Shot down

The medical wing felt like a pressure cooker. Outside the soundproof glass, the Academy was a chaotic swarm of students fueled by adrenaline and rumors.

Sol groaned, his muscles locking as he tried to sit up. The Silver Ace had neutralized the toxin, but his body felt like it had been shredded from the inside out.

"Don't fight it," I murmured, stepping into his space. I hooked my arm under his shoulder, providing a steady anchor. I was careful to grip only his shirt, keeping my skin from touching the heat of his arm. "We don't have the luxury of waiting for you to recover. We need to move before the narrative shifts."

The King watched us, his face a mask of grief and fury. He reached out as if to help, but he looked at his son and saw a warrior who needed to stand on his own. He simply nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

We emerged into the main corridor just as Marcus was trying to shove his way through a wall of students. He was a force of nature, his eyes glowing red, but the sheer volume of the crowd—vocal and panicked—was holding him back.

In the center of the frenzy stood Amelie.

She was hysterical, her voice pitched for maximum drama. "She’s going to make me disappear!" she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger toward the medical wing where we stood. "Aella is envious that Maxwell marked me! She couldn't handle being replaced! Now she has the Dragon Princes doing her dirty work! She’ll kill me and no one will face consequences!"

Maxwell stood beside her, looking battered and dazed, but he nodded along, his eyes filled with a hollow, desperate hatred.

Pamela stepped forward, her voice cutting through Amelie’s performance like a blade. "Envious of a criminal mark? Don't flatter yourself. Tell the crowd, Amelie—what exactly were you doing in the Prince’s private quarters? And how did a 'lower-ranked' wolf bypass royal security?"

Amelie’s mouth hung open, her eyes darting around as the crowd began to murmur. The logic was starting to fail her.

BANG.

The sound of a high-caliber gunshot echoed through the hall, followed by the sickening thud of a body hitting the floor.

A scream erupted as Amelie collapsed, clutching her thigh. Blood began to bloom through her silk robe.

"He shot her!" Jax, the Beta, screamed, pointing wildly at Sol. "The Prince shot her to silence her! He’s a murderer!"

The crowd surged back in terror, eyes landing on us.

But as the smoke cleared, the accusation died in the air. I stood there, my arm still supporting a pale, sweating Sol. Both of my hands were visible—one on his shoulder, the other resting empty at my side. Sol’s hands were gripped onto my shirt for balance.

Neither of us held a weapon.

"Check your angles, Jax," I said, my voice cold and echoing. I scanned the upper balconies, my wolf’s eyes catching the faint shimmer of a disappearing cloak. "The shot came from the rafters. Your own benefactors just tried to take out their witness, after failing to poison the Prince."

Marcus didn't wait for another word. He realized the distraction was over. "Pamela, get them to the secure wing!"

He turned toward the crowd, his presence expanding until he looked twice his actual size. "Anyone who stands between me and that Beta is an accomplice to the attempted assassination of the Crown!"

The crowd parted instantly. Marcus didn't run; he hunted.

As we retreated, I looked down at Amelie, who was sobbing in the dirt, the "victim" role finally becoming her reality. I felt no pity. I looked at the King, who was staring at the blood on the floor with a chilling, quiet resolve.

"Pamela," I said, as we reached the heavy iron doors of the Royal Suite. "Start the designs. We’re going to that gala. And we’re going to make sure whoever pulled that trigger knows they missed their mark."