Chapter 12 - Strategic Mediocrity

••• Seleste’s POV •••

During weapons training, the weight of the heavy broadsword in my palms was a constant reminder that I had to deliberately hold back my natural fighting instincts and magical enhancements. 

The iron blade felt cumbersome, but only because I was actively suppressing the fluid, lethal grace that my witch heritage granted my muscles.

Today was entirely focused on fundamental sword techniques, and I watched how the other students struggled with basic parries and footwork, which made a familiar wave of disgust ripple through my chest. 

How could these boys expect to become true Alphas if they weren’t even able to master simple defensive stances without tripping over their own boots? 

I wasn’t a narcissist, but I knew those complex techniques would come naturally to me due to the raw, supernatural hybrid strength coiled tightly beneath my skin.

As I adjusted my grip, I found myself wondering yet again why the elders only allowed males to enter the prestigious academy to train as Alphas. 

I mean, I knew the traditional answer. The pack elders stubbornly believed that females were physically less powerful, emotionally fragile, and lacked the innate ability to lead a pack through a crisis. But looking at all these clumsy Alphas-to-be stumbling across the dirt? 

They should at least give females a chance to compete in the academy as well. I was absolutely certain I wasn’t the only female who possessed the physical strength and tactical mind to lead an entire pack, even if those other women weren't hybrids like me.

But my private frustration changed nothing. To survive, I had to play the part of a boy named Aiden. And because of that harsh reality, I had to force myself to mimic some of their clumsy, off-balance movements, a charade that thoroughly irritated both me and Freya.

When sparring with my practice partners, I intentionally loosened my grip, allowing myself to be disarmed or knocked flat onto my back at strategic moments just to maintain my middle-ranking facade. The cold mud seeped through my uniform shirt, but I forced my expression to remain neutral.

“Come on, this is so wrong,” Freya said, her voice sounding deeply frustrated in the back of my mind. “You shouldn’t have to suppress your power like a coward, Seleste. You should be able to unleash your true power and completely dominate this training field.”

“You know I can’t risk it, Freya,” I gritted my teeth mentally as I pushed myself back up from the dirt. My inner wolf whined and bitched about the constant submission, her pride taking a massive bruising with every intentional defeat.

When my heavy opponent clumsily lunged forward with an obvious, telegraphed attack, I had to match his awkward pacing. I slowed my reaction time down by a fraction of a second, letting him disarm me with a loud clatter of iron, letting him believe he had actually won the bout through sheer skill.

“Oh, by the Goddess!” Freya yelled at me, her phantom voice ringing in my skull, yet I forcefully ignored her.

Out of the corner of my eye, a sudden spike of heat flared down my spine. I saw Tristan standing by the weapon racks, his sharp, calculating gaze tracking my every move. He wasn't paying attention to the other matches; his focus was pinned entirely on me.

Panicking slightly, I did the only thing I could to throw his attention off me—I made calculated mistakes. I intentionally dropped my guard too early, openly telegraphed my next strikes, and began showing physical fatigue earlier than necessary, breathing heavily when in truth I wasn't tired at all and could have won against my opponents in under ten seconds.

Seeing how poorly I was performing, the sharp-eyed instructor marched over, her brow furrowed in disappointment as she criticized my technique.

“Aiden, you are very bad at this today!” She scolded me loudly, ensuring the entire class heard her. “Your footwork is completely sloppy! You need additional practice sessions!”

I looked down at the ground, carefully keeping my voice light and submissive as I accepted her harsh words with feigned gratitude. “I know, I’m so sorry, ma'am. And thank you for giving me another chance to correct it.”

As the instructor walked away, I heard the nearby students begin whispering among themselves, their voices carrying across the training yard.

“Well, he is actually not so bad, is he?” one boy muttered.

“Meh, he’s adequate at best,” another scoffed, rolling his eyes. “But he's utterly unremarkable. He's nothing to worry about, unlike Tristan, Skylar, or Zeke. He's just background noise.”

“How dare they say such insulting things about you!” Freya snarled, her golden eyes flashing in my subconscious. “How can you just stand there and listen to such garbage!”

“But Freya, this is exactly what I need to survive in here,” I told her gently, keeping my mental walls firm. “If I’m too good, I will draw immediate attention to myself. The elders will watch us closer, and if anyone looks too deeply into my scent or my bloodline, we are dead.”

Again, she grumbled under her breath, reluctantly retreating to the dark spaces of my mind.

Next was archery practice, a transition I usually welcomed. The regulation bows and arrows were significantly lighter than the heavy hunting gear I used to train with in my old pack, but once again, the familiar weight meant I had to restrain my true power.

My inner beast was pacing restlessly, desperately wanting to show off, and in a momentary lapse of concentration, she won. On my very first try, my fingers released the string with a fluid, supernatural grace, and the arrow hissed through the air, embedding itself dead center into the target.

“Atta girl!” Freya cheered, absolutely thrilled by the perfect shot.

But my blood ran cold, and I froze in place. Oh, by the Goddess… I desperately hoped no one had noticed the flawless accuracy.

But of course, my luck was entirely spent. I felt a shadow fall over my shoulder, and Tristan stepped up to my side, a slow, incredibly sharp smirk playing on his lips. His dark eyes raked over my posture before locking onto the bullseye. “You are unexpectedly great at this, Aiden, while you are so painfully bad with a sword. Can it be that you are actually great at swords too, and you're just hiding it?”

My heart hammered violently against my ribs, a cold sweat breaking out across my neck. I cursed violently inward, forcing my face to morph into a look of absolute, naive surprise as I tried to play the shot off as a total fluke.

I shrugged casually, offering a weak chuckle. “First-time luck, I guess. I just closed my eyes and hoped for the best.”

Tristan didn't buy it. He gazed at me intently for a long, suffocating moment, his intense alpha scent rolling off his shoulders, testing my boundaries until I nearly showed my profound discomfort. But luckily, right before my composure cracked, the instructor barked a command, and Tristan moved back to his own shooting position.

Phew… That was way too close.

From then on, I deliberately missed the bullseyes by small margins. I channeled my witch accuracy just enough to ensure the arrows hit the outer rings, sometimes near the center, other times wildly outward, showing the class that I was competent without being excellent. I made absolutely sure there were no more bullseyes to raise Tristan's suspicions.

But the physical strain of holding back was immense. My hands began to shake slightly from the sheer, agonizing effort of controlling my supernatural accuracy, every single fiber of my being screaming at me to just let go and demonstrate my true capabilities.

Ironically, the physical tremor turned out to be a blessing. The surrounding students looked over at my shaking fingers and loudly assumed I was trembling because I was exhausted from the sword sparring. How absolutely hilarious. If only they knew I was shaking because I was violently fighting my own power just to look weak...

In truth, the constant performance was utterly exhausting. It required me to think three steps ahead in every single training scenario, calculating exactly how to fail gracefully without looking suspicious.

By the time the class was dismissed, the performance had drained me completely, both physically and mentally. 

But as I walked back toward the dorm room, my muscles aching from the forced restraint, I still celebrated inwardly. I had achieved exactly what I wanted—perfectly mediocre results that kept me safely buried in the middle of the class rankings, invisible and alive.