Chapter 13. Blackout

Sumarel's gaze swept across the hall and caught on a young man—one of their group of recruits. Short, with sharp features that made him look like a hungry wolf. His black hair stuck up in spikes, which somewhat spoiled the impression. On his left wrist, a tattoo of a bloody sickle stood out darkly, its edges seeming to blur and merge with his veins.

What struck her as odd was something else—he wasn't trembling. At the center of dozens of eyes, surrounded by seniors, this young man stood motionless as a stone statue. For someone his age, such calm was abnormal.

The hall fell silent. Sumarel's gaze slid over the crowd, noting fleeting glances, barely perceptible gestures, micro-expressions. Who looked to whom for support and answers? In moments like these, the web of hierarchy revealed itself with particular clarity—invisible threads of power and submission, fear and respect.

Not everyone sitting at the center of groups was a true leader. As she understood it, in the strongest group sat an unassuming youth—thin, stooped, with unremarkable features. But when he barely raised an eyebrow, a whole series of glances darted to him, as if seeking approval or orders. Then those glances were passed along the chain to other figures in the hall.

"When did I become so observant?" the thought flashed through her mind. After her rebirth, much had changed. The coldness and detachment that had always been part of her nature now seemed honed to a blade's edge, manifesting with varying intensity. Her instincts had sharpened, but her will hadn't yet fully mastered them.

She wasn't naive enough to believe in miraculous transformation or being chosen. No, Sumarel remembered her own weakness, indecision, and stupidity perfectly well. Otherwise, her previous life wouldn't have ended the way it did.

She recalled that terrible reflection she'd seen before dying. The moment she started thinking about it, hot needles seemed to pierce her skull, knocking her out of her focused state.

"Get lost," a rough voice sounded nearby.

Her heart skipped a beat. Next to her stood a tall, well-fed guy with a red face—the same leader of the central group. "What's happening—a second ago there was no one here," the thought flashed through her consciousness like lightning.

"Or do you want to participate too?" the guy came closer, stretching his lips into a smile. In his eyes, she read anticipation—he was clearly looking for a victim to demonstrate his own status.

Her momentary fright didn't escape his attention. But he didn't know the true reason—she wasn't frightened by his appearance, but by the gap in her memory.

"A blackout," raced through her mind. "This definitely has something to do with the reflection."

Sumarel nodded, feigning submission, and turned to head toward her group of newcomers.

"Wait," a meaty palm gripped her wrist.

At that moment, the black-haired guy moved. The motion was so fast and precise it seemed like a blur. He sprang at the brute, using momentum to strengthen the blow. His fist crashed into the jaw with a crunch that made observers' teeth ache.

The crowd gasped. The big guy who'd been throwing his weight around moments before dropped to the stone floor like a sack of bricks. His eyes rolled back, and a trickle of blood flowed from his mouth.

Sumarel seized the moment—with a sharp movement during the impact, she broke free from the weakened grip and retreated to a safe distance.

"You take forever primping," said the guy, shaking blood from his knuckles. Now she could better see the tattoo—the sickle was done in an ancient style, with many fine details and runic symbols along the edges.

The defeated brute's group jerked forward, ready to avenge their leader's humiliation.

"Stop," the voice sounded calm, but there was a strange confidence in it. The speaker was that same unremarkable youth whom Sumarel had identified as the true leader.

"9008," the black-haired one with the sickle on his arm suddenly addressed her.

"9033," she answered, instantly collecting herself. Recruit numbers—a simple way of identification without unnecessary ceremony.

"We're newcomers. Want to test skills?" his cold eyes pierced right through her. There was something predatory in that gaze.

"I'm weaker," she answered evenly, not looking away. Every muscle was tense, ready for movement.

"I like you," an unexpected smile transformed his face, making him almost attractive. "You'll be in my..."

"Not my type," she interrupted in her sweet voice, not letting him finish.

He blinked, clearly stunned.

"I didn't mean it that way, I meant..."

"Me too," she interrupted again.

"What do you mean 'too'?" his eyebrows crawled upward.

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Got him. Following her provocation, he'd revealed his interest. Now she could play on, balancing on the edge.

"Clarify," she said, making her voice slightly sharper.

"I wanted to say I'd like to see you in my group," he took a step closer.

"Is that a threat?" Sumarel stepped back, feigning alarm.

Confused by the senseless questions and illogical answers, he froze, not knowing what to say. She could see the gears frantically turning in his head, trying to understand her game.

"Ice Queen, huh?" he finally squeezed out.

"So you're an alpha, then?" she answered, covering her smile with her palm and feigning shyness.

From that day on, the nicknames stuck—Ice Queen and Alpha. As it turned out later, this wasn't a random coincidence. He really did become the group leader, displacing that brute. But that nondescript guy remained, the same one who, by all appearances, was a watcher from one of the outside gangs.

And Sumarel avoided the demonstration fights, becoming part of the strongest group. Alpha, clearly unsatisfied with her rejection and embarrassed by their awkward introduction, regularly tried to start conversations. But each time she invented ridiculous excuses or knocked him off balance with random phrases, allowing him to sink deeper into the whirlpool of his own assumptions.

