Fatal Justice

† Chapter One †

They lied when they said blood is thicker than water. 

There was always blood.

Blood weeping into the roots of the earth. Blood escaping through broken pieces of glass in a cascade of ruins. Blood staining pale-white skin and leaving teardrops of agony wherever they may fall--and when the body falls, there is no more blood.

He spat blood out of his mouth, it tasted of iron and bitter copper. He hated the taste of his own blood but he had grown used to its horrible poison over the years. Sometimes, there was no choice but to swallow the rancid taste or suffer the fate of drowning alive--especially when he had almost bitten his tongue clean off and his father had laughed. He wasn't allowed to show an ounce of weakness, that wasn't an Alpha quality; that is what he had been taught over the past eighteen years of his life.

Carefully, he schooled his features into a blank slate. No emotion. He was quick to rise to his feet, despite how his head was spinning from the blow that had rattled his skull, and he leveled off his opponent. He felt hundreds of eyes burning into his skin, waiting for him to screw up, and he was light on his toes as he danced with his opponent.

This was part of life. He would have liked to call it training but it was something much more brutal than that. His father sat on the sidelines of the ring with a smug smirk, eyes glinting with evilness that glowered in his soul, and sometimes lives could be lost in this ring. He had seen it, been forced to watch it--his own pack mates die because they were weak.

There was no room for weakness. There was never room for mercy. His pack was one of brutal, bloody, and brash ways. They were raised against each other. Nobody was a friend, all a foe to be defeated in the weekly trials. It did not matter how victory was won, all that mattered was how the victor was perceived by his father. If they were worthy to continue living, if they were allowed to eat, and if they deserved to fight again next week.

He hated all of it. He hated how his father grew excited when blood was shed. He hated the judging eyes that harrowed him. He hated his younger brother, Russell, who was just waiting for his death--he was sure. Russell was the perfect son and by right, he had to fight for the Alpha title against his brother. He dreaded the day the nightmare would come true.

His opponent stepped forward in a blur and lashed out with a heavy fist, he predicted it this time and ducked before delivering a swift uppercut. A grunt of pain told him he hit a sensitive pair of ribs but he couldn't focus on it. He couldn't get distracted. The expectations that were set upon his shoulders were like a crushing weight that forced the blood to leak from his very pores, surely one day it would kill him and he delighted in that thought.

He was faster than his opponent, having learned the pattern in a few short minutes, and he saw the desperation beginning to paint his packmate's face as the tides of this fight changed. Though, he showed nothing on his own face as he continued to deliver quick, hammering blows. They were both fighting to survive but only one of them would live to see the sunrise again. That's the law of the pack. These trials were meant to weed out the weak, strengthen the pack, and determine the success of his father. Like an army, they were not taught to care for the enemy, they were taught to kill.