Emberborn

Virago, Bel-Esprit, and Orphic

My father began to train me from the moment I could walk.

He taught me that the only weapon I will truly need is my body. He raised me to become a fearless warrior that would never be bested by a lower wolf.

My father was an intimidating man, to say the least, but he loved and cared for his pack like he did his own family.

He taught me to protect those I love at all costs.

When I was seven, a group of rouges snuck onto our border and attacked our home. It was just my father and I at home that night. I had just come into my powers and the word was spreading fast about the hybrid twins.

I will never forget the night I killed for the first time.

My hands were tied behind my back with a rope, a big man who looked like a bear was holding me still. I was a little scared, but I didn't let that show.

Papa always told me to hide my emotions from the bad guys.

There were two men holding Papa down across from me and one guy kept hitting him. I didn't like these guys at all and they were making me angry.

No one hurts my Papa.

They hit him over and over again, but Papa was too strong. They weren't going to beat him that easily. Papa looked across the living room to me and smiled softly.

"Braveheart, could you please kill these men?" He said before one of the bad guys punched him in the face.

I furrowed my brows as I bit my bottom lip.

"But, Papa, he said he would burn my dollhouse down if I did..." I said sadly and looked over to the handful of men in the living room.

I didn't want him to burn my dollhouse, but I didn't want Papa to get hurt either.

The mean men in the room burst out into laughter and that made me mad.

I don't like being laughed at.

I narrowed my eyes and looked over to Papa who was staring at me with a firm seriousness.

"Well, if they're dead, they won't. So, please show them what I trained you for."

Those men didn't know what was coming.

My father never trained me to be an average warrior. Those rouges were no match for that seven-year-old girl, especially if they threatened her dollhouse and her Papa.

They were dead in a matter of minutes and when the rest of my family came home the next day, my father had to explain the 10 dead bodies lying in the living room.

By the time I turned sixteen, only my father and Adrik could beat me, sometimes Beckett.

None of the pack warriors stood a chance, but it was always good to spar with them from time to time. Any time my father would put my ass in the dirt, he would just push me harder.

He would tell me, "Kid, get off the ground. Spit out your damn blood and bare your teeth. If you're going to go, go down a savage, go down fighting."

Or if I was fighting a warrior three times my size, he would come up to me before I stepped into the ring and say, "You fight well little warrior, but your knuckles bruise deep and his are built like brass. Now, straighten up Braveheart and do what you do best."

On my eighteenth birthday, I bested my father for the first time. My father was the most brutal warrior I knew, but at that moment, he was so proud of me it brought a tear to his eye.