Chapter Eight

His nostrils flared. Once. Then twice. Slowly, he turned his head, and the corner of his lips curled up.

“That smell of yours...."

He took one step forward. And stood there for seconds.

Elowyn’s knees locked.

Baron straightened.

"Cadet Riven Thorney...." Barked one of the instructors from the platform. “....you have thirty seconds. Find your match or step back.”

Riven looked like he was about to say something then stopped. Slowly, he moved down one more line instead. Past her. His fingers twitched.

He hadn’t chosen her.

But his eyes… they flicked back.

And she knew.

He’d scented something off.

But he wasn’t sure. Yet.

Riven Thorney moved on.

Elowyn didn’t breathe until he stepped back into the inner circle and gave a single nod to a male from a northern clan.

The instructors clapped once.

“That concludes the scenting by the Gifted. Count your marks. Remember who chose you. Those matches will be watched throughout the semester.”

The crowd hummed with pride, whispers of who chose who flying through the air.

But one name echoed the loudest.

“Baron Ortega....” one of the instructors called. "....has been selected by nineteen cadets. Highest tally. The Wolf-Heir carries ⅓ of the crowd's recognition.”

Gasps. Applause. Even some bows.

Elowyn stayed still. Her hands felt clammy.

Baron didn’t react. He stood with his arms down, unmoved by the attention.

But his eyes — dark, calculating — flicked toward her. Just for a second.

The second part of the class began.

“Now, those newbies who are unable to scent properly....” The bronze-necked instructor barked. “.... form a line to the right. You will be chosen instead. Your bodies may not know how to search, but maybe they know how to be found.”

Elowyn joined the line, stomach twisting.

There were at least a hundred and something newbie cadets in the non-scenting group. Most were upcoming Alphas or young Betas — confused, nervous.

She stood still.

The Alphas were instructed to step forward.

“Pick whoever draws your wolf. Do not think. Do not judge. Move.”

One by one, the Alphas walked through the line. Hands touching shoulders. Sniffing necks. Murmurs of “mine” spread like wildfire.

Elowyn stared ahead. Silent. Still.

Her flask had drained earlier. Her scent should be bound. But now… now she couldn’t even smell herself. Could they?

Could they tell something was off?

Another boy beside her was chosen — cheered, even. One boy bowed when the high-ranking Alpha Caelan Volke squeezed his shoulder with a thumbprint of approval.

And then...

Elowyn was the last one.

Unpicked.

Unclaimed.

Unseen.

The instructors paused. The crowd slowly quieted.

One of the instructors with broad shoulders, looked at her — then at the others.

“No Alpha chose you?”

Elowyn’s mouth dried. She shook her head once.

The silence thickened.

“Then, you must be scentless.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone coughed, someone else snorted.

“Scentless?”

“Like dead meat—”

“Silence,” barked Caelan Volke suddenly, his voice sharp and deadly. “You shame the Pack by mocking what you don’t understand.”

The crowd froze.

Caelan’s eyes locked on Elowyn.

And though his voice saved her, his gaze said something else entirely.

I’m watching you.

Elowyn’s fingers curled tightly in her palms.

This was worse than being discovered.

She wasn’t found. She was nothing.

She sighed. Shoulders stiff. Eyes burning. Head bowed.

She wouldn't cry. Never!

Her scent might’ve been hidden… but the shame? That lingered like blood on fresh snow.

The instructors’ voices thundered once more, cutting through the fog of curiosity and silence and tension in the scenting arena.

“Gather in groups!” One barked. “Each Alpha, step forward with your chosen cadets. Betas, you know where you belong. Newbies, follow your markers. You’ve been scented, you’ve been claimed — stand where your wolf now answers.”

Boots shuffled, bodies moved.

Elowyn didn’t.

How could she when no one understood her smell.

She stood awkwardly in the middle as the crowd broke into clusters around the stone platform. Twenty-one distinct groups had formed — each built around an Alpha who’d been chosen. Some were as few as thirty. Some as large as forty. Baron, sixty.

Only one stood alone.

Elowyn Froste.

The instructor scanned the groups, then his eyes slid back to her.

"You there. Scentless. Step forward.”

Elowyn walked to the center slowly, fists clenched at her side.

The instructor turned to the rest. “Before we close this session, we’ll test the instincts of every Alpha once more. All Alphas… will be given the chance to allow this cadet into their grouping.”

Elowyn froze.

Wait… what?

Her gaze darted. Some cadets were whispering already. Others staring openly.

The instructor raised his voice. “All Alphas — if you feel a draw, a tolerance, a hint that she could belong to your pack — step forward and nod.”

She stood straighter. Not because she wanted to — but because she had to.

One by one, each Alpha was addressed.

And one by one, they shook their heads.

A few looked amused. Others, disinterested.

One Alpha wouldn't stop staring through her. He had long, black hair pinned at the back of his head. Sinister.

Azpen, the cocky young heir from the southern quarters, laughed out loud. “That one? She’s barely wolf. My scent nearly left the room just standing next to her.” He waved a dismissive hand.

“No.” Caelan Volke declared. “Not mine.”

“Next.”

“No.”

“Not a chance.”

It hurt. Every. Single. One.

By the time the twentieth Alpha had passed, Elowyn’s ears were ringing. Her vision burned — but she still hadn’t blinked.

And then came the last name.

“Baron Ortega.”

Silence rippled instantly.

All heads turned toward him.

He stood still, arms still folded, eyes unreadable — that same clean aura that demanded attention without begging for it.

Baron said nothing for a while.

Then... he uncrossed his arms and took one step forward.

“I don’t sense anything.” He said calmly.