บททั้งหมดของ PRETENDER: Alpha's Forbidden Omega : บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

The morning air was crisp, laced with dew and dominance. The cadence of boots and breath echoed through the Outer Field as the cadets thundered forward for Tuesday’s run.Elowyn tried to keep up. Each step was a reminder of yesterday’s bruises. Her ribs still ached — though the balm from Azpen had helped a little.But still, her movements were a flop.Baron Ortega jogged ahead with the other seniors, silent and powerful, his pace steady. Shoulders taut.Then, without looking back, he slowed.Turned.And deliberately fell into step behind Elowyn for a few seconds.Her heart froze as she instantly took in that smell of him. That scent that just wanted to put her to her knees.As he passed, his shoulder clipped hers — not hard enough to knock her down, but enough to make her stagger a little.She caught her breath, more from shock than pain.But Baron’s eyes briefly flicked toward her, then narrowed.He smelled it.That balm. His balm.It clung faintly to her clothes now — crushed mint a

Chaos.The two Alphas lunged at each other with the speed of lightning. Tables crashed. Plates flew. The entire dining hall erupted.Lucian’s Beta and junior pack members charged forward but was intercepted by Baron’s pack — fists flying, kicks landing. Someone screamed.A bench shattered.The crowd surged back.One of Baron’s pack members — Callus — got shoved sideways, his leg twisting awkwardly beneath a large hand.Crack.He screamed in pain.Elowyn stood frozen, throat locked, eyes wide. The noise blurred into a roar.This was because of her.She turned away from the horrifying vision of violence and clapped her hands over her ears.Baron fought like a wolf unchained. He wasn’t pretty about it. He was precise. Brutal. Furious.He tore Lucian on the arm with a fork.Blood spattered the floor.Lucian slammed into the wall, dazed, but not down.Elowyn moved away, her hand over her ear.Her breath came in short bursts.Everyone stared.Everyone.And they all knew.It started because

The sun dipped lower as the last training bell tolled — the clang of Evening Assessment Bouts (Dominance Clash).With time and loud instructions from Instructor Mosely, Cadets formed two rows in the arena yard, shirts peeled off or tucked, boots grounded, scent glands opened wide.It was the last drill of the day.No blades. No fists.Just scent. Will. And presence. Power.A raw show of who had the stronger wolf.Elowyn swallowed as Master Mosely paced between the lines. His voice boomed over the dirt:“Dominance is not about brute strength. It’s about aura. Intent. Scent. Who rises when all else is silent.”Pairs began to face off. One by one. Master Mosely called names.Low growls thickened the air. The scent war grew hotter.Some matches ended in seconds. A look, a glare, a drop to one knee. Others took minutes — throats tight, eyes locked, sweat and stubbornness keeping them standing.Then....“Cadet Froste.”Elowyn’s name rang sharp.“Step forward.”She did.The pit of her stomac

The wind in the Black Pine Hills sharpened.The sun blazed above but it still seemed quite dark beneath.Crows stopped cawing.The cave mouth glowed faintly, like breath holding its breath.Then—Voices.Not cadet voices. Older. Coarser.Hunters.Boots crunched over dead leaves. Soot reeked."You think we won't find her just 'cause she vanished?"Another hissed in anger.“She reeks of rebel magic. Cave-dwelling scum. The kind that births witches and traitors.”Mia didn’t move.Her chest rose slow. Her breath controlled.She was still invisible. Masked in the old veil charm. But the spell was fragile — the tiniest stir could break it.A rock clattered too close to her foot.One hunter raised a torch. "We burn this whole forest if we have to.""Dear Moon, I cannot die because of a mere, stupid witch!"Her familiars — tiny creatures made of bark, moss, and bones — trembled in the shadows.One climbed onto her shoulder, whispering faintly near her ear, “Don’t blink too much, Mia.”Another

It had been three weeks since the fight with Lucian. Three weeks since Callus' leg cracked like old timber. Three weeks since the room had been reset by whatever magic governed Ashmoore’s cruel walls.And still, every evening without fail, Azpen and Baron came for her.Sometimes they made her clean the floor thrice on her knees, with the same rag. Sometimes, she’d be asked to sit still for hours after lights-out, back straight, holding a sword in outstretched arms until her muscles screamed.Sometimes she'd cry. Sometimes she'd not.She used to shake at the sound of their boots. Now she simply prepared. Not out of courage. Out of will.Will to survive.Will to change the ending written for her.In morning drills, she no longer fumbled her steps.Her limbs moved sharper, her lungs held more air, and her eyes learned how to track the commands faster.She wasn't great — but she was less pitiful. And among these strong cadets, that counted for something.Cadets began to whisper. Not about