First Kill

Broken only by the gleam of far-off stars and the ghostly glow of a declining moon, the evening was a tapestry of deep indigo and inky black. Every sense on high alert, I bent low in the underbrush and waited for the moment that was unavoidable. Every beat of my heart echoed the recollections of innumerable evenings spent in solitude and exile, like a battle drum in my chest. Tonight I was not the forlorn Luna compelled to hide in the darkness. Tonight, I would take a life—and with that act, promise myself something that would determine my fate going forward.

I had been ready for this for what seemed like an age. With the dagger at my side—a blade both basic and lethal—my will had evolved into an extension. Its cold, uncompromising steel made me think of the hard reality of my life: in a society where loss and treachery were supreme, power was only really acquired by sacrifice. I recalled the evenings I spent in the bush, alone with my thoughts, pledging that, should fate call for it, I would do whatever was required to survive—and to recover what had been taken from me.

The sound arrived shortly—a gentle ruffle of leaves and quiet, regulated breathing that revealed my target absent. Following minute cues in the fragrance of blood and terror, I had followed him for days until at last I came to this remote clearing far within enemy territory. Under the skeletal limbs of old pines, a lone wolf roamed there, cut off from his group. In the most real sense, he was an enemy—a menace, a living example of the treachery that had previously left me shattered. And I would cut him tonight.

As I neared, my pulse accelerated and the damp ground muffled my measured motions. Every instinct shouted that this was the moment I had been waiting for—a opportunity to prove to the world, and to myself, that I was no more the weak, abandoned Luna who had been thrown aside. I was more robust now. I fought for something. And I have to cross this border if I were to shape my future from the ruins of my past.

Paused at the edge of the clearing, concealed in the darkness, I let my eyes adapt. Moving slowly with his back turned, the adversary wolf seemed not to know I existed. His laboring breaths shook the cool night air, and for a moment I marveled at how fragile he seemed—a far cry from the ferocious predator he was supposed to be. I tightened my hold on my dagger and moved forward, every action intentional, every breath measured.

One fluid, silent action, I touched. The blade made its mark with a precision I would have found surprising. The steel sank right into flesh, and for a second the world appeared to still. I felt a sickening crunch. The adversary wolf staggered, his eyes widening in amazement to mirror the thin moonlight. As he collapsed to the ground, life sliding away with each strained breath, I could almost hear his last, choked cry.

I stood over him for a heartbeat as my mouth tasted raw blood and iron. The enormity of what I had done swept over me, a concoction of triumph, horror, and a mixed bag release. I had a life. I had passed a point beyond from which there was no comeback. Still, inside that act I saw a spark—a dangerous, thrilling force with transforming power.

Kneeling next to the fallen foe, I gave myself a quick meditation. The solitude, the cold night, and the single pounding of my heart produced an environment in which resolution and shame coexisted in a precarious equilibrium. As though I were imprinting this moment onto my own soul, I rubbed my palm on his still-warm skin. I vowed to the darkness, a pledge that would resound in every future fight: I would defend those unable of defending themselves, I would fight for the honor taken from me, and I would never allow betrayal dictate my fate once more.

The act weighed on me like a shroud even as the life of the enemy vanished. I wondered whether I was broken or proud, or maybe both. Previously an abstract idea in my thoughts of survival, killing became a physical, permanent decision. And I realized that from this night forward, I would travel a road dotted with the marks of my deeds as well as the power of my convictions.

My gaze stayed on the dead corpse at my feet while I stood cleaning the blood from my dagger. The only sound disturbing the serenity of the forest was the rustling of leaves and the far-off cries of nocturnal species—a terrible reminder that death and life were always entwined in this merciless planet.

I started to withdraw from the clearing slowly, each step weighed down by what I had done. Now the cold in the air seemed more severe, as though the night itself lamented the passage of a person. Resolved to keep my vow to myself: I would not let this act define me just by its harshness, so I went back to the darkness and moved deliberately across the underbrush. Rather, I would let it forge me fresh—a warrior rebuilt from the flames of loss and treachery.

Memories of my history flooded my brain as I negotiated the meandering roads back to my secret camp. I remembered the times I was loved as the Luna of Blood fang, when hope and allegiance entwined my fate. I thought of the treachery that tore apart my life, the sour taste of exile, and the many dark evenings spent hopeless. But now that suffering had evolved into something else—a naked, relentless need to recover my future.

Approaching the relative safety of my tent, I dropped to knees by a little fire, the flames flickering in the cold night air. I started to polish my dagger, each deliberate stroke a silent ritual of cleansing; I inhaled deeply, shuddered. The warmth of the fire was a concrete reminder of the harsh reality of the night, unlike the numb cold motionless encirclement of my body.

Lost in contemplation, I sat there playing out the evening's events like a relentless montage. Every element, the sound of my own heartbeat, the glimmer of the dagger in the moonlight, the last, desperate glance in the eyes of my opponent, carved itself into my memory. And I realized that this act, this first kill, was not only a one-time occurrence of violence as the fire flicked and created random shadows on the ground. It was a proclamation, a turning moment that would define every conflict to arise.

My voice quivering but determined, I spoke the pledge I had promised myself into the still night: "I promise to fight for people who cannot fight for themselves. I commit myself to recover the honor taken from me. And I promise that no opponent, no betrayal will ever bring me back to weakness. Every struggle, every loss, every slosh of hope I had held to in my worst times weighed heavily in the words.

I let the silence around me while the fire's shone softly. In that calm, I saw the start of a change—a slow, consistent burn offering not just retribution but also atonement. Though I no longer feared what was ahead—a route marked with more bloodshed and heartache—it would be perilous. Though it required sacrificing bits of myself along the road, I was ready to create a future.

The forest outside stayed silent, the sounds of night life starting as though nothing had happened. But inside me a fresh fire had started—a strong, relentless blaze meant to lead me across the night. Rising to my feet, resolve written on every line of my body, and with one last look at the fallen opponent I vanished back into the night, merging once more with the shadows from where I came.

Though its memory would be a continual reminder of the cost of power and the road I had chosen, I knew that my first kill would haunt me always. Every triumph in the cruel dance of existence was labor-intensive, every life taken a sacrifice on the altar of destiny. And as I moved forward into the future, the commitment burned inside me like an unquenchable lighthouse guiding the path toward one I would mold with my own hands—no matter how high the cost.

The quiet comfort of my pledge helped me as the evening became darker. Indeed, I had taken a life—one that signaled the start of a new phase in my life. Though shame and grief would linger like shadows at the margins of my memory, they would also remind me of why I battled: to recover what was mine, to honor those lost, and to make sure my foes would never once more view me as weak or deserted.

The first signals of dawn started to fight back the darkness in the distance, a silent promise that every new day would offer for atonement and rejuvenation. With my cloak snugly around me, I started my return toward the stronghold, my movements deliberate and forceful. Driven by a promise to never let my opponents, or even my own doubts, I was a warrior reborn in blood and fire—a being created via sacrifice.

The first kill started rather than ended. It was a clear statement of war against those who had betrayed me and a pledge I would battle for a future whereby my power, honor, and very life would never be taken lightly once more.

I took with me a fresh resolve as I slipped back into the embrace of the dark forest: to create a future, no matter how many lives it would cost—and to make sure the deserted Luna would rise, unbowed and unbroken, to claim her destiny.

Zaia has taken a life; but, from her what has it taken?

Will she learn to hide her feelings like a real warrior as the conflict gets more fierce?

Alternatively, would her first kill haunt her always?