Bracing

After physics, I head straight back to our room during my free period and change into my most flexible combat gear. Nerves have begun settling uncomfortably in my stomach. Just before lunch, the midday combat sessions begin, and as patrol lead, it falls to me to lead them. I am bricking it. I am good. Very good. But being good at combat is not the same as standing at the front of a hall full of Lycans and telling them what to do with their limbs. Especially when several of those Lycans outrank me. Especially when one of them is Joshua Landry. Headmaster Landry believes in you, Astraea reminds me. A fairly fearsome alpha chose you over his own grandson. He had good reason. Let’s be honest, Astraea. I’m only half as good as I am because I blended with you so early. The Goddess matched me with you, she replies gently. You needed me, and I was the best fit for you. I would not have suited another gamma. I breathe out slowly, trying to steady myself as I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror. Is this too much? Do I need to look more like a teacher? It is practical. That matters more. I glance at my black leggings with the calf mesh, then down at the navy shorts I’ve actually chosen. They are mid-rise. Not too revealing. Easy to move in. Sensible, really. Unfortunately, sensible does not always stop people looking. Lycans are often naked, I remind myself, pushing the doubt aside. Visible abs are hardly a rarity at Exton. Still, I tug the hem of my top down once more before leaving the room, which is deeply irritating behaviour from someone who regularly throws people at walls. The training hall is one of the newer additions to the school, built at the end of an extended block three years ago. It is huge. Everything about it is designed for both human and Lycan training: reinforced flooring, adaptable equipment, high ceilings, enough open space to move without restriction. Even the equipment store is almost as large as a classroom, though not as high. There are options here. Real options. For the first time since Headmaster Landry gave me the role, I can almost see what this could become. Not just a lunch session where people hit mats, complain, and leave. Something better. Something structured. Useful. Mine. The thought is too bold, so naturally I pretend I have not had it. Making any real mark on this place will take preparation, planning, and more hands than I currently possess. I will need help eventually. Willing volunteers. People who trust my judgement enough to let me rearrange more than the mats. So for now, I start simple. I lay out the mats, spacing them evenly. It is not what I truly wanted to begin with, but it is a beginning. The doors open. My stomach lifts with something that might be anticipation. Or dread. With me, the two are unfortunately close relatives. I am surprised — but genuinely pleased — to see Jen step inside, with Celine just behind her. Celine took completely different subjects to us and lived on the other side of the block, so we did not see her as often as I would have liked. As a witch, she did not need Lycan combat training, but non-Lycans sometimes joined out of curiosity. Or, apparently, loyalty. "I did not expect you to walk through that door," I say to Jen. "Wanted to support you," she replies, unusually serious. "And make sure people respect you." My chest warms. Horrifying. "That depends if anyone shows up." "They will." "Then it depends who shows up," I counter, the old worry settling quietly across my shoulders. Rank. Always rank. Over the next ten minutes, people begin to filter in, forming a loose semicircle on the mats in front of me. My nerves shift with each arrival, easing and tightening in equal measure. Stay with the plan, Astraea says. Start simple. There are younger ones here. There are. First years, smaller and more cautious, watching everything with wide, uncertain eyes. I remember being that size. Not like them, though. I had arrived at Exton already blended, already carrying Astraea under my skin, already too aware of what it meant to be watched. I swallow around the tightness in my throat, hoping none of them have had to become that strange so young. I take a step forwards— —and the doors open again. Right at the last moment, of course. Landry. Owen follows just behind him, offering me a quick, reassuring smile that steadies something in my chest before I can resent needing it. Landry does not smile. Obviously. He simply looks at me, expression unreadable, as though he is assessing the mats, the room, the gathered students, and me as part of the same tactical problem. I turn away before his gaze can linger long enough to become irritating. Or before I can notice that it does. "Welcome to the first of what I hope will be many lunchtime training sessions," I begin, pitching my voice so it carries. "These are designed to burn off energy, hone focus, have fun, teach valuable skills, and ideally make afternoons a little more productive for everyone." A few people laugh. Good. Laughter means they are listening. The first part of the session passes easily enough. Simple disarming, controlled repetition, nothing that should challenge anyone too much. And it shows. After ten minutes, I can feel attention beginning to fray. Younger students keep trying, but the older ones have started moving by habit rather than thought. Too smooth. Too bored. I know that feeling. "I think we can move on," I say lightly, catching the shift before it becomes restlessness. A ripple of agreement follows, enough to ease the tightness in my chest. "I’ll need a volunteer," I add, glancing at an eager first year who immediately throws his hand up. I cannot help smiling. "Someone a little older. I’m not throwing a first-year onto the floor." A few quiet laughs pass through the group. Good. Still listening. I scan the betas and alphas. Suddenly, everyone is fascinated by the mats, the ceiling, their own shoes, or the profound mystery of breathing. My gaze flicks briefly to Owen, hoping— He gives a small, apologetic shake of his head. Coward. Sensible, self-preserving coward. I understand it, even as irritation prickles beneath my skin. They are not refusing because they think I cannot do it. Not exactly. They are refusing because they do not want to be the person who misjudges a movement, lands too heavily, and hurts the gamma patrol lead in front of half the room. It is considerate. It is also infuriating. And