Chapter 3

MAEVE POV

The air here isn’t free. It feels like you have to pay for every breath with a piece of your life.

When the black iron gates of Lycan Spirit Academy swung open, the first thing that hit me was the pressure.

Pheromones.

A thick layer of Alpha pheromones, aggressive, dominant, suffocating.

For ordinary wolves, it’s a sign of power. For a broken thing like me, someone without a wolf spirit, it’s like walking through a blazing desert. I can’t draw a full breath. My skull throbs like my brain is about to split.

I step out of the car, grab my suitcase from the trunk, and wrestle it down. The vehicle immediately backs up and turns out of the wide courtyard.

I’m not alone, of course.

All around me, dozens of other young men are climbing out of cars. Some head straight toward the academy building ahead. They all share the same traits: tall, tattooed, and radiating a predator aura that makes my hair stand on end.

They form groups, some big, some small. Their laughter is loud. They punch each other’s shoulders like it’s a greeting, the kind of punch that would crack a human’s ribs.

I pull Reeve’s coat tighter around my skin, now slick with cold sweat.

Moon Goddess, Maeve… don’t you dare pass out. You can get through this. This is nothing.

I walk forward, and every step is a fight against my own instincts, the part of me screaming to run as fast as I can.

“Look who showed up. The Golden Prince.”

“Reeve? Really? I heard he’s been sick lately.”

“Well, he’s here. Looks like a walking corpse, though.”

The whispers are loud enough for a wolf’s ears. Even mine. But I can’t react. I can’t look offended. I have to ignore them.

My eyes stay forward, fixed on the double doors carved with ancient reliefs.

If anything, I need to look arrogant. Reeve is arrogant. Reeve is confident. Reeve never cared what sheep thought.

I’m about to climb the steps when the path is blocked.

Someone is standing there. No, not someone. A wall that breathes.

He plants himself in the center of the stairs, disrupting the flow of new students. Automatically, everyone shifts around him. It’s safer to avoid him than to tell him to move.

He’s at least a head taller than me. Jet-black hair cut short in a military style. Dark gray eyes with no mercy in them.

A massive claymore is strapped across his back, a two-handed sword that weighs more than I do. I know exactly who he is. Reeve once told me who mattered at Lycan Spirit Academy.

Alaric Stoneclaw. The Sword Bearer.

He’s the most dominant Alpha here, about ten years older than me. In the academy, he enforces the rules. Alaric’s job was to break up duels, monitor students, and, if necessary, execute.

Reeve once said Alaric snapped a bear’s neck with his bare hands when he was twelve.

My heart kicks harder, not from admiration, but fear. Alaric’s aura is several times heavier than any other Alpha here.

I try to slip past him on his left. Alaric shifts and blocks me again.

I stop, then tilt my head up to meet his gaze.

“Move,” I say. One sharp word, borrowed from Reeve’s arrogance.

Alaric doesn’t budge. Instead, he lowers his face closer, suspicion tightening his expression as his nose wrinkles. He inhales near my throat, sampling the air.

I swallow and hold my breath, forcing myself not to retreat.

“You stink,” Alaric growls, his voice low, like distant thunder.

I go still for a beat. “I just traveled for three days,” I answer. “And you’re in my way.”

“Not travel stink.” Alaric narrows his eyes.

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s solving a difficult puzzle. “You smell like rotten blood and cheap herbs. What are you trying to hide under that perfume, Prince?”

Can he smell Eamon’s concoction? Does he realize it’s unnatural?

My body locks up. I fight to look calm while my pulse slams in my ears.

“You’re sick?” Alaric presses, stepping closer.

His broad chest bumps mine, and the pressure of his aura spikes. I know he does it on purpose. A dominance check.

A normal Alpha would push back with their own aura. I don’t have one, I’m empty.

My knees wobble. I nearly tumble down the stairs if I don’t clamp down with everything I have. My hand shoots out to grip the railing. My body shakes, fighting the mental weight crushing me.

“You’re getting weaker, Reeve,” Alaric mocks when he sees my legs tremble. “I heard you’re the best of the younger generation. Supposedly, my best rival.”

I don’t answer. I just force myself to stare at Alaric without flinching.

“But look at you,” he sneers. “Trembling like a puppy in the cold.”

Alaric’s hand lifts, like he’s about to grab my collar and toss me down the steps.

“Sword Bearer.”

The voice is smooth and calm, but it cuts through the tension like a blade. Alaric stops with its hand suspended in the air and turns to the side with an irritated look.

Another young man is already standing behind him. Unlike Alaric, who looks wild and brutal, this one looks neat and… clinical. He wears an academy robe with a Potions crest pinned to his chest.

Pale skin, bright silver hair, and a thick book in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” the young man says with a pleasant smile, “but you’re blocking the line, Sword Bearer. And shouldn’t you be stationed in the Great Hall, not at the entrance?”

Alaric gives a low growl, then turns away, muttering as he passes him. “Don’t poke at me, Dorian. My patience is thin.”

What is his name? Dorian? Wait… Reeve mentioned that name.

A student one year ahead of Reeve and me. Nineteen years old, already part of the academy’s Alpha Elite through the academic track.

Dorian Duskborne, son of the professor of Potion Studies.

This must be the one Reeve warned me about. The one I have to be careful with. Reeve said Dorian is slick and sly. His words are sweet, but his tongue is dangerous.

I stay still for a few seconds after Alaric goes inside. Then I drag my suitcase forward and glance at Dorian.

His stare is locked on me and it makes my skin prickle even more. Dorian doesn’t look at me like an enemy. He looks at me like a specimen.

Dorian steps in beside me without asking. “Your heartbeat is arrhythmic,” he says lightly. “Too fast for an Alpha who was only greeted by Alaric.”

Dorian’s dark purple eyes, so vivid they looked like colored contacts, swept over me from head to toe.

“And you,” he added, voice still mild, “you’ve got another scent under that masked stink of yours, Reeve. Something sweet.”

Damn it! How could he know?

I stop walking and turn to face him. “Do you have a problem with me?”

Dorian shakes his head. “No.” His smile stays in place. “Do you have one with me?”