THE GOLDEN CHILDREN

Lira had spent eleven years learning the difference between the pack children the way other people learned scripture — by heart, without ever being taught on purpose.

There were three of them under the Alpha King's roof, not counting Sable, and each one had carved out their own particular way of making Lira feel small.

Corin was the easiest to predict, which somehow made him the hardest to stomach. He was the King's firstborn, tall and broad-shouldered in the way pack heirs were bred to be, with a laugh that boomed through hallways and a habit of forgetting Lira existed unless she was directly in his way. He wasn't cruel like Sable. He was worse, in a quieter way — he simply didn't see her at all. She was furniture to step around, not a person to acknowledge. At least Sable's cruelty proved Lira was real enough to hate. Corin's silence sometimes made her wonder if she wasn't.

Dahlia was the middle child, and the one who confused Lira most. There were days — rare, unpredictable days when Dahlia would slip her an extra roll at dinner, or nod at her in the hallway like she was a person and not a shadow. And then there were other days when Dahlia laughed loudest at Sable's jokes, when she looked right through Lira like the kindness had never happened at all. Lira had stopped trying to understand her years ago. Inconsistent kindness was its own kind of cruelty; you just never knew which version of the knife you were going to get.

And then there was Sable.

Lira found her in the east garden that afternoon, sprawled across a stone bench with two other pack daughters from a visiting house, all of them dressed for an occasion that didn't exist beyond their own boredom. The garden smelled like frost and dying roses, the last of autumn clinging stubbornly to branches that should have gone bare weeks ago. Lira had been sent to deliver tea, which meant she got to stand there, tray in hand, while three girls who'd never worked a day in their lives decided whether she was worth speaking to.

"There she is," Sable said, not bothering to lower her voice. "The Academy's newest piece of furniture."

The other two girls laughed — not because it was funny, Lira suspected, but because laughing at whatever Sable said was simply the tax you paid to sit beside her.

"I heard you're being shipped off with the servants," one of them said, tilting her head at Lira like she was something mildly interesting found under a rock. "Is it true you don't even have a last name? What do they call you on the enrollment papers?"

"Lira," Lira said simply, setting the tray down with hands that didn't shake, because she'd trained them not to a long time ago.

"Just Lira," Sable said, delighted, like she'd been saving that detail for exactly this audience. "No pack. No parents. No name. Just a stray the old Queen felt sorry for. It's almost sad, really."

"Almost," the second girl echoed, smirking.

Lira poured the tea. Her hands stayed steady. Her face stayed still. Eleven years had taught her that the moment they saw it land...the hurt, the anger, whatever ugly thing was crawling up her throat,that was the moment they won completely. So she didn't give it to them. She never did.

"Will that be all?" she asked, voice even.

Sable studied her for a moment, something almost disappointed flickering behind her golden eyes, like she'd been hoping for more of a reaction and hadn't gotten it. "For now," she said finally, waving a hand like Lira was smoke to be dispersed.

Lira turned and walked back toward the house, spine straight, steps unhurried, and didn't let herself exhale until she was safely back inside the servant's corridor, out of sight of golden eyes and easy laughter.

She found Corin in the stable yard later that evening, saddling his horse alone in the fading light, which was unusual enough that Lira nearly turned around rather than deliver the message she'd been sent to bring.

"The steward says you're wanted before supper," she said instead, keeping her distance.

Corin glanced over, and for a rare moment, actually looked at her;really looked, the way he almost never did. "You're the one going to the Academy," he said. Not cruel. Not kind either. Just observation, the way he might note the weather.

"Yes."

He nodded slowly, turning back to the saddle. "Keep your head down there," he said, and something in his voice made Lira pause. Not a threat. Almost...almost...a warning. "It's not like here. The Princes there don't play nice the way we do."

The way we do. Lira almost laughed. If this was nice, she didn't want to imagine what waited beyond those gates.

"Thank you for the warning," she said carefully.

Corin didn't answer. He swung up onto his horse and rode off toward the tree line without another word, leaving Lira standing alone in the stable yard with the smell of hay and horse and the last gray light of the day settling over her shoulders like a blanket she hadn't asked for.

She stood there a long moment, turning his words over. *The Princes there don't play nice.*

She thought about Sable's smile in the garden. About golden eyes and easy laughter and eleven years of small cruelties she'd learned to swallow without choking.

If Corin — golden, indifferent, born into every privilege this world had to offer — thought Alpha Academy was worse than this house, worse than Sable, worse than everything Lira had already survived just to still be standing here breathing...

Then whatever waited behind those towering gates wasn't just going to test her.

It was going to try to break her completely.

She turned back toward the house, three days from finding out exactly how right he was.