Chapter 4
1354 Words
The lecture hall was already full when Nyra slipped into her seat, the low murmur of voices pressing in from every side, students leaning close to whisper, to laugh, to speculate, all of it buzzing with the restless energy that came after public humiliation. She kept her head down as she sat, her ribs still sore, her arm wrapped beneath her sleeve, her body stiff with the effort of pretending she felt normal.
Valeria Morvane entered without announcing herself.
Conversation died the moment her heels struck the stone floor, the sound measured and unhurried as she walked between the rows, her posture flawless, her expression pleasant in a way that promised nothing good. She did not rush. She never rushed. She liked being watched.
Nyra could feel eyes shifting toward her before Valeria even spoke.
“Today,” Valeria said, turning slowly to face the room, “we will be discussing combat tactics in confined environments. Hallways. Stairwells. Narrow terrain where space is limited and mistakes are punished immediately.”
Several students raised their hands.
Valeria ignored them.
“Thorne Astrlyn,” she said instead, her gaze landing with deliberate precision. “Since you so generously provided us with a demonstration yesterday, perhaps you would like to answer. What is the first rule of engagement when you are cornered.”
Nyra lifted her head slowly. “Maintain balance. Protect vital points. Create distance if possible.”
Valeria’s smile tightened. “That was almost coherent.”
Soft laughter rippled through the hall.
“Unfortunately,” Valeria continued, “what you recited bears no resemblance to what you actually did. You hesitated. You froze. You allowed your opponent to dictate the fight from the first exchange. Your footwork was poor. Your guard collapsed repeatedly. Your stamina was nonexistent.”
Nyra felt her fingers curl beneath the desk.
“I lost,” she said evenly. “That does not mean I learned nothing.”
“Oh, I disagree,” Valeria replied. “You taught everyone exactly what weakness looks like when it walks into the ring wearing a noble name.”
The laughter was louder this time.
Valeria took a step closer to Nyra’s desk. “Tell me, Prince Thorne, when you were trained at court, did anyone ever correct you, or did they simply nod and pretend excellence was inevitable because of your bloodline.”
Nyra held her gaze. “My tutors trained me to adapt.”
“Adapt,” Valeria echoed. “Interesting word, given that you cannot even shift.”
The room went silent.
Nyra felt every eye on her.
“Is it true,” Valeria pressed, her tone almost conversational, “that you are incapable of transforming. That the Astrlyn heir is something less than what he claims to be.”
“I am exactly what I claim to be,” Nyra said quietly.
Valeria straightened. “Then why does the academy whisper. Why do the healers talk. Why does your blood behave unlike any other Alpha’s.”
Nyra’s jaw tightened. “That is not your concern.”
“No,” Valeria said, her pleasant expression finally hardening. “But your failure is. You represent a standard, and yesterday you fell short of it publicly. The Ghost of the Weak. That is what they call you now.”
She let the words sit.
“You cannot fight. You cannot shift. And judging by your performance, you cannot even defend your own standing.”
Finn shifted beside Nyra, his expression tight. Marek’s hands were clenched on the desk. Not everyone laughed, but enough of them did.
Four rows back, Corvin Eldritch did not look up once. His quill moved steadily across parchment, his attention fixed entirely on Nyra’s posture, her breathing, the way her shoulders remained squared even as her pulse betrayed her. He noted the pallor. The restraint. The control that should not have existed in someone so young and so injured.
Across the room, Killian Drak watched Corvin instead.
He followed the line of Corvin’s attention with mounting irritation until it landed, once again, on Thorne Astrlyn. His jaw tightened. His hand curled beneath the desk.
Why him.
The lecture ended without ceremony.
---
The cafeteria was loud by midday, trays clattering, voices overlapping, the air thick with movement. Nyra balanced her plate carefully, each step measured as she navigated the line, her side aching with every breath.
“Valeria really outdid herself,” Finn said beside her. “Public execution before lunch. Very professional.”
“She wanted a reaction,” Nyra replied. “I did not give her one.”
“That might make it worse,” Finn said. “She does not strike me as someone who lets things go.”
Nyra opened her mouth to respond.
Someone collided with her shoulder hard enough to knock the tray from her hands.
Plates shattered against the floor. Food scattered. Heat splashed against her boots. The noise cut through the cafeteria, drawing immediate attention.
Nyra staggered, caught herself on the edge of a table, and looked up.
Killian Drak smiled down at her.
“My fault,” he said smoothly. “Did not see you.”
Finn stepped forward immediately. “Watch where you are going.”
Killian’s gaze flicked to Finn, dismissive. “Or what.”
Marek moved to Finn’s side. Jasper shifted closer to Nyra. It was instinctive, protective, and completely insufficient.
“It is fine,” Nyra said quietly. “Leave it.”
Killian’s smile widened. “Smart choice. You should learn that early. Know where you stand.”
He stepped past her, deliberately nudging a shard of broken plate with his boot. “Enjoy your meal, Ghost.”
They stood there in silence as the cafeteria resumed its noise, the moment already being swallowed by routine.
The doors opened.
Soren Thornridge entered with Ragnar at his side.
Ragnar took in the scene with a quick glance. “Looks like trouble found your prince again.”
Soren did not look. “Not my concern.”
He sat and began eating, posture relaxed, expression unreadable.
Moments later, Corvin Eldritch entered.
He stopped.
His gaze swept the room once, taking in the broken dishes, Nyra’s still form, Killian’s retreating back. His expression shifted, subtle but decisive.
He crossed the space between tables without hesitation.
“Drak,” Corvin said.
Killian froze.
Corvin stopped in front of him. “You will apologize.”
Killian turned slowly. “Excuse me.”
“You spilled his food,” Corvin said calmly. “You insulted him. You will apologize.”
The cafeteria went quiet.
Killian’s jaw flexed. He glanced around, then back at Corvin, something tense and unsettled flickering across his face.
“Fine,” he said at last. “My apologies, Prince Thorne.”
He walked away without another word.
Nyra looked at Corvin. “Thank you.”
Corvin smiled faintly. “I did not do it for gratitude.”
He returned to his table.
---
That night, Soren stood by the lake, arms crossed, staring at the water.
Footsteps approached.
“Oh,” Nyra said softly. “I did not realize anyone was here.”
She turned to leave.
“Why do you avoid me,” Soren asked.
She stopped.
Silence stretched.
He stepped closer. She stiffened. Her back met the tree behind her.
She would not look at him.
He studied her for a long moment, then stepped back.
She fled.
Soren watched her go.
“How long,” he said quietly, “until the truth catches you.”
---
Morning came heavy and gray.
The hall was packed.
Proctor Kane stood at the dais.
“Effective immediately,” he announced, “each first-year will be assigned a senior mentor.”
Names were called.
Nyra’s hands grew cold.
“Thorne Astrlyn,” Kane said. “You will train under Soren Thornridge.”
The hall erupted.
Nyra eyes found Soren at the back, arms crossed, expression empty.
Finn leaned close. “I am sorry.”
Nyra swallowed. “So am I.”
Somewhere behind her, a voice murmured, calm and unyielding.
“Yes,” Soren said quietly. “You should be.”
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