Chapter 4

MAEVE POV

My teeth grind together as I let out a low growl while backing away and ignoring Dorian. I hope it makes him keep his distance and think Reeve is still dangerous.

I ignore Dorian completely and quicken my steps toward the hall. When I reach the doors, I immediately slip into the crowd of students. I hold my breath now and then, trying to calm my trembling body beneath the coat.

I cannot stop thinking about it. What if Alaric and Dorian know about me? What if they have been suspicious since the very first second I set foot here?

I stand in the back corner, getting the clearest view of the entire Great Hall. The room is magnificent, lit by torches mounted along the walls. A chandelier with thousands of candles hangs from the high ceiling.

Fascinating, classic, but feels... ancient.

Far across from me, on a stone podium, stands an old man with one eye covered. The aura radiating from him reaches all the way to where I stand. It’s Headmaster Horgus.

“Welcome to hell!”

His voice echoes through the entire room. A provocative greeting. Horgus wastes no time, immediately handing his students a death sentence.

“Tomorrow morning, at sunrise, the screening trial begins. We will release Apex Predators for levels one and two.”

A murmur of fear breaks across the room. I stand frozen, dread crawling through my veins.

This is the second year Reeve has made it through and returned to the academy. That means I have to face an Apex Predator level two.

Level two or level one, there is no way I can face an Apex Predator easily.

The problem is, I do not have healing abilities or super strength. If I get even slightly cut, I will bleed out. Or worse, my identity will be exposed in front of hundreds of blood-hungry Alphas.

From the corner of my eye, I feel someone watching. I glance over and find Alaric staring at me again from across to my left. Meanwhile, Dorian looks my way with the hungry focus of a scientist.

Without realizing it, one hand tightens around the hilt of the sword at my waist.

“All right,” I whisper to myself, “let’s dance with death.”

When Horgus leaves the podium, the hall turns into organized chaos. The Alphas shove each other, releasing aggressive pheromones that make my head throb. I try to slip out through a side route, hoping I can get back to my room before my scent-suppressing potion completely runs out.

But my luck ends in the corridor leading to the west wing.

“Where do you think you’re going, ‘Golden Prince’?” A rough voice stops me.

Three Alphas stand there. In the center, a large student with claw scars across his neck glares at me.

Reeve once told me who he was.

His name is Welden, another second-year. One of the Alphas who feels threatened by Reeve’s presence, the so-called elite rival. And those claw marks on Welden’s neck are my twin brother’s work.

“Move,” I say flatly, lowering my voice to the deepest bass I can manage.

Welden laughs, a sound closer to an animal’s growl. “I heard you were sick on the way here. You smell weird, Reeve. Like a corpse trying to hide under cheap perfume.”

Welden steps forward and shoves my shoulder hard. My tightly bound body lacks the balance of a true Alpha. I stumble and slam into the rough stone wall.

“Ugh,” I groan.

And damn it, when I fall, my sword slips partway out of its sheath and slices my palm. A sharp sting flares, but what is far more terrifying is the metallic scent that blooms instantly.

“You cannot even handle a little shove?” Welden grins, stepping closer to grab my shirt collar.

Welden’s breath makes me nauseous. He hauls me up until my feet start to lift inches off the floor. Pain, heat, and tight pressure crawl up my throat.

Moon Goddess, help me.

“Academy rule number four: No unnecessary physical contact outside training hours.”

The voice is low, authoritative, and cold as ice.

The small crowd that has started to gather splits immediately. Alaric, the Sword Bearer, walks slowly toward us. The massive claymore on his back seems to radiate a bloodthirsty aura strong enough to silence everyone’s pheromones.

Welden releases me, his face paling. “We were just messing around, Alaric. Just saying hi to an old friend.”

“Get out,” Alaric orders, short and sharp.

Alaric’s dark gray eyes hold no mercy at all. Welden and his group do not dare argue. They leave as if they have just seen the angel of death.

Now it is only Alaric and me in the suddenly silent corridor. Alaric does not leave. Instead, he steps closer, closing the distance until I have to tilt my head up to look at him.

“You are shaking again,” Alaric murmurs.

Then his gaze drops toward the palm I am hiding beneath my coat.

Alaric’s nose wrinkles sharply. “And your blood scent… that is not healthy blood.”

“It is just a scratch,” I reply quickly, trying to step back.

But Alaric is faster. He grabs my wrist, right above the fresh wound. I swallow a cry of pain before it can escape. He pulls my hand up, studying the bright red blood beginning to drip onto the floor.

“One minute has passed since you hit the wall,” Alaric hisses, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Why has this wound not closed? Why did your regeneration stop?”

“My regeneration slowed because I am exhausted, but it did not stop.” I yank my hand free by force. “Mind your own business.”

Alaric does not chase me, but his sharp voice follows. “If you cannot heal a small scratch, tomorrow’s monster will tear you into useless pieces. Do not disgrace the title ‘Alpha’ you carry.”

I walk with unsteady steps, realizing I cannot go back to my room with an open wound. Alaric is right. If the smell of fresh blood spreads, my disguise will collapse tonight.

At the end of the laboratory corridor, I see a neat, clinical figure: Dorian.

He looks like he is waiting for me, standing in front of the potions room door while flipping through the pages of his thick book.

“Your heartbeat is still arrhythmic, Reeve,” Dorian says without looking up. “And now, there is the scent of sweet blood that is quite… irritating.”

I stop and watch him warily. “I need a healing potion. Right now.”

Dorian closes his book and looks at me with those sly, dark purple eyes. “Why does a real Alpha need chemical help for a wound that simple? Is the ‘Golden Prince’ really just an empty frame with no wolf spirit?”

“Just give me the potion, Dorian. Tell me the price.”

Dorian smiles sweetly, a smile that makes the hair on my neck rise. He reaches into his robe pocket and pulls out a small bottle filled with thick green liquid.

“This is I***a-Heal. It will close your wound in seconds. But it will feel like your skin is being burned alive.”

“Name the price,” I repeat.

“The price? Keep it for now. I prefer collecting debts when you least expect it.”

I snatch the bottle and drink it without hesitation. The taste is truly horrible, like swallowing live embers.

But right in front of my eyes, the wound on my palm closes, leaving only a thin red line. At least the blood scent is gone.

“Thanks,” I mutter roughly before hurrying away.

At last, I reach my room and lock the door tightly. I sit on the edge of the bed, still breathing hard. Without wasting time, I open my suitcase and pull everything out.

I freeze when I see an old scroll Eamon gave me before I packed. The scroll is about the Forbidden Art of the Sacred Bloodline. I once wondered why Lord Eamon would give me something banned by the kings of the past.

Now I understand.

Eamon knows I am “defective.” And he knows I do not have a wolf spirit to fight brutally like Alaric or even Dorian. The only way for me to survive among these monsters is to use an ancient discipline.

A fighting style that does not rely on muscle, but on precision and manipulation of energy flow. Only she-wolf descendants can master this technique.

Eamon gave me this because he was desperate. If I die, Nightwhisper will collapse. Eamon took this risk even knowing how dangerous it was.

This scroll is not just a combat guide. It is a suicide instruction manual if I fail to master it perfectly.

I stare at the scroll, uncertain. Honestly, my heart still does not dare to practice it. My body is too exhausted, and the burning from Dorian’s potion is still torturing my nerves. But I know that tomorrow morning, when the arena bell rings, I will not have any other choice.

I have to become the “Weak Outsider” who can bring down a predator with a single, precise touch.

“Forgive me, Reeve,” I whisper, closing my eyes.

I hug my sword as my only companion in this wolf’s den.

“I will survive, no matter the cost.”