became your sanctuary, your family." She reaches across the table; her fingers cool against mine. "You've grown into our finest guardian, but tomorrow changes everything. Your eighteenth birthday awakens your wolf."
Her violet eyes search mine. "We've prepared you as best we could, but there are those in the coven who fear what might happen when such a powerful wolf spirit awakens within you. Until you've learned to control this new part of yourself, you must go somewhere safe—for everyone's protection, including your own." She pulls me into her arms; her palms cool against my cheeks as she presses her lips to my forehead. I feel the wetness of a tear that isn't mine. "Now," she says, straightening her shoulders, "dry your eyes. You're already late for training."
My phone buzzes as I reach the door. "HURRY," Christa's text reads. "Trio is not here yet. Will murder you if I'm stuck with them." I smile, grateful for the warning. Sprinting down the corridor toward the training field, I spot Christa's silhouette in the distance but then freeze at the sound of familiar laughter. Too late. The trios already arrived. I slow my pace, hoping to somehow slip past unnoticed, but their heads swivel in unison. Three bodies shift to form a human barricade directly in my path.
Cindy's laughter cuts through the air as she approaches. "Look who's late again. Our little loser still thinks she can train with the big girls." She tosses her hair back. "Why bother? The only thing you'll ever excel at is scrubbing toilets and hauling garbage." I exhale slowly. "What did I ever do to you?" Samantha and Julie flank me, their sneakers forming a chorus as they circle like vultures. A hard shove to my shoulder from Samantha sends me stumbling backward. Cindy pushes next, then Julie. Back and forth I go between them until my balance fails and I hit the ground. Cindy raises her foot above me. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for impact. Footsteps approach—our trainer. "What's happening here?" Cindy drops to one knee beside me, whispering, "Keep your mouth shut," before looking up with practiced concern. "She tripped. I was just helping her up."
Brushing dirt from my clothes, I jog over to Christa and drop into a stretch beside her. The trainer clears her throat, announcing today's focus: hand-to-hand combat. We make our way to the equipment bench, where I methodically wrap my knuckles with protective tape, watching Christa do the same. I catch her eye, squeeze her shoulder, and flash a grin. "Ready?" Inside the fighting ring, we face off, our feet shuffling in slow circles as we size each other up.
Christa's right hook cuts through the air. I deflect it with my forearm and in one fluid motion, sweep my leg beneath her. She tumbles backward with a soft thud. I extend my hand, a mistake—her leg whips around, catching my ankle. Suddenly I'm staring at clouds, the breath knocked from my lungs. Our laughter breaks the tension as we scramble to our feet, resuming our stances with renewed focus. I charge forward, launching into a high kick that connects with her shoulder. The solid impact vibrates through my leg as Christa grunts, her eyes widening in surprise.
Christa's fist connects with my jaw in a sharp crack. I respond with a flurry of punches—one, two, three—her forearms deflecting each blow until my fourth strike slips past her guard and sinks into her abdomen. She doubles over, one hand clutching her stomach, her breath coming in ragged gasps. I drop my stance and move toward her. "You okay?" Her eyes meet mine as she straightens, wincing slightly. "Almost had you that time," she says, a grin spreading across her face despite the pain. "You're getting too good. I'll need new tricks next time.".
In the coven, magic isn't our only weapon—our fists need to be just as lethal as our incantations. The trainer appears, dividing us into new pairs to challenge our techniques. I drew Steven as my sparring partner. His dark eyes find mine across the training circle, and he secures his long brown braid with a practiced motion. There's history between us and a handful of movie nights that blurred the line between friendship and something more. I've seen the way he watches me sometimes, but I've never felt that spark. Still, he respects the boundary I've drawn, remaining one of my closest allies and the person who can always coax a laugh from me when I need it.
Steven's one of the few who can match my pace in training. We've been sparring partners since I first arrived at the coven ten years ago—back when I was that terrified eight-year-old and he was already showing promise at twelve. Now, at twenty, he circles me with practiced confidence. We settle into our stances, me on defense. He is taller at 6 foot 3 but I am faster at 5 feet 7 as he lunges forward, everything slows—his jab seems to travel through water, giving me all the time I need to deflect it with barely a thought.
His forearm whistles toward my right side. I duck beneath it, fingers finding purchase around his neck as I pivoted my hip into him. The world tilts for Steven as I flip him cleanly onto his back with a satisfying thud against the training mat. I extended my hand, pulling him up with a grin. We reset, circling each other again. Now he's guarding, weight balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet. I feint with a jab that never connects, using the momentum to spin on my left leg and deliver a reverse roundhouse that grazes his shoulder.
The sun arcs overhead as we continue our dance. By the time we finish, my tank top clings to my skin with sweat. I find Christa across the field, her limbs stretched into impossible angles. Two water bottles later, we're breathing normally again, though my muscles sing with pleasant fatigue. Another round of drills, and finally, as afternoon shadows lengthen across the training grounds, we're dismissed for the day. Christa and I grab some protein bars from the kitchen before slipping through the back door to the coven's garden. Lavender and rosemary perfume the air as we weave between raised beds, my fingers brushing against sage leaves that release their sharp scent. We settle on a stone bench, harvesting sprigs of chamomile for tonight's tea and yarrow for healing salves, our conversation drifting between tomorrow's journey and memories of past summers here.
Later, I push open the heavy oak door to the meditation chamber. Jewel-toned beanbags sprawl across polished wooden floors, while beeswax candles cast golden light against whitewashed walls. Through the arched bay window, I watch the garden and stream catch afternoon light. Sandalwood incense curls from a copper burner. I sink into an emerald cushion, close my eyes, and let my breath slow until my thoughts quiet.
An hour passes before I return to my quarters. After a quick shower, I pull on tan cargo pants and a black tank top, then twist my damp hair into a tight ponytail.
The dining hall hums with conversation as I slip into my usual seat with a plate of food. My gaze drifts across familiar faces—my makeshift family for the past decade—and my throat tightens. A tear escapes before I can stop it, and I quickly brush it away with my knuckle. Christa appears in the doorway, with her new pixie cut hair that’s framing her face and springy curls that bounce with each step. I waved her over, grateful for the distraction. We eat in comfortable silence, but the weight of tomorrow's departure presses against my chest. Back in my room, I change into basketball shorts and an oversized T-shirt, then slide beneath my covers. Sleep won't come easily, but I need rest for what lies ahead. I close my eyes and will my racing thoughts to quiet, surrendering finally to darkness.
