Page 118 of The Vixen

But mostly, people stand with their hands shoved inside pockets, their shoulders up to their ears.

Father stands in the middle of the snow-shoveled arena on a mat of frosted, hardened earth. He faces the crowd, keeping his back to me as Alaric and I simultaneously enter the circle.

I’m careful to keep my steps even and my back strong. Every step is an ache in my ribs, but the closer Alaric and I get, the more distant the pain. I cup my wrist and come to a standstill as Father begins his speech, one we’ve all heard a hundred times.

“A wound left to fester poisons the body. A grievance left to rot poisons the Unit," Father starts, his voice measured,business as usual. Though I know better. I know by the way he doesn’t look at me.

I point my neutral gaze at Alaric, but he too avoids my eyes, choosing instead to stare past my shoulder.

"Tonight, we do not rejoice. Tonight, we do not celebrate. What is about to happen is not a test of strength, nor of skill, nor of will. It is a necessity, nothing more.

"We are the Shadow Sanctum, bound not by blood, but by purpose. The Unit must endure. The Unit must remain whole. When conflict threatens our harmony, it must be excised before it spreads. The cost is heavy. The loss is real. And yet, we do not hesitate."

Father turns his gaze to Alaric, then just to the right of me. If you weren’t standing in my body, you’d assume he was addressing me as the fighter I am. His expression is unreadable. Neither pride nor sorrow, only certainty shows in the hardened lines of his face, the weight of tradition heavy in his voice. Hidden as he is, it’s here he shows his true colors.

He is capable of managing his emotions. As long as there’s an audience.

"You, fellow Keepers, stand here because the Unit demands resolution. You stand here because your grievance has outgrown words. And so, with steel and with sacrifice, you will bring this matter to its rightful end."

He exhales, as if bearing the weight of all who have fought before. The first time I stood in this circle, I thought him wise and strong, a warrior with battle scars and stories too gruesome to tell.

I was twelve then. My opponent was a boy a few years older than me who slipped a frog in the back of my sister’s dress. My father felt it was an opportunity to prove myself. I can still feel the tremble in my hands, not from fear of death but from the terror of bearing the weight of his disappointment.

I glance down; splay my palms. Not a tremor in sight.

Why must a lion prove itself to a jackal?

"One of you will not rise,” Father comes to the end of his speech.

I let my hands hang limp at my sides, energy pulsing through my fingertips. The bandage around my torso tightens as my belly stretches with two long, final breaths.

“This is a tragedy. But the greater tragedy would be allowing discord to weaken us all. The Unit must come before the self. Only then will we prosper."

He spreads his arms wide and looks up at the sky like a devil waiting for wings. As his arms lift, hundreds of brothers and sisters chant at once. "The Unit before the self."

My eyes close. I take a moment to feel the earth beneath my feet, let it ground me. A soft breeze kisses my cheeks and wisps the few stubborn strands of hair that managed to free themselves from my topknot. Some things cannot be caged.

The horn blares, and I picture Father jerking his arms down. I’ve seen the confidence in his strides from the ring, but I know he wishes to leap.

There’s a moment of pause. The crowd holds a collective breath, which is convenient because now more than ever I need my ears.

Alaric is smart. When he comes at an opponent, he doesn’t growl or roar or grunt like an amateur. He comes like a cougar, more of a pounce than a barrel. Strength plus agility—his fights are rarely lost.

But in moments like these, moments it’s necessary… I am one with the earth.

The ground crunches with his jump, and the wind shifts. My eyes snap open as I twist and arch so sharply, my shoulders nearly touch the ground.

He rolls in a tight ball—smooth—and hops back up in one fluid movement. His fists rise in front of him as he bounces on his toes.Boots. They’ll hurt if they hit me. I should be careful of that.

I match his fighting stance, shifting my feet out of respect for the warrior he is, the warrior he’s always been. When a few children at the front begin to cheer, I nearly snipe at them.

As Father said, this is a tragedy. A necessary tragedy.

Sawyer should be at the trap by now.

Alaric shuffles toward me and strikes his fist toward my face with his left hand—he’s right handed—but of course, I evade it like he knew I would. It’s the hit to the stomach with the right he was hoping to surprise me with, but as soon as his arm jabs, I twist my body, grab his wrist and crash my weight onto his elbow socket while driving my hip upwards.

He howls as ligaments tear. His knees buckle, but he’s quick to stumble back on his feet.