CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The morning sun had barely risen past the treetops, casting long shadows across the jagged stone walls of the Alpha Training Academy. The scent of pine and damp earth was quickly being overtaken by something stronger, more primal. The air vibrated with the presence of so many dominant wolves gathered in one place—an unseen pressure, a power that hummed beneath the surface and made the hairs on Rhea’s arms stand on end beneath her clothes.

She stood in a winding line of recruits, all boys. Some were tall and muscled like they had trained for this their entire lives; others looked too young, faces still holding the soft edges of adolescence. But even they bristled with barely-contained energy, anticipation, and aggression. The very air around the gates to the Academy was thick with the scent of testosterone, ambition, and masked fear.

Rhea’s heart thundered in her chest, each beat loud in her ears. The scent blockers Mira had given her still clung to her skin, masking the softness of her natural scent with a sharper, neutral musk. Her bindings were tight beneath her shirt, her posture subtly stiffened to mimic the square, wider-set shoulders of the boys around her. She kept her chin tucked slightly downward—not enough to seem submissive, but just enough to avoid eye contact unless necessary.

The line inched forward, each recruit stepping up to a massive wrought-iron gate flanked by towering stone statues of ancient Alpha warriors—snarling wolves carved into their armor, their expressions frozen in immortal judgment. In front of the gates, a series of stone podiums had been arranged, manned by academy guards in sleek, black uniforms. They wore no symbols but radiated authority like a tangible force. Each boy stepped up, handed over their documents, answered a few questions, and was either waved through or pulled aside for further scrutiny.

She counted eight guards. Seven processed recruits. The eighth stood silent and still near the gates—broad-shouldered, golden-eyed, unmoving. Watching.

When her turn came, Rhea’s pulse spiked. She forced herself to move, measured and calm, stepping up to the seventh podium. The guard behind it—a weathered man with a deep scar across his cheek and silver dusting his temples—lifted his head slowly, taking her in with sharp, calculating eyes.

“Name,” he said, voice clipped and without emotion.

She slid the forged documents across the stone surface. Her hands did not shake, but her palms were slick with sweat.

“Rian Greythorn,” she said, voice pitched low and steady. “Of the Redmere Pack in the Eastwood territories.”

The man took the documents, eyes scanning them with efficient precision. His gaze flicked briefly up to her face, then back down.

“Redmere,” he echoed, sounding thoughtful. “That pack was lost during the border raids, wasn’t it?”

Rhea nodded once, not too fast.

“Yes, sir. Four years ago. Rogue ambush during a disputed territory conflict. We were outnumbered, outflanked.” Her voice dropped slightly, not in sadness, but in weariness. “My father—Alpha Garren—was killed with most of our warriors. I was sixteen.”

The guard’s eyes remained on her, hard and appraising.

“You were the only survivor?”

“Yes, sir. I was out on a scouting errand when it happened. I returned to smoke, blood, and silence.”

The silence that followed her words was heavy. He said nothing for a long moment, his eyes boring into hers as if trying to peel back every layer of skin, of story, of identity.

Inside, Rhea was trembling. Her wolf bristled beneath the surface, tense from being suppressed for so long, tense from the proximity of so many males, so many unknowns. But she held the mask steady. She had practiced this story over and over with Mira—every detail etched into her memory like scripture.

“Where have you been since?” the guard asked at last.

“Wandering. Working odd jobs. Surviving. I kept to myself. Avoided packs.” She let her jaw tighten slightly, allowed her eyes to harden just enough. “Didn’t see much point in submitting to another Alpha after watching mine die on his knees.”

A flicker of approval passed through the guard’s expression—so faint most wouldn’t have caught it.

“You waited four years to apply?”

“I didn’t think I had the right,” she replied honestly. “But I trained. Fought. Waited. I figured if I could survive alone this long, I could survive here.”

Another beat of silence. The guard thumbed through her forged records again, lingering on the details. Her name. Her age. The documentation Mira had crafted with painstaking care. Even the seal of the long-defunct Redmere pack was flawless, scorched along the edge as if rescued from fire.

Finally, he nodded once and reached for the stamp beside him.

The sound of the heavy iron seal slamming down onto the page echoed like thunder in her ears.

“Rian Greythorn,” he said, voice calm but firm. “You are granted entry into the Alpha Training Academy. Any falsified information, disobedience, or failure to comply with academy protocols will result in immediate expulsion—or death, if the offense is deemed severe enough.”

Her throat felt dry, but she nodded. “Understood, sir.”

He handed her back the documents and pointed toward the open gate.

“Dormitory assignments are listed inside the courtyard. Training begins at dawn tomorrow. Do not be late. Do not be weak.”

She stepped back, gave a shallow bow, and turned toward the looming entrance.

As she passed beneath the arch of the gate, a cold shiver swept down her spine. The scent of raw power was overwhelming now—every step drawing her deeper into a place where dominance wasn’t just expected, but worshipped.

She walked through slowly, heart hammering, breath controlled. Behind her, another recruit was called forward.

Inside the stone courtyard, dozens of other boys moved in clusters, some looking around in awe, others already beginning to size each other up. The Academy’s main building towered over them all—black stone, ancient spires, and stained-glass windows depicting scenes of legendary Alpha victories. It looked like a fortress, a cathedral, and a prison all at once.

But Rhea didn’t look back.

She had made it through.

Her name—Rian Greythorn—had been spoken aloud. Stamped. Acknowledged.

It was real now. As real as the weight of the binding around her chest. As real as the false history she had buried into her bones.

As real as the punishment she would face if anyone discovered the truth.

She inhaled deeply, letting the scent blockers do their work, then moved toward the courtyard board marked with room assignments.

She was inside. Alive. And as far as the Academy was concerned, she belonged.

But this was only the beginning.

And if she wasn’t careful, it would be her end.