Thus began her relatively peaceful life within the camp walls. Days stretched into a series of training sessions, classes, and rare moments of rest. Taking advantage of Alpha's favor, she wheedled several additional lessons from him, rightly supposing his skills exceeded the general level. And she wasn't wrong—his technique had been honed by years of training, movements calculated to the millimeter. Among the recruits, he had no equal, which allowed him to quickly and without unnecessary conflict take the leadership position.

Sumarel didn't allow herself to relax for a moment. Her position in the strongest group was shaky—protection based on Alpha's whim could collapse at any moment. In group training, she carefully stayed in the shadows, demonstrating average results. Too many eyes watched her—the girls looked especially wary, sensing a competitor.

Only in individual sessions with Alpha could she allow herself to give her all. This training took place in a small hall, hidden from prying eyes—one of the privileges group leaders were entitled to. Sumarel guessed the nature of such incentives served as the carrot of maintaining loyalty among ambitious recruits.

"You're moving your torso wrong," Alpha carefully studied her stance, circling around. "See? Your shoulders lag behind your hips by a fraction of a second. In real combat, that's enough to miss a blow."

He demonstrated the correct execution. From a neutral position—feet shoulder-width apart, sword lowered—he flowed into a defensive stance. Right foot stepped back, body weight shifted, blade rose to chest level, forming a diagonal barrier. Then, without pause, transformation into an attacking position—sharp lunge forward, sword cutting the air in an arc, aiming for an imaginary opponent's neck. And finally, lightning transition to a parrying stance—blade vertical, ready to deflect a blow from above and redirect it aside.

Each movement was calculated. Muscles worked in perfect synchronization, flowing from one position to another without the slightest hitch.

Sumarel repeated the sequence exactly, but Alpha winced.

"Better, but still not right. Look—you're starting the movement with your arms, but should start from the center. Everything originates here," he placed his palm on his stomach, "and spreads through the body in a wave."

She knew he was actually pleased with her progress. Behind the mask of a picky instructor hid a person who sincerely rejoiced at each of her successes. And also—a young man desperately trying to make an impression, having chosen the not-so-successful tactic of pressure and criticism.

"Let me correct your stance," he took a step closer, extending his hand.

The answer was a lightning lunge. The blunt side of the training sword touched his shoulder—hard, possibly painfully, but he showed no sign.

"You talk too much," she said with a smile, retreating to a safe distance. The index and middle fingers of her left hand beckoned him—a challenge to duel.

With him it was simple. First throw him off balance with a couple of sharp remarks. Then draw him into a playful sparring match. He would give way, of course—not too obviously, but enough to give her the opportunity to learn from her attacks. And so until she finally crossed the line, forcing him to deliver a truly painful blow. After that, he'd walk around gloomy all day, glancing sideways and clearly tormented by pangs of conscience.

"Are you even normal?" Alpha's face reddened as he rubbed his bruised shoulder.

"Be more careful," she parried, sniffing the air.

"You threw stones at my face!" he exploded. "We're training sword technique, not circus tricks! How can you treat this so lightly?"

He stared at her, searching for signs of remorse.

"And what are you sniffing there?"

"You don't feel it?" Sumarel arched an eyebrow questioningly.

"What?" he began sniffing, first at his clothes, then at the air around.

"It smells like spring after a long winter," she said with an enigmatic smile.

"And what does that mean?" Alpha looked completely bewildered. "It's summer now, hellishly hot. What spring?"

He got no answer, of course. She preferred to give him food for thought, letting him work out the meanings himself. And he did—she could see it in how his face changed while processing another riddle.

The transformation never ceased to amuse her. With an audience, he was all steel and authority, the undisputed pack leader. Behind closed doors? Just another young man who'd do anything—no matter how ridiculous—for a moment of her notice.

"Amusing," flashed through her mind as she watched him demonstrate a new technique.

"This is called 'False Dawn,'" Alpha explained, taking the starting position. "Watch carefully."

"Did you make up the name yourself?" she immediately asked, knocking him off balance.

Puffing up, he started from a high stance, sword raised above his head—classic beginning for a chopping blow. Any opponent would instinctively prepare for defense from above. But at the last moment, when the blade had already begun its downward movement, Alpha—using the inertia of his own weapon—twisted his wrist, making the sword describe a small spiral. The chopping blow transformed into a thrust, directed at a completely different point.

"See? The opponent expects a blow to the head, raises a block, opening the torso. And you're already there," he poked the blunt end of the sword at imaginary ribs. "The main thing is not to stop the movement. Use the force of the initial swing to accelerate the thrust."

Sumarel nodded, absorbing the details. Each new technique was a brick in the wall of her defense. The more she knew, the higher her chances of survival when the time came for real trials.

"Are we really so different?" flashed through her thoughts as she watched Alpha's focused face. "He's building an image of an inaccessible and mysterious Sumarel in his head. And I... haven't I built myself a prison from my own fears and doubts? A prison in which I ultimately died?"

Training time was coming to an end. Tomorrow would be a new day, new trials. But for now... for now she could allow herself to learn, accumulate strength, and play this strange game of mutual deception, where each saw what they wanted to see.