Wisdom and War

Chapter Four

"He's hurt."

"We are definitely going to die."

"No!"

I could feel sweat dripping down my back as my fists continued to collide with the black and worn out punching bag. Each slap of skin against leather echoed throughout the empty room and would only stop when I'd punch a hole through it and grains of sand would fall on the hardwood floor. It'd take me about thirty seconds to grab the chains attached to the bag from its position on the hook, throw it to the other side of the room, and then replace it with a new one. A quick glance on my right told me that I've managed to break three bags in the last fifteen minutes and I was undoubtedly going to add at least three more to the pile.

My knuckles were already bruised since I chose to forget about using the customized gloves that were quietly sitting inside my locker. The Erevna personally made them for me after I helped them with a scientific discovery a few years back. One of them saw me punch through five boxing gloves in one day and thought that it'd be a nice thank you gift. The matching bag was hanging on the left corner of the room, but I decided not to use it since I wouldn't be able to hear the satisfying sound of breaking something.

I hissed when my next punch ended up splitting the skin on a few of my right-hand knuckles and I stood still as I watched the skin immediately heal and patch together. In just a few seconds, my hand looked brand new as if I haven't been spending the past few minutes attacking a bag of sand. Gritting my teeth, I pulled back and channeled all of my anger to that one punch. It's unfair how many times I've watched a Fura resort to Plan Z. The omada has never experienced a member who was captured and spilled all of our secrets. They all chose to die instead of having the chance to see their family once again. The amount of dedication they have offered to us is unnerving and every time I watched that light vanish from their eyes, I'd think of how willing they were to give up their lives just for us.

It was unfair.

The leather broke once again, grains of sand falling to the floor. But this time, the punching bag was on the other side of the room, chains split into two and the hook that was mounted on the ceiling barely holding on.

"He's hurt."

"We are definitely going to die."

"No!"

I grabbed another punching bag and hung it on the next hook that was perfectly fine. For the meantime, that is. The voices were echoing inside my head again. I started punching, trying to drown out the voices of Nadine and Mariel. It helped, but nothing could make the image of Nathaniel's lifeless body go away.

The empty eyes. The gold wedding band that had small specks of blood on it. The two flat lines displayed on the screen that should've been moving up and down as a sign for his heart rate and blood pressure.

Seeing a Fura die was not something I took to heart because the amount of pain was too much, even for me. Whenever I had gone on a mission with them, they would either die because the opponent had shot or captured them. They always died because of the people from the other side, not because of those who stood with them. Morana may not have been chosen by the gods, but she was still one of us. The blood of a descendant still runs through her veins.

"He's hurt."

"We are definitely going to die."

"No!"

I pulled back once again, ready to hear grains of sand drop like a waterfall but was disappointed when I heard nothing and the punching bag didn't even move.

"Stop."

Joaquin was behind me, right hand placed in between me and the punching bag. His palm was swollen, a dark purple bruise appeared right in the middle before it began fading. "Move." I said, my back stiff and hands formed into fists.