The help

The transition from the helipad to the Grand Hall was a study in silence and steel. As Pamela and I walked through the corridors of the West Wing, the scent of fresh paint and expensive floor wax followed us. Every surface now bore the subtle, embossed watermark of the Silver Pack.

We arrived at the Imperial Alpha Academy three hours before the official gates opened. While the mountain roads were still choked with the armored convoys of arriving packs, our private transport had already touched down.

"Incognito, remember," I whispered to Pamela as we adjusted our gear. "I want to see the rot in this place before I start the renovation. I want to see how these instructors treat the 'unranked' when they think no one is watching."

Pamela nodded, her burgundy wolf suppressed but alert. We were dressed in the Academy’s standard black training fatigues, stripped of our Silver Pack insignia. To any casual observer, we were just two transfers who had managed to pass the entry requirements.

We took our seats at the very front of the Grand Hall. It was a bold move, and I could feel the eyes of the early arrivals—the heirs of the most prestigious packs—burning into our backs.

Then, the air in the room changed. It became heavy, saturated with the scent of ozone and ancient stone. Two men walked down the center aisle, their presence so commanding that the room seemed to shrink.

The one who sat to my left was striking. He had a chaotic tumble of molten copper hair and skin with a sun-kissed, bronze glow that seemed to radiate heat. His features were carved with a lethal symmetry—a sharp, straight nose and a jawline that could cut glass. Beside Pamela sat his companion, a broader man with a mountain of raw muscle and hair the color of dried blood.

I didn't know who they were. I simply assumed they were high-ranking heirs from a distant mountain pack.

Until the man to my left spoke.

"You're taking a risk sitting here, Aella," he murmured.

My heart nearly stopped. That voice. It was the same low, resonant rumble from my digital seminars—the one that had vibrated through my speakers for months, making my skin prickle.

The Dragon Princes kept a famously high profile, yet their images were scrubbed from the internet the moment they were posted. To the world, they were faceless legends.

I turned my head slightly, catching the full force of his gaze. Up close, his eyes were a piercing, reptilian gold that shifted like liquid metal. He was, quite frankly, the most attractive man I had ever seen, possessing a raw, ancient magnetism that made my wolf stir in a way she never had for Maxwell.

This was Sol. And the man next to Pamela had to be his brother, Marcus.

"I earned the seat, Prince Sol," I countered, my voice steady despite the sudden heat crawling up my neck. "And for now, I’m just a student."

As the hall filled, the "Golden Couple" finally made their appearance. Maxwell and Amelie marched toward the front, heads held high. When Amelie saw us sitting there—flanked by the two most intimidating men in the building—she stopped dead.

"You!" she hissed, stepping forward. She didn't recognize the Princes, but she knew me. "What are you doing in the front row? This is for Alphas and Heirs, not for the help we threw out with the trash!"

She turned to the faculty member standing nearby— "Instructor! There has been a security breach. This girl is a rogue. She should be in the back with the servants!"

The instructor stepped forward, his lip curling. "You heard the Lady. Stand up and move to the back, rogue. These seats are for the elite."

I didn't move. I felt Sol’s power beginning to flare beside me, the temperature in the row rising by ten degrees.

"I suggest you check the records, Instructor," I said calmly.

The instructor scoffed, reaching for his cane to shove my chair. "I don't need to check—"

"I would check if I were you, Vance." The Dragon King’s voice cut through the hall like a blade. He stood at the high podium, his golden eyes sweeping over the room.

Vance froze, bowing low. "Your Majesty! I was just clearing these seats for the Sandwell heirs. These two... they have no standing."

"Standing is earned here," the King said, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. He looked directly at me and Pamela, a glint of respect in his eyes. "Our entrance assessment exams are the most rigorous in the world. Anyone who passes with marks as high as these two has an open spot to sit whenever—and wherever—they like."

The hall went deathly silent.

"If they wish to sit in the front," the King continued, "it is because their minds have put them there. If you have a problem with that, Sandwell, I suggest you study harder."

Amelie looked as if she’d been slapped. Maxwell was staring at the back of my head, his expression a chaotic mix of confusion and a dawning, terrifying realization.

I leaned back, the violet in my eyes glowing as I caught Sol’s smirk. He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing mine, and the scent of smoke and cedar filled my senses.

"High marks, Aella?" he whispered, his golden eyes dancing. "I think you're going to be a very troublesome student."