CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The forest was cloaked in the silver hush of early morning, mist curling low over the leaf-littered ground like breath held between worlds. A pale light filtered through the canopy, dappling the mossy earth and the unmoving bodies of the boys still wrapped in their cloaks, slumped around the dying embers of the campfire. It would be another hour, maybe more, before they stirred.

Rhea sat apart from them, crouched low behind a thick-branched shrub, fingers trembling slightly as they worked over the folds of her tunic. Her breath fogged faintly in the cool air, the early chill biting through the thin fabric. But her mind wasn’t on the cold. It was on the illusion.

Her hands moved with practiced precision, tugging the bindings at her chest, ensuring every inch of her body read flat, hard, masculine. The pressure was tight—uncomfortable, even—but necessary. Her boots were caked with mud, her trousers torn at one knee. Her fingernails were dirty. Her jaw, while still too delicate in her opinion, was shadowed faintly with a touch of ash rubbed in to create the illusion of stubble.

Every day she had walked with a slight slouch, widened her stance, stiffened her stride. She kept her voice low, her words few, her expressions flat. Not too stoic—just guarded. Like a boy who’d seen enough to stop smiling.

The scent blockers Mira had packed into the hidden lining of her satchel were plentiful, enough to last a little while at the academy, and hopefully find the herbs she needed to make more. She uncorked the small vial and dabbed the pungent liquid under her chin, her wrists, along the collar of her shirt. It smelled sharp, earthy, with a hint of iron—enough to mask the feminine sweetness her body still clung to.

Rhea—no, Rian—leaned back against the trunk of a tree and exhaled slowly.

She’d memorized every fabricated detail Mira had helped her construct. Orphaned during a rogue attack. Raised on the fringes. Quiet. Private. Not a threat. Her hands had calluses now—earned from travel, not training—but they helped sell the image. So did the faint bruise on her cheek from slipping on a wet slope two days ago. It had bloomed purple and now faded into a pale yellow—a rugged imperfection, not a weakness.

She reached into her satchel and drew out the tattered academy handbook once more, even though she had every line memorized. A comfort, perhaps. A reminder. She flipped through it slowly, eyes scanning the rules again.

Rule 3: Weakness is not tolerated.

Rule 7: Personal disputes must be settled in the ring.

Rule 9: Hierarchy is earned through combat, obedience, and demonstration of strength.

Her heart beat steadily. Not fast. Not slow. Focused.

She pressed a hand to her chest—bound flat—and closed her eyes.

There was no more Rhea. Rhea had died the moment she fled Bloodmoon, the moment she chose a path that could end with her exposed, disgraced, or worse—dragged back into Branor’s claws. Her old name was soft, gentle, spoken only in her mother’s voice. But her mother was gone. The warmth of that memory only made her colder.

Now, there was only Rian Greythorn, son of Garren. A boy with nothing to lose.

She opened her eyes and stared ahead at the faint shape of the academy’s distant spires—barely visible through the trees. Not long now.

A small wind rustled the camp behind her. One of the boys shifted in his sleep, groaning and curling tighter into his cloak. None of them stirred fully.

Rian tightened the leather strap around her satchel, wiped the last trace of fear from her face, and sat back against the tree with a steady breath.

She was Rian now.

And she would not fail.

The pale light of dawn seeped slowly through the canopy, casting fragile beams that danced over the worn earth. Rhea—known now as Rian—sat motionless beneath the gnarled roots of an ancient oak, the chill of morning creeping through her cloak. Around her, the camp was still, the heavy breaths of sleeping boys rising and falling like the tide. Their faces were peaceful, unguarded—unaware of the tempest raging silently inside her.

Her hands rested on her thighs, fingers tightening into clenched fists. The cool air whispered secrets she dared not voice aloud, but inside her, a vow burned fierce and resolute.

I will never reveal who I truly am.

Her heart hammered against ribs that still bore the constriction of the chest binding, a physical reminder of the mask she wore. This secret was no longer a mere precaution—it was the thin line between freedom and a lifetime of chains.

She inhaled deeply, tasting the damp earth and pine. Mira’s scent blockers still clung faintly to her skin, a protective veil to cloak her true nature from any who might seek it out. But more than scent, she was cloaked in determination.

No matter what comes, she thought, no matter the pain, no matter the threats... I will never give them this piece of me.

The memory of her mother’s voice wove through her thoughts like a soothing balm—a whisper from a life long past.

"They will try to cage you, Rhea," her mother had said, eyes fierce with a sadness born of her own captivity, "just like they caged me. But you are not meant for cages. Your spirit is your own. They can break your body, but your fire, your soul—that belongs only to you."

Rhea’s throat tightened as the weight of those words settled deep within her. They were a legacy of strength, passed like a torch through generations of women who had fought to remain free.

She pressed her palm to her chest, feeling the steady beat beneath layers of cloth and secret lies. This was no longer just a disguise. It was armor forged in desperation and hope. She was becoming someone new—someone forged to endure.

She lifted her gaze toward the dim horizon, where streaks of gold and rose bled into the sky. The sun promised a new day, a new battle.

Around her, the stillness began to fracture. Low groans, the scrape of leather boots against earth, and muffled curses whispered as the boys in the camp began to wake. They stretched, yawned, and shifted restlessly—entirely unaware of the silent oath sealed beneath their feet.

Rhea’s eyes narrowed with quiet resolve. This day would test her in ways she could not yet imagine. But one thing was certain.

No one will cage me.

The first breaths of morning filled the air as the camp slowly stirred. Nearby, Ryker cracked his knuckles and muttered under his breath. Dane groaned as he pushed himself upright, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The others began to shift and rise, the murmur of their voices growing louder, weaving into the forest like a waking storm.

But Rhea remained still, her mind sharp, her resolve unbroken, ready to face whatever the academy and her fate might throw at her next.