ECLIPSE
Eclipse chose the bow and arrow as her weapon of training as per the tradition of the Hollow. Her weapon of choice was only fitting given that that was the weapon that led the massacre of her pack. She considered it a kind of karma of some sorts.
Locked inside an underground basement with the Bloodhound for months that mysteriously turned into years, Eclipse was always left in awe of two things;
The first being her Ashen Wolf.
And the second being the brutal expertise of the Bloodhound.
The Ashen Wolf learned faster than she did though.
It adapted. It sharpened. It evolved with terrifying speed—its instincts honed by grief, hunger, and a predator's relentless need to survive. Every time Eclipse tapped into it, she felt her body lighten, her reflexes sharpen, her senses stretch beyond what felt natural.
It was like climbing the clouds at a terrifying speed with adrenaline pumping through her veins. It was… electrifying.
And yet she couldn't deny the darkness of the Ashen Wolf that seeped through her blood and heart. Their bond was different… far different from the bond she had with her former wolf.
But the Bloodhound never let her rely solely on it.
"Power without control is nothing but a liability," he would say, coldly. "You will master your body before you master the beast."
So he broke her.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Her first year at the Hollow ended in blood and humiliation, and the blood boiling realization that she was no more ready to take Malric NorthSteed's life than the Bloodhound was.
She learned to draw a bow until her fingers blistered raw. Learned to touch silver arrows until her fingers burned and then healed back again. Over and over again.
She learned to fire while sprinting, while falling, while injured. Learned to hold her breath until her lungs burned. Learned to hit moving targets in pitch darkness, guided only by sound and instinct.
If she missed, he punished her.
If she hesitated, he punished her.
If she grew arrogant, he punished her worse.
The Bloodhound taught without mercy.
He taught her how to kill silently.
How to move without sound.
How to read breathing patterns, pulse rhythms, muscle tension.
How to predict when a man would strike—before the thought even formed in his mind.
When she collapsed from exhaustion, he left her on the cold stone floor. "Malric NorthSteed will not wait for you to recover," he would remind her even though she needed no actual reminder.
So she rose. Every single time.
In the nights when she dared shut her eyes, an image of Rose clutching her swollen stomach would fill her mind.
In the nights when she dared to dream, the image of Rose hanging on a stake would find its way there.
It was a vicious cycle… a brutal reminder that while everyone had moved on from that night, she was still stuck there. Like the awkward piece to an unfinished puzzle.
She lived for that night. She lived in that night. She could not escape that night.
After one year, her tears finally dried up. Those body wracking sobs that only overtook her in the darkness of the night when she was alone in her small room finally stopped.
That was when the realization that she was now alone in the world finally settled in her bones.
That was when her nightmares took another form. Rose and her pack disappeared from it, and the man with the Lycan-Face eating mask replaced them.
~~~
By the second year, her training changed. The Bloodhound no longer focused only on training her body. For the first time, he started bringing in other trainers from the Hollow. And all four of them were skilled in everything but the art of killing.
Because apparently, murder did not only require driving a blade through the heart, it also required the employment of other forms.
The first mentor taught her different languages; how to shape her tongue around lies and foreign accents. In five months of intense training, Eclipse could speak three languages, and had successfully mastered six different accents including that of the North.
Her second mentor taught her etiquette and diplomacy; how to bow like royalty, smile like a courtier, speak like a woman who belonged among noblemen, and not like a rogue from a fallen pack.
The third taught her espionage—the art of listening without being seen and observing without being remembered.
The fourth mentor taught her the ultimate skill—pretense.
"An assassin does not always kill," the woman, a petite with brown hair that was lovely and vibrant said softly. "Sometimes, she seduces. Sometimes, she deceives. Sometimes, she becomes invisible in plain sight."
She trained Eclipse to cry on command.
To smile while despising someone.
To soften her voice until men underestimated her.
To weaponize beauty, vulnerability, charm.
"The greatest spies," the woman murmured, "are the ones no one suspects."
Eclipse learned.
And she hated every second of it.
~~
By the third year, Eclipse fully realized something she had always known. She was not being trained like the other assassins, not to mention that her identity in the Hollow was tagged as highly classified and she was only allowed to move in certain areas of the towers.
As such, she never saw the rest of the Hollow's assassins. But she learned about them nonetheless from Ronan who was the only one allowed to visit her.
Ronan was made a Shadow Guard and assigned as hers. Apparently, every assassin at the Hollow moved with their shadow guard—an agent trained to protect them. The notion was weird, but apparently, it was a crime for an assassin to die before their shadow guard.
The job of the latter was to lay their life for the assassin they served.
"I have truly observed and confirmed it, no one else receives the level of care and training that you do." Ronan revealed to her during one of their conversations.
Eclipse knew she was a special case—an experiment to put it succinctly. One could even say she was the prized possession of the Hollow, and yet the reason did not make any sense.
So Ronan became her ears and partner in crime. He would tell her everything he knew of the other assassins that she never met—from the ranks of the Sages, to the Arks, the Bajs, the Clams, the Dams, all the way to the last ranks of the Emas, he never left anything out.
From the missions they handled, down to their personal conflicts… Eclipse learnt everything for the simple reason that she didn't trust the Hollow.
The only person Ronan had no information on was the Supreme, the mysterious man that was the head of the organization.
~~
By the fourth year, killing was no longer theoretical.
She was sent on missions. And true to their earlier agreement that she would not take the life of the innocent, the Bloodhound decided to humour her.
So he sent her not against political rivals…not against kings…not against strategic enemies, but against monsters.
Wolf traffickers.
Pack tyrants.
Predators who fed on the powerless.
Not like it made the act any easier than it should be. She didn't dare believe herself to be a judge after all.
The Bloodhound did not object to her pecuilar missions. If anything, he allowed it. Encouraged it even.
"Your emotions make you effective," he once told her. "They give your blade direction. We will not dull that. We will fuel your rage instead… you will need it when you stand before him."
So Eclipse killed—and each time, the line blurred just a little more.
Not because she enjoyed it. But because killing stopped feeling impossible. And in her nightmares, she now dreamed vividly of ripping out the heart of the man with the Lycan-Face eating mask
~~
By the fifth year, she was no longer the girl who had fled the masquerade ball in grief. Her body was leaner.
Harder.
Her movements quieter.
Her gaze colder.
She could hit a target from impossible distances.
Disappear in crowded streets in the blink of an eye.
Convince strangers she was harmless.
Convince enemies she was theirs.
But grief had never left her.
Rage had never cooled.
If anything, they had been sharpened—folded into discipline, into patience, into something controlled and lethal. The waiting had forged her into a woman she didn't recogize.
She stood one night before the Bloodhound, bow in hand, breath steady.
"Am I ready?" she asked in a voice as dull as the world.
He studied her for a long moment.
"You are no longer a girl," he said finally. "But you're still not ready."
Five years ago she would have screamed at that. But she was now the ultimate controller of her emotions, and she had them tucked under a tight belt.
"Five years ago you said you will train me so I will have a fifty percent chance of killing him," She rasped, "should I face him now, how many percent chance do I have?"
There was a long silence. Then he answered. "Forty."