Evan
The air in my private suite is stale. It smells of political rot and desperation. I stand on the balcony, looking down at the manicured grounds of the academy. Below, the contenders mingle, their postures a mixture of arrogance and anxiety. They are peacocks, all of them. Flashing their power, trying to catch the eye of the sponsors, the Game Masters. Trying to catch my eye.
My victory in the last Apex Games granted me this suite, this view, this endless parade of sycophants. It has also chained me to them. Every Alpha with a daughter of mating age looks at me like I am the prize at the end of their ambitions.
“Evan, darling.”
The voice cuts through the evening air. I do not need to turn to know who it is. Marin Silvermoon. Her scent, a cloying floral perfume designed to signal her Alpha status, precedes her.
“I was just telling my father how impressive your control has become,” she says, stepping onto the balcony beside me. She leaves a careful, respectful distance between us. Smart girl. My wolf dislikes being crowded.
“Was I controlling something?” I ask, my voice flat. My gaze remains on the courtyard below.
She gives a light, practiced laugh. “Always. You control the room just by entering it. Everyone is so excited for the games to begin. Though, I can’t imagine there will be much of a challenge for you this year.”
Her eyes follow my gaze to the contenders. “It’s a weak crop. Filled with… placeholders.”
The word hangs in the air, weighted with her specific venom. She wants a reaction. She wants me to agree, to share in her contempt for the Clearwater girl. It is a tedious, obvious maneuver.
“Every contender earned their place,” I say, the words a dismissal. I turn from the railing, ready to retreat back into my rooms. Solitude is the only luxury I have left.
“Even the wolfless one?” Marin presses, her perfect smile tightening. “Surely you see it’s an insult to the games. To you. That they let a dud take a spot.”
I stop and finally look at her. Her silver eyes are bright with manufactured outrage. She is a finely crafted weapon for her father’s political games. Beautiful. Sharp. And utterly predictable.
“I see a contender who stood at the arcane stone and did not make a sound,” I reply. The memory is unexpectedly clear.
Marin scoffs. “She barely registered. The stone found nothing inside her. It’s pathetic.”
“Is it?” I let the question hang there. I saw Marin at the stone. She endured, yes. But I saw the tremor in her hands. I saw the sweat on her brow. I saw the effort it took for her to remain standing. The Clearwater girl showed none of that. She simply… was. A rock in the center of a storm.
I leave Marin on the balcony, her mouth slightly agape. I have no time for these games. My wolf is restless, pacing the confines of my soul, and it has nothing to do with the posturing of Alphas.
Later, in the quiet of my room, my mind drifts back to the registration hall. Not to the noise, or the fear, or the arrogance. It returns to that one, strange moment.
The arcane stone pulsed with violent energy, a raw magic that stank of ozone and power. It overwhelmed the scent of every wolf in the room. Almost. When she had stepped up, the Clearwater girl, Lucy, I had been standing closer than the others. Underneath the roar of the magic, beneath the scent of old stone and anxious sweat, there was something else. A flicker of a scent so faint, I thought I had imagined it.
It was not the scent of a wolf. It was not the flat, empty scent of a human. It was… different.
Rain on stone. That was the first note. Clean, cool, ancient. And under that, something sharp and electric. Like the air after a lightning strike. Hidden ozone. It was a scent of quiet strength and contained power. It was nothing like the aggressive, musky scents of the Alphas, or the warm, earthy scents of the Betas. It was unique.
And it called to my wolf.
He had stirred then, a deep rumble in my chest that was not boredom or annoyance. It was interest. A primal, possessive curiosity that I had not felt in years. Not since my first shift. It was an instinct so profound it bypassed my conscious thought.
I dismissed it. A fluke. A trick of the arcane energy in the air, twisting scents, creating phantoms. She is wolfless. An omega from a failing pack. A nonentity. My mind knows this. My wolf, it seems, disagrees.
I need to clear my head. The walls are closing in. I leave my suite and head for the training grounds, seeking the familiar clang of steel and the grunts of exertion. Anything to silence the illogical thoughts in my head.
The midnight training hall is rarely empty. A few contenders are always here, trying to get an edge. A hulking Alpha from the Stonecrest pack is heaving a comically large log over his head. Two betas are sparring with wooden staffs, their movements clumsy and full of wasted energy. It is all brute force and bluster. The same dance I have seen for a decade.
I am about to turn and leave when I see her.
She is in the far corner of the grounds, away from the main floodlights, in a space reserved for agility training. She is not lifting logs or swinging swords. She is on a narrow wooden beam, only inches off the ground, and she is walking. Eyes closed.
Her movements are slow, deliberate. Each step is placed with a quiet precision that is more compelling than any display of raw strength. She reaches the end, turns, and walks back. Her arms are out to her sides for balance, her breathing is low and even. She is not training her muscles. She is training her focus. Her senses.
I watch, unseen from the shadows of the armory doorway. She finishes with the beam and moves to a series of hanging ropes. Instead of climbing them, she tests their tension. She closes her eyes and tugs on one, and I can see her listening, feeling the vibration as it travels up the rope to the rafters. She is mapping the room not with her eyes, but with her other senses. The human ones. Honing them to a razor’s edge.
It is methodical. Intelligent. It is the strategy of a survivor, not a brawler. Anyone can build muscle. It takes a different kind of strength to build this level of awareness.
“An odd choice for a champion’s focus.”
My beta, Jax, appears at my side, his voice a low murmur. He follows my gaze to the corner.
“She’s wasting her time,” he says, his tone pragmatic. “Balance and hearing won’t stop a charging Alpha.”
“No,” I say, not taking my eyes off her. “It will help her avoid the charge altogether.”
Jax is silent for a moment. He is my oldest friend, the only one I trust without reservation. He knows my moods better than I do.
“Councilman Valerius sends his regards,” Jax says, changing the subject. “He hopes you are considering his daughter for the champion’s pairing. He says Marin is the strongest Alpha female in a generation.”
“Valerius is a snake, and his daughter is a parrot,” I reply without heat. It is a simple statement of fact. “She repeats the words that will get her what she wants.”
“And the Clearwater girl?” Jax asks, his eyes still on her. “What does she want?”
Lucy has moved on again. She is standing perfectly still now, in the center of the training floor. Her eyes are closed, her head tilted slightly, as if she is listening to the world itself. To the wind whispering through the rafters, the scuttling of a mouse in the walls, the very hum of the ancient stones around us.
What does she want?
The question echoes in my mind. The others want power, glory, a mate who will elevate their status. They wear their ambition like armor. She wears none. There is no ambition in her posture. Only a quiet, stubborn determination.
“To survive,” I say. The word feels right. It feels true.
“She has the lowest ranking in the games, Evan. The odds are not in her favor.”
“The odds are for gamblers,” I say, turning to leave. “I am a champion.”
As I walk away, I can still feel my wolf’s attention fixed on her. This feeling is a complication I do not need. An equation that does not make sense. She is a wolfless omega. A stray. A dud. She should mean nothing.
But as I retreat to the cold silence of my suite, a perplexing, unfamiliar instinct surfaces. An urge that has no place in the heart of a predator. Against all logic, against all reason, against everything I know about the hierarchies of our world, I find myself wanting to see her prove us all wrong.
