Chapter 9 Beneath The Wild Moon

Zylia's POV

I turned and it was her.

Tall. Sharp-eyed. Hair braided tight against her skull so the moon caught every cruel angle of her face. A silver ring glinted in her ear as she stepped out of the trees , calm, deliberate, like someone who belonged to the dark.

The man behind me stiffened, trying to hide the fear crawling up his neck. "Didn't know she had a guard dog," he said, his voice thin, trying for a laugh that didn't survive.

She didn't smile. The knife at her side caught the light as she shifted her weight. "I'm not her guard," she said, voice low and cold. "I'm the reason she's still breathing."

He bared his teeth , too wide, too eager. "Looks like she won't be for long if she keeps wandering at night."

"Try me." Her tone cut sharper than her blade.

For a breath, the forest froze. Then the man backed off, muttering, "Not worth the blood," before melting into the trees.

The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that pressed against your ribs. She didn't lower her weapon right away, only after she was sure he was gone. Then her eyes flicked to me , assessing, unimpressed.

"You've got guts walking out here alone."

"I, I needed air," I said, my voice catching.

"Air gets you killed. You stirred them up."

"I didn't mean to. I just,"

"Intent doesn't stop a blade." She slid her knife into her boot and turned. "Come."

"What?" I looked toward the camp, toward the faint glow of fire. "I should go back."

She didn't look over her shoulder. "Then die with the rest when the night gets hungry."

Something in her tone dared me to move. Against all reason, I followed.

She led me through the tents to a clearing where the moon sat high and white. "Take off your coat," she said.

"Why?"

A knife hissed past my ear and buried itself into a tree trunk.

My breath stuttered.

"Because I said so."

My hands wouldn't stop shaking. Not from cold, but from the weight of her presence , sharp, unyielding, terrifyingly alive. She moved like she'd been carved out of night itself, and somehow, I wanted to understand what made her that way.

"You could've killed me."

"If I wanted you dead, you'd already be on the ground." She folded her arms. "Lesson one: don't argue with the hand that holds the knife.

There was something about her that didn't fit , too still, too certain, like the forest itself bent around her. I'd seen killers before. None of them carried silence like it was a weapon. She made fear look disciplined.

"Lesson two: don't wait for the attack."

She tossed a dull blade at my feet. "Pick it up."

The weight surprised me , solid, cold, heavier than I expected. The moon made the edge gleam like bone.

"Ready?" she asked.

"No," I admitted.

She smirked faintly. "Then bleed faster."

Her first strike came fast , too fast. I stumbled back, clumsy, the blade nearly slipping from my grip.

"You're thinking," she said, circling me. "That's how people die."

"I'm trying not to stab myself!"

"Better you stab yourself than let someone else."

She lunged. I dodged too late; her elbow caught my shoulder.

"You hesitate," she said. "You die."

I fell, dirt biting into my palms. My lungs burned. Above me, the moon stared blankly.

She waited, arms crossed. "Up."

I pushed to my feet, shaking. Picked up the knife again. This time, when she swung, I moved faster. Still sloppy , but not hopeless.

Each hit she delivered came with purpose: a bruise, a sting, a correction. "You drop your guard," she said. "You die. You flinch," she said. "You die."

The rhythm built until my body moved without thought , block, twist, breathe, swing.

When I fell again, she crouched close, breath warm against my cheek. "You've got fight," she said. "But you wait for permission. Out here, no one gives it. You want to live?"

"Yes."

"Then stop being prey."

The words sank deeper than the bruises. For the first time since exile, something sharp and fierce curled inside my ribs.

She stood. "Again."

We moved under the cold moon until my arms trembled, my breath came ragged, and the knife felt like part of me. When she struck one last time, I blocked. Our blades clashed, ringing like a heartbeat.

Her eyes flickered , something almost like approval. "Good."

I caught my breath. "You haven't told me your name."

"Raven."

It suited her , hard, untouchable, wild.

When she said enough, I could barely stand. My hands ached. My knees shook. Still, I didn't drop the blade.

"You learn fast," she said. "Not many do."

She started toward the trees, then stopped. "You could've left," she said softly. "You had the chance."

"I did," I whispered. "You found me anyway."

Something unreadable crossed her face before she turned away.

Mason stood at the edge of the clearing, silent as ever.

"He watches," Raven murmured as she passed.

"He doesn't trust her," Mason said.

"Same thing."

And she was gone.

I looked down at the blade in my hand. For a heartbeat, a faint silver light shimmered along its edge , a living pulse that made my skin crawl. Then it vanished.

My chest thudded in a strange rhythm. It wasn't hope.

It was power.

And it scared me.