Smart girl.

Jason’s POV

The faculty wing felt heavier tonight, the ancient stones pressing in with a watchful silence that seemed to carry the accumulated weight of every whispered scandal, every sovereign bond challenged, and every alpha who had ever dared to rewrite the rules within these hallowed halls. Torches flickered in their wrought-iron sconces along the corridor, casting elongated shadows that danced across rune-carved archways depicting ancient claiming rites—golden threads of fate binding silver and russet wolves beneath a full moon, alphas and omegas standing shoulder to shoulder against encroaching storms. The air itself felt thicker, charged with the undercurrent of shifting alliances and unspoken questions.

Professor Thorne had paused half a beat too long when our paths crossed near the landing of the spiral stairwell, his sharp beta eyes flicking first to the high collar of my shirt where the fabric brushed against the fresh claiming bite on my throat—her mark, small but unmistakable, still humming with shared magic. His nostrils flared subtly, catching the changed scent rolling off me in steady waves: pine smoke and cold iron now irrevocably braided with wild rose and warm honey, deeper, richer, permanent. No blocker could touch it. It announced everything as clearly as a war banner unfurled on the battlements.

“Evening, Voss,” Thorne said, his voice low and measured, the kind of tone reserved for colleagues who had shared foxhole nights in the northern passes. “Long tutoring session? The lights in your office burned late.”

I met his gaze without flinching, the corner of my mouth curving into the faintest of knowing smiles. “Productive one, Thorne. Advanced Lore on bond precedents and consent rites. You know how these things go—some topics require… extended discussion after hours. Details that can’t be rushed.”

Thorne’s eyes narrowed, but there was no judgment, only the calculating respect of a man who owed me his life from that frozen winter campaign where I had dragged his unit out of an ambush with nothing but shifted forms and sheer will. “Indeed. The old rites have a way of demanding time. If the board starts sniffing around with their ravens and inquiries, my notes on your syllabus revisions are already prepared and sealed. Bond law gaps filled. Academic necessity, nothing more.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder once—brief, solid, the gesture of an ally locking shields. “You’ve never lost a fight worth fighting, Voss. Don’t start now.”

“I don’t intend to,” I replied, my voice calm, threaded with that alpha certainty that had once turned the tide of border skirmishes. “The documentation is ironclad. Precedent older than the charter itself. And the bond… it chose us both. Sovereign. Not scandal.”

Thorne gave a short nod, his own scent sharpening with quiet approval—cedar and old parchment, the mark of a scholar who had seen too many good alphas broken by politics. “Then may the old wolves watch over you both. I’ll have my statement ready by dawn if needed.” He continued down the hall, boots echoing with purposeful stride, already mentally drafting whatever quiet defense the board might demand.

Farther along, Dean Hargrove’s door stood cracked open three inches, golden lamplight spilling out across the flagstones like a silent question mark. I caught the faint rustle of parchment inside, the clink of a quill against an inkwell—Hargrove, no doubt already reviewing the scent complaints that would begin trickling in by first light. Let him look. Let them all wonder. The changed signature clung to me like a second skin now, unmistakable to anyone trained in the old ways. It announced what had happened in that warded office as clearly as if I had carved it into the academy walls: sovereign. Claimed. *Mine*. And I would not apologize for it.

I unlocked my quarters with steady hands, the brass key turning smoothly in the heavy iron lock, and stepped inside, shutting the thick oak door behind me with deliberate calm. The familiar scent of the room welcomed me—aged leather bindings, faint woodsmoke from the banked fire, the crisp bite of pine resin I kept in a small bowl on the windowsill as a reminder of the northern forests that would one day be home.

Tall bookshelves lined the walls, crammed with leather-bound tomes on border law, ancient rites, and the charters that had governed shifter packs for millennia. The wide oak desk sat beneath the tall arched window, overlooking the moonlit training fields where the last traces of evening drills had long faded into silvered grass and silent obstacle courses. The low fire I had left banked earlier now glowed softly in the hearth, embers pulsing like the steady heartbeat of the bond itself.

The golden tether hummed immediately, a soft, living current threading through my ribs straight into my core. Rose’s emotions flickered across it in vivid pulses—nerves that had steadied into quiet resolve, the cool herbal bite of Lila’s suppressor blending with her natural wild rose and warm honey, the quiet strength of sisterly loyalty wrapping around her like a protective cloak. I felt her settling into the dorm room, the faint creak of her bed, the soft murmur of Lila’s voice offering practical plans and unbreakable support. *Smart girl, that Lila,* I thought, sending a gentle wave of gratitude through the bond. *Tell her thanks for the blockers. They won’t hide us forever, but they buy us the time we need.*

A faint brush came back—Rose’s russet wolf nuzzling tentatively against my massive silver one in the shared inner landscape. *She says you’re welcome… and that you’d better not get us both expelled before breakfast.* Her mental voice carried a hint of that dry humor I had fallen for months ago in her first Lore lecture, when she had challenged my interpretation of consent rites with quiet fire in her eyes.

I chuckled aloud, the sound low and warm in the quiet room. “Wouldn’t dream of it, little one. We’re building, not burning.”