Rhea

By midday, my brain felt like it had been wrung out and left dripping over the warded stone floor. Silver Ridge Academy wasn’t just classes and quills. Every lecture carried centuries of blood, politics, and warning stitched into the curriculum, like the academy itself was whispering: learn, or die ignorant.

The next bell pulled us into Accords & Treaty Law, which—according to Bree—was “the backbone of civilization.”

To me? It was a choke collar dressed up in parchment.

The classroom glowed with suspended enchantments. Floating scrolls circled the room, each one bearing the sigil of a realm. Lycandra’s silver moon, Lycan’Dra’s crowned wolf, Valoria’s fae spires, Drakonis’s blackened flame, and the jagged green seal of the Wilds. They drifted lazily above our heads like moons in orbit, glowing faintly as if reminding us who really pulled the strings.

Professor Eliane’s voice was sharp as a blade, her pale hair tied into a severe knot, quill tapping against the board in quick staccato beats. “The Great Accord binds the realms through three pillars: consent, sovereignty, and blood. Breach one, and the wards unravel. History has proven—” she flicked her wrist, and the scrolls lit up with illusions of burning villages and fallen castles, beasts prowling through ruined cities, “—what happens when a realm believes itself above the Accord.”

My throat tightened. The projections weren’t watered-down history texts; they were visceral memories pulled from the Accord itself. Fae corpses strewn over shattered bridges. Wolf packs scattered, their bodies blackened by Drakonis flame. The Obsidian Wilds erupting, jagged beasts flooding through villages like nightmares given form.

Beside me, Lila leaned over, whispering with a grin she didn’t mean. “Don’t worry, babe. If they try that again, we’ll just sic the quads on them.”

The words made my heart do that strange, awful little flip. It wasn’t even far-fetched—the quads tearing through armies was the kind of story sung in bard halls. But it also made me feel like I was a pawn in a game I hadn’t agreed to play.

“Miss Rhea,” Eliane snapped, her pale eyes locking on me. “Perhaps you can explain why Lycan’Dra’s claim over Lycandra has stood unchallenged for centuries?”

Every gaze swung toward me. The wards overhead thrummed faintly, feeding on the collective anticipation.

I swallowed. “Because… Lycandra was born with magic, but not governance. Lycan’Dra was its twin, its protector realm. The Accord recognized the Lycans as stewards.”

Eliane’s quill paused mid-tap. “Correct. But incomplete. Stewardship is not ownership. Remember that distinction.”

Her words hit harder than I wanted to admit. Stewardship is not ownership. Then why did I feel owned every time the quads looked at me?

When the bell rang, I all but bolted. Bree caught my sleeve as we packed up. “You were brilliant,” she whispered, her warm steadiness cutting through the static in my head.

Behind us, Tessa’s voice carried, saccharine and cruel. “Oh, look. The quads’ little Luna can read.”

I spun half a step before Lila did it for me, her voice velvet-sharp. “Careful, Tess. Mocking her intelligence only highlights your lack of it.”

The laughter that followed was a balm, sweet and sharp, though it didn’t undo the knot in my chest.

* * *

The weight doubled the second we stepped into Magical History.

The lecture hall itself looked more like a cathedral than a classroom—vaulted ceilings arched high overhead, their beams carved with dragons twisting through storm clouds. A dozen floating globes hovered around the room, each one flickering with images pulled from the Accord’s archives.

The air buzzed faintly, thick with old magic. The kind that prickled your skin, the kind that didn’t care if you wanted to pay attention or not—you would, or it would burn the lesson into your skull.

Professor Alaric swept to the center dais, his crimson cloak trailing sparks of ember light. His voice rolled through the chamber like thunder. “Today, we do not speak of bedtime stories or children’s tales. Today, we speak of Drakonis—the realm of fire, of predators, of emperors who bled their own kin for dominion.”

The globes brightened all at once. Illusions flared to life—dragons swooping crimson across dark skies, their black fire devouring villages whole. Basilisks slithered out of volcanic fissures, their eyes turning soldiers to ash mid-scream. Worse still were the Myrhal predators: blurred, shifting nightmares, so unstable the wards stitched into the walls flickered just keeping the memory contained.

The class collectively flinched as the images swelled larger, flames licking the rafters. Nora whispered, “Gods…” her knuckles white around her quill.

Bree didn’t look up from her notes, her quill scratching so fast it might set parchment on fire. Typical Bree—turn terror into tidy bullet points.

Lila, though, leaned close, her voice pitched low so only I could hear. “Tell me those things don’t sound like half the idiots who hit on girls at the last bonfire.”

I snorted into my hand, earning myself a sharp look from Professor Alaric.

“Drakonis,” he thundered, “thrives on dominance. They rise because others submit. They conquer because others cower. The Accord binds them only because their Empress fears losing more heirs to Lycandra’s wolves.”

He flicked his wrist, and the globes shifted again. The illusions replayed the last great war—dragonfire raining across Lycandra’s borders, only to be driven back by a tide of wolves glowing silver under the moons. The sound of howls filled the hall, so loud and real it vibrated in my ribs.

Alaric’s gaze swept the class, pale eyes sharp as daggers. “Remember this: the bond between wolf and mate is stronger than flame. Stronger than death.”

The room went still.

Some students bowed their heads reverently. A few faeborn murmured quiet prayers. The wards overhead pulsed once, faint but steady, as if agreeing.

Beside me, Lila rolled her eyes dramatically and whispered, “Sure, sure, soulmates over firestorms. Very inspirational.”

But the words still lodged in my chest.

Stronger than flame. Stronger than death.

Then why didn’t I feel it? Why had Ethan’s bond chosen someone else?

The class buzzed to life again, parchment rustling as students scrambled to copy the lecture. Alaric barked questions, pulling names at random.

“Marcus! The first Drakonis conquest—how many lives were lost?”

“Sixty thousand,” Marcus answered, his voice cracking.

“Correct.”

The professor’s eyes snapped to me, sharp and merciless. “Rhea. Which Lycandra Alpha led the defence that broke Drakonis’s siege?”

Heat crawled up my neck. Every eye swung my way, waiting for me to stumble.

My mouth was dry, but the answer spilled anyway. “Alpha Kaelen of Ridge Storm. His pack held the southern wall until Lycan reinforcements broke through.”

Alaric’s expression didn’t soften. But he gave a curt nod. “Adequate. Do not forget—the bond gave them the strength to withstand dragonfire.”

Adequate. My insides twisted. Adequate, when my heart was screaming incomplete.

The illusions dimmed as the bell tolled, releasing us, but the words clung like smoke in my throat.