Chapter 4 The flammable one

Serena’s POV (as Kael)

My palms wouldn’t stop sweating.

I curled them into fists and drew in a slow breath, standing stiffly in the line that snaked across the courtyard. The first light of dawn burned gold against Dravenhold Academy’s massive blackstone walls, throwing shadows across the waiting boys. Real heirs. Born leaders. Future Alphas.

And then there was me—hidden in Kael’s identity, clutching his forged papers, praying my heartbeat wasn’t loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Next!” a voice bellowed.

I flinched.

“Kael Draven!”

That was me.

I forced my legs to move, carrying me into the registration chamber. Behind a wide desk sat a tall official with iron-gray hair, his sharp eyes cutting into me like blades. He accepted the documents with no hint of expression—bloodline record, crest seal, and the crafted ID Ryan and I had poured nights into perfecting.

“Draven lineage,” the man murmured as his thumb traced the crest. “It’s been some time since one of you came through these halls.”

I kept my tone even. “My father was… insistent.”

He didn’t answer, only waved another examiner over. They pricked my finger, checked the blood mark against the records, then pressed the academy’s emblem in black wax over the papers. My chest loosened with relief when the final stamp hit.

“Room 214,” the official said. “North wing. You’ll be sharing with a senior—five-mark.”

I blinked. Five marks? That was almost graduation level. Only a handful of students carried even managed to get 3-4marks.

“Who?” I asked before I could stop myself.

The man ignored me. “Orientation in half an hour. Don’t be late, Draven.”

The corridors of Dravenhold buzzed with energy. Boys wrestled in corners, shouted challenges, showed off bruises like medals. The very stones seemed to hum with dominance. Testosterone and pride choked the air.

When I slipped into Room 214, I half expected to find some brute sprawled out. Instead, the space was pristine—fresh soap, polished leather, books stacked with soldierly precision. A neatly pressed uniform with four golden insignias lay draped over the chair. Whoever my roommate was, he lived like a machine.

No time to dwell. I rushed through a shower, tucked my hair tight beneath the academy cap, adjusted the stiff black uniform tunic. Every detail had to be perfect. No curves. No scent. No trace of Serena left behind.

By the time I entered the orientation hall, the noise inside dropped like a stone. Rows upon rows of boys stood shoulder to shoulder, hundreds of recruits, eyes forward. Above us, on the dais, sat the council of Alphas—the weight of every great pack pressing down from their seats.

And there, in the center, was my father.

Alpha Magnus Draven.

He looked untouchable in his dark robes, the silver wolf insignia gleaming at his chest. My throat tightened. No one here knew I was his daughter. No one knew I wasn’t even supposed to be here. But I did. And I stood taller for it.

Speeches followed—about legacy, honor, the burden of command. I tried to listen, but my pulse pounded too loud.

Then the headmaster rose. “Now, let us hear from our most decorated initiate—five-mark Darius Blackthorn.”

My gut coiled. Blackthorn. The name I’d been warned about. The golden boy of Dravenhold. The one the council whispered would claim my pack’s throne one day.

I braced to despise him.

And then he walked out.

Tall. Dark hair a shade too untidy to be accidental. Shoulders squared with unshakable certainty. His very stride radiated the knowledge that he had never once doubted his place in the world.

His voice was smooth and commanding. “Being here does not crown you Alpha. Your choices will. Fight harder. Think sharper. Make this academy remember your name.”

The room erupted with applause.

I folded my arms, forcing a scowl. He was arrogant. Too perfect. Still… he wasn’t as unbearable as I’d hoped.

Then came the Marking Rite.

Each new recruit stepped forward to receive the academy’s seal—a silver thread of magic burned into the sleeve of the uniform, a visible rank every student wore until they earned the next. Darius himself performed the rite, touching the fabric, his power sealing the stitch with a faint glow.

One by one, boys approached him, their sleeves sparking as they were claimed by Dravenhold.

Then—

“Kael Draven.”

My stomach lurched.

I stepped forward, chin high, trying to project the same confidence every other boy wore so easily. Darius’s gray eyes locked onto mine. For a heartbeat, he studied me too intently, his gaze lingering on my face… my jawline…

He reached for my sleeve, hand glowing faintly with power—

—and in that instant, the thread of magic flared, scorching hotter than it should. Smoke hissed up. The fabric sparked, and before I realized what I was doing, I jerked back—straight into Darius’s chest.

The hall gasped.

I stumbled, mortified, but his hands shot out to steady me—gripping my shoulders far too close. Heat rushed to my cheeks.

“I—sorry,” I stammered. “The spell—it sparked.”

For a heartbeat, the silence held.

“I had no idea males were flammable, you must be a girly one.” A voice came from the crowd, but I know the owner of the voice immediately regretted his choice of words as a flash of disappointment was pasted on the face of almost all present.

Then Darius chuckled, low and unbothered. “Guess you’re more flammable than most.”

He smirked, fixed the glowing thread neatly onto my sleeve, and moved on as though nothing had happened.

But whispers followed me as I returned to my place.

By the time orientation ended, my nerves were fried. I all but ran back to Room 214, praying my mysterious roommate hadn’t shown up yet.

The door was ajar.

A duffel bag slouched against one bed. Someone lounged in the chair by the window, legs stretched, sunlight painting his hair silver at the edges.

“Hey,” I said cautiously. “So, you must be—my roommate?”

The figure turned. Gray eyes. The same smirk.

Darius Blackthorn.

“Oh,” he drawled, clearly amused. “The girly boy.”

My stomach dropped.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”