Chapter Fourteen

Chaos.

The two Alphas lunged at each other with the speed of lightning. Tables crashed. Plates flew. The entire dining hall erupted.

Lucian’s Beta and junior pack members charged forward but was intercepted by Baron’s pack — fists flying, kicks landing. Someone screamed.

A bench shattered.

The crowd surged back.

One of Baron’s pack members — Callus — got shoved sideways, his leg twisting awkwardly beneath a large hand.

Crack.

He screamed in pain.

Elowyn stood frozen, throat locked, eyes wide. The noise blurred into a roar.

This was because of her.

She turned away from the horrifying vision of violence and clapped her hands over her ears.

Baron fought like a wolf unchained. He wasn’t pretty about it. He was precise. Brutal. Furious.

He tore Lucian on the arm with a fork.

Blood spattered the floor.

Lucian slammed into the wall, dazed, but not down.

Elowyn moved away, her hand over her ear.

Her breath came in short bursts.

Everyone stared.

Everyone.

And they all knew.

It started because of her.

Because she couldn’t share her chicken properly. Couldn’t keep quiet. Couldn’t stay small enough.

She wanted to sink into the floor and vanish.

Her ribs hurt again.

But not as much as the shame.

Not as much as the guilt.

Not as much as the weight in her chest — heavy, hollow, unbearable.

She wanted to die.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, one thought screamed:

I don’t belong here.

Lucian Speare stood, breath ragged, blood trailing from the edge of his lip and arm. His betas flanked him, shoulders tense, pride dented but not broken. His newbie pack members were injured too and they limped out of the hall.

Callus was trying to get up. The other members helped.

He wiped his mouth and gave Baron a slow, murderous smirk.

“This isn’t over, Ortega.”

Baron didn’t flinch. He just rolled his shoulders once, then glared — like Lucian wasn’t worth another breath.

Lucian spat near the foot of the nearest bench and walked off with his men.

No apology. No remorse. No shame.

Just retreat.

Silence followed.

Then, in the most bizarre twist of all — like someone hit a switch — noise returned.

Cadets started grabbing stray pieces of food from the floor and broken trays like nothing had happened. A few chuckled as they passed Elowyn. Some made remarks.

“Should’ve thrown him your last wing too.”

“Elites always fight for scraps.”

Someone even bit into a piece of fallen bread and winked at her. “Thanks for dinner, prince.”

Elowyn didn’t move.

She stood there.

Still. Stiff.

Shock gripped her tighter than any bruises ever had.

She turned to look and felt sick.

A group of uniformed kitchen staff returned, pushing carts and carrying trays, sweeping broken plates off the floor without complaint. Without a single word of reprimand. They just reset the room like the chaos had been on purpose.

No one was being punished.

Baron had returned to his seat and was sipping water like he hadn’t just unleashed hell. Some of his pack had followed. Others were crouched over Callus — the boy whose leg had been snapped during the scuffle. Two workers lifted him onto a stretcher gently, his face pale and sweat-drenched.

He was wheeled out with care.

Still, no instructor showed up.

No senior threatened consequences.

No order was called.

It was as if....

It was normal.

Elowyn’s heart hammered.

She stood, awkward, her tray untouched in front of her.

The boys who’d eaten the wings from her plate?

They were laughing. Joking. Eating from her portion like nothing had just happened on her account.

Not one of them had said anything when Lucian walked over.

Not one of them had stood.

Or flinched.

Or even looked bothered.

A lump rose in her throat.

Should I… say something? She wondered.

Apologize for the mess? For the fight?

Her lips parted—then closed again.

No one would care. No one would want her apology.

Worse, they might just mock it too.

She sat back down slowly.

Her body felt like air. She was there, but not wanted.

She clenched her jaw and lowered her head, trying to calm the sting in her eyes.

Why did it feel worse that none of the guys who ate her food had stood up for her?

Why did it hurt more than the bruises?

Why did she feel so.... stupid?

And still — like a shadow that refused to leave — Baron’s voice from earlier echoed in her head:

“If you’re done sniffing like a starving mutt, Speare, teach the stupid, scrawny prince a lesson or shut the hell up.”