He’ll make it ugly.

Rose’s POV

The heavy oak doors of the Ethics Hall closed behind us with a final, resonant thud that vibrated through the stone floor and straight into my bones. It wasn’t just wood and iron sealing shut—it was the sound of every whispered rumor, every sidelong glance, every half-heard accusation from the past forty-eight hours crystallizing into something official. The chamber swallowed us whole.

Vaulted ceilings soared twenty feet above, ribbed with ancient oak beams darkened by centuries of lantern smoke. Crimson banners hung motionless from iron rods, each embroidered with the academy’s Scales of Accord—golden pans balanced perfectly, but the chains looked heavy enough to snap under real weight. Lanterns flickered in wrought-iron sconces, casting long, claw-like shadows that danced across the curved granite walls veined with obsidian. The air carried a faint metallic tang—old parchment, cedar from the council table, and the sharp ozone of concentrated shifter tension. Beneath it all, the faint, lingering residue of past hearings: fear-sweat, suppressed growls, the bitter aftertaste of ruined futures.

My pulse hammered so loudly I was sure the entire gallery could hear it. Students packed the rear benches—seniors from advanced lore, betas from tactics, even a few curious omegas who had slipped in despite the closed session notice. Faculty lined the side walls: Professor Thorne adjusting his spectacles with meticulous calm, Dean Hargrove standing like a carved sentinel with arms folded behind his back. Councilor Elara sat near the center of the high table, her silver braids pinned with ceremonial runes that caught the light like tiny stars. Her gaze met Jason’s first—assessing, not condemning—then slid to me. She inclined her head. Not deference. Recognition. The kind an old wolf gives another who has finally stopped running.

Jason’s fingers laced through mine, warm and steady. The bond flared instantly, a golden pulse that wrapped around my racing heart like strong arms. *Breathe, little one,* his presence whispered through the thread, calm as mountain stone. *They see the truth already. Feel how the air shifts? The old magic is heavier in here than their rules.* His silver wolf in our shared inner landscape stood tall, ears pricked, tail draped protectively over my russet form. *We face them as equals. Always.*

I squeezed his hand once. *I know. But Marcus… he’ll make it ugly.*

Marcus entered moments later, boots striking the stone too loudly, too deliberately. Four of his pack flanked him—broad-shouldered alphas from the eastern elite houses, their uniforms pressed to perfection, scents projecting dominance like cheap cologne. They moved as a unit, shoulders squared, nostrils flaring the second our sovereign signature hit them. Marcus’s scarred face twisted into something between a smirk and a snarl. His dark eyes locked on our joined hands, then drifted to the visible claiming bites at our throats—my crescents on Jason’s skin, his on mine. Jealousy rolled off him in hot, ugly waves, souring the chamber air like spoiled wine.

He didn’t wait for permission.

“With respect, Elder Carrow,” he cut in before the head of the board could even open her mouth, voice oily-smooth but edged with venom, “the scent alone is evidence. Saturated. Dominant. Overpowering. An omega from a mid-tier scholarship pack doesn’t bind this deeply without external pressure. I saw the change myself—overnight. Agitated. Distracted. Scent spiking in his lecture hall like she’d been… influenced.”

His pack murmured agreement, low and rumbling. One of them—broad, red-haired, a senior named Viktor—nodded sharply. “She smelled different after that ‘private tutoring’ last week. Sweeter. Claimed. Too fast for natural.”

The gallery stirred. Whispers rippled like wind through dry grass. A few betas shifted uncomfortably. One omega in the back row clutched her notebook tighter, eyes wide.

Elder Carrow—white hair coiled high, gold-threaded robes pooling like spilled sunlight—lifted one slender hand. The room quieted instantly. Her eyes, sharp as winter glass, swept over Marcus first, then us.

“Mr. Valek,” she said, using Marcus’s formal surname with deliberate coolness, “you will speak when recognized. This is not a street brawl. It is a hearing under the Scales.” She turned to us. “Professor Voss. Miss Vale. You stand accused of misconduct, coercion, and violation of scent protocol between faculty and enrolled student. Do you understand the gravity?”

Jason’s thumb brushed my knuckles once—possessive reassurance, not control. His voice rang clear, steady as the northern passes he had once held alone. “We do, Elder.”

I lifted my chin, drawing strength from the bond’s golden hum. “I do.”

Carrow inhaled slowly, nostrils flaring. The sovereign signature hit her fully now—pine-iron and rose-honey braided so tightly it felt like a single, living flame. Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes. Recognition. Not scandal. The old magic stirring against modern parchment.