CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The forest fell away like the fading edge of a dream.

They broke through the last line of trees just after sunrise, the golden light filtering through the branches like fire through stained glass. The air shifted—cooler, sharper, but not natural. It carried the weight of ancient power, of blood spilled and vows made in stone. It settled on her tongue like ash and lightning.

The boys slowed, a hush falling over the group as they emerged onto a wide clearing carved directly into the mountainside.

Rhea’s breath hitched.

The Alpha Training Academy stood like a fortress carved from shadow itself. Its towering blackstone walls stretched into the misted sky, cruel and elegant in their design, each block etched with glowing runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. The outer walls were flanked by jagged spires, silver-gilded at the tips, the metal catching the light like the unsheathed claws of a god.

She had seen sketches. Descriptions in stolen books. Heard whispers from Mira late at night. But nothing had prepared her for the real thing.

Nothing had prepared her for this.

An enormous iron gate stood open at the front of the compound, its arched frame embedded with protective wards that shimmered when the light struck them just right. Twin statues of wolves—twice the size of any beast she’d ever seen—crouched on either side, snarling at the approaching recruits with bared fangs and eyes made of onyx.

Power rolled from the academy like heat from sun-scorched stone. Her wolf stirred in warning. Submit. Kneel. But Rhea clenched her jaw and forced the instinct down.

This was where her trial began.

Hundreds of recruits were already gathered in the courtyard outside the gate, a mass of shifting bodies and flaring tempers. They ranged in size, age, and scent—but all of them had the same look. Desperation. Hunger. Ruthlessness. This wasn’t a place for second sons or sheltered heirs.

This was a proving ground.

“Holy hell…” Seth muttered beside her, his voice barely audible. “It’s like a damn fortress.”

Ryker’s posture stiffened, his swagger vanishing beneath a veneer of wary respect. “No turning back now.”

Dane let out a low whistle. “Smells like someone pissed off a dozen alphas at once. You feel that in the air?”

Rhea felt it. It clung to her skin like smoke. Dominance layered over dominance—ancient, potent, and suffocating. Her own scent was masked by the herbal scent blockers Mira had given her, but her wolf still writhed beneath the illusion. It wanted to submit. To hide.

But Rhea couldn’t afford either.

Every breath she took was calculated. Every step measured. Her bindings were secure, her tunic layered and thick to disguise her form. Her chest was flattened, her scent hidden, her gait practiced for days to match a boy’s center of gravity. Her jaw was smeared with the faintest smudge of dirt, lending her already androgynous features a roughness that helped blur the truth of her identity.

She wasn’t Rhea Stormclaw anymore.

She was Rian.

Rogue-made. Reserved. Quiet. Not worth remembering.

The checkpoint loomed ahead—four long lines, each ending at a wooden table where instructors waited in crimson-trimmed uniforms. Their faces were grim, eyes glowing faintly from their partial shifts. Their wolves hovered just beneath the surface. Some stood with arms crossed, sniffing the air. Others were joined by actual wolves—hulking sentinels with shaggy coats and golden eyes that scanned every recruit with unerring focus.

A boy ahead of them was pulled aside, dragged into a small tent off to the left. He didn’t protest, but his eyes were wide with fear. Rhea couldn’t hear what was said—but when he emerged, his face was pale, his scent laced with defeat.

He’d been marked.

Rejected. Not for weakness, but for something else.

They can smell lies, Rhea reminded herself, her pulse a low thrum behind her ribs. They can smell fear. Flinch, and you’re dead.

She scanned the other recruits as subtly as she could.

Some bore the marks of noble blood—crest pins on their collars, meticulously styled hair, confident strides. A few were laughing among themselves, oblivious to the storm brewing around them. Others—like her—were trying not to be seen. Shoulders hunched. Faces down. Invisible.

But what stole her breath were the ones who stood apart. Not alone, but above.

There were at least four of them. Heirs. You could smell it—raw dominance, the kind not earned but inherited. They didn’t shove or boast. They didn’t need to. The crowd parted for them instinctively.

One had hair like burnished copper and eyes like frostbite. Another stood with arms folded across a broad chest, silver rings gleaming against dusky skin. A third leaned against the gateframe with a wicked smile, a crimson sigil embroidered on his collar: a fang through a moon.

Bloodveil. Silas.

And then there was the last one.

Broad shoulders. Raven-black hair cropped close to his scalp. He stood at the top of the steps, arms at his sides, eyes scanning the recruits like a war general surveying a battlefield. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. And yet the air around him crackled like a live wire.

Kael Stormvale.

Rhea froze.

Even from here, she could feel it. That brutal, unrelenting pressure. His wolf owned the space around him, his dominance pressed into every stone beneath his boots. Others deferred to him without a word. Instructors included.

He was the monster Seth warned her about.

She tore her gaze away before it lingered too long.

Rhea stepped back behind Ryker, letting his broad frame shield her from view. The checkpoint lines shifted again. She wasn’t called forward yet—but it was only a matter of minutes. One sniff. One slip. One wrong word, and her entire lie would crumble like rotted timber.

But she didn’t falter.

She was Rian Greythorn now.

No home. No allies. No mistakes.

She squared her shoulders and took another breath of air thick with danger and legacy. Her stomach churned, her wolf coiled tightly within her—but she held firm.

The line moved forward.

Her turn was coming.

And she would be ready.