Solstice Howl

01

When asked what I would sacrifice to achieve something I've worked for my entire life- the answer is a no brainer: everything.

A noise lurched from my throat as my feet were knocked out from underneath me causing my inevitable collapse onto the mat, my limbs jumbling in unrecognizable directions.

"Weak." Carter growled, not a hint of exertion on his stoic face, whereas I sport numerous bruises on my stomach and thighs- sweat forming in places I didn't know I could sweat.

I snapped back up by pushing myself off of the mat with my elbow, unsuccessfully kicking my leg up to swing into his gut, to which he grabbed my foot and pushed me back onto the mat roughly.

My head collided with the floor and bounced, causing a blinding headache to vibrate behind my eyelids and a wince to mare my face.

His mocking laugh angered me to the point that my face blossomed red and steam practically rolled out of my ears.

"You're not ready, Mya. Maybe you'll never be ready," he mocked.

But this couldn't be it, I haven't been training my whole life for this moment only to have a rug ripped from beneath my feet! I would gain the upper hand.

A warm feeling of rage traveled up my body in caressing waves and I gritted my teeth, jumping back up despite the coursing pain rippling through me and the evident soreness tightening my muscles.

This time, I focused all of my energy on defense, I looked at his hands in my peripheral vision, detecting his next moves almost immediately. Blocking his oncoming hit to my face and landing a roundhouse kick to his pelvis.

He growled lowly in his throat from the pain but made no attempt to stop. Instead, he worked harder to make sure that I writhe in pain when he's done with me.

I had no time to block his punch to my nose as I gurgled through the nearly-blinding pain, instantly feeling the blood gushing and splashing onto my mouth.

As he reached out to punch my stomach in my weak moment of focusing on my injury, I grabbed his wrist and twisted it to where he bent at an awkward angle, then pushed him down with my knee to his back, not letting up on my grip on his arm.

He tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to maneuver his arm out of my grasp, attempting to ease his discomfort, but I wouldn't let him go, tightening my hold.

"Who's not ready?" I smiled in triumph, waiting a few seconds for him to sigh in defeat then took my knee off of his back, roughly letting go of his arm.

He got up slowly with a grim expression, "I'm still not sure that you're ready."

A scoff was lodged in my throat, but I refused to let it out- I didn't want him to know how ridiculous I thought it was that he was hesitant of me going.

"Carter, I've been ready. You lost our spar!"

We both knew it, he just didn't want to admit it.

Instead of pleading with him on a lost cause that's been debated for far too long, I took a second to look over my injuries.

I tilted my head back to reduce the onslaught of blood and made sure that my nose isn't broken by prodding at it.

A wince marred my face at the touch, but there wasn't enough pain to where I'm gasping for breath. I had broken my nose once before and this pain is minuscule to the one I experienced.

At the beginning of my training at the prime age of 10, I had cockily challenged a female 5 years older than me, and was thrown on my ass in the matter of seconds- with a broken nose.