then— "I’ll do it." I do not need to turn to know who said it. I do anyway. Landry is already standing, dressed in navy sweats and a plain white polo shirt, his expression neutral, as though stepping into my demonstration is the most natural thing in the world. Of course. Everyone else is afraid of hurting me. Landry is not. That should not feel like relief. It should feel like a warning. "All right," I say, my voice a fraction tighter than I would like. I step back onto the mat. Landry joins me without hesitation. Too close. Too quickly. Too much history between us for him to look that calm. I square up to him, forcing my attention back to the group. "We’re going to look at tomoe nage," I say, keeping my tone as even as I can. "A sacrifice throw. It relies on timing and control rather than strength." My gaze moves over him before I can stop it. Height. Reach. Weight distribution. Not anything else. Absolutely not anything else. "It’s particularly useful when your opponent is bigger and stronger than you." There is a subtle shift in the room at that. Landry does not react. He simply waits. Calmly. Which is almost worse. "We’ll go through it slowly first," I continue. "Step by step." I step closer and take hold of his collar and sleeve, twisting the white fabric under my fingers to secure my grip. The position lands in my body before my mind catches up. His arm beneath my hand. His weight in front of me. The remembered snap of bone. The impact in my ribs afterwards. This feels horribly familiar. My grip tightens before I can stop it. You’re tensing, Astraea murmurs. I ignore her. "First, you establish your grip," I continue, adjusting slightly so the group can see. "Then you break their balance." I draw him forwards. I expect resistance. I brace for it. But Landry lets me move him. Not slack. Not careless. Just enough that I can guide the motion without fighting him. It should make the demonstration easier. Instead, it unsettles me. "Then you step in close." I move forwards, placing my foot between his, closing the space until there is barely any left between us. The memory hits without warning. The impact. The force of him. The moment he did not stop. My ribs ache in recollection. I swallow hard and force it down. Because he is not doing that now. He has not even tried. That should make it better. It does not. Still— There is something else there. An awareness of his proximity. Of the steadiness in the way he holds himself. Of how easily I can feel the shift of his weight through my hands. Of how he has not pulled away. Not resisting. Not challenging. Letting me lead. Helpful, or calculated? I cannot tell, and that unnerves me more than it should. "From here," I say, quieter now, "you commit to the movement." I begin to drop back onto the mat, guiding him with me, my foot lifting to rest lightly against his centre. Everything aligns for a moment. Grip. Balance. Weight. Trust. I stop. Holding the position just long enough for them to see. "You don’t rush it," I say, pushing him back and coming smoothly to my feet. I step away, taking a breath. A few nods ripple through the group. The first-years look excited. I do not look at him. "And when you put that all together into one fluid movement..." I step in again, taking hold of his sleeve and collar, my grip firmer now. More deliberate. I draw him forwards. This time, there is resistance. Not enough to stop me. Just enough to meet me. To remind me that he could. It sharpens everything. I step closer, closing the space again, my foot sliding into position as I prepare to move. Then his voice reaches me. Low. Quiet. Close enough that no one else can hear. "You don’t need to brace for me." The words land before I can stop them. Before I can process them. Because I am bracing. I absolutely am. Of course I am. The last time I moved like this with him, he fought the fall and broke his own arm rather than let me win cleanly. Then he kicked me after the match was over. My ribs remember even if he wants to pretend they shouldn’t. My fingers tighten in his shirt. "I’m demonstrating," I say, quieter than intended. "I know." He does not sound defensive. That annoys me more than if he had. My grip tightens instinctively. Something flares inside me. Not quite anger. Not quite fear. Something tangled between the two. I do not check it. I move. Fast. I drop back, pulling hard as my foot drives firmly into his centre. His balance tips exactly as it should, his weight coming with me, his strength unmistakable even as I take it from him. I should slow the movement. I do not. Whatever has flared inside me carries through all at once. My leg extends fully, my grip tightening as his momentum lifts him cleanly from the ground. Far higher than intended. The white fabric twists beneath my hand. Then tears. The sound is sharp and obvious, ripping down from the open collar of his polo shirt. I still do not stop. I drive the throw to completion, releasing him as he goes over me. He lands hard, skidding beyond the neat edge of the mat with far more force than I intended. Far more force than a demonstration should ever have needed. Silence falls. For one dreadful second, no one moves. Then I hear him behind me. I am already on my feet, heart thudding hard as the reality of what I have done settles in. Joshua Landry is on the floor. Beyond the mat. In front of everyone. Again. He stands a second later. There is a faint smear of red at his lip, split from the impact. His shirt hangs unevenly from one shoulder, torn from the open collar down towards the centre of his chest. The white polo shirt. Ruined. I do not look at him. More accurately, I look very carefully at the wall behind his left shoulder, which is practically the same thing if one is committed to denial. Several first-years stare at him with open awe. A beta near the front mutters something under his breath. Owen makes a strangled sound that might be a cough. "Er..." I say. Excellent start. "The key is commitment to the movement," I continue, my voice somehow level despite the pounding in my chest. "If you hesitate, it won’t work, and your opponent will gain the advantage." Joshua’s gaze stays on mine. Unmoving. No rage. No accusation. No humiliation burning through the room. Just that steady, unreadable look. He wipes the blood from his lip with his thumb. I think he got the hint, Astraea says, amusement threaded through her voice. I swallow. This was not what I meant by making my mark.