Royal Academy: The Royal Lycans

Aftermath

(Elara's POV)



I didn’t look at Silas when the ring cleared. I didn’t need to. The fight had already told me everything I needed to know.

Silas sat off to the side now, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed slightly as he drew in measured breaths. He was trying to look composed. He wasn’t fooling anyone who mattered. His shoulders were tight, his jaw set, pride still smarting where Orla had put him on the ground. But beneath that—beneath the bruised ego and simmering frustration—there was something else.

Awareness.

That was new.

Orla stood a few paces away, rolling out her shoulders, shaking tension from her arms the way someone did when they were used to pushing themselves hard. She wasn’t preening. She wasn’t looking for approval. She kept her eyes down, posture respectful but steady, Elis coiled tight and quiet inside her. She hadn’t won by luck. She’d won by discipline.

Silas needed work. A lot of it. Strength wasn’t the issue—he had plenty of that. Experience wasn’t either; he’d been trained his whole life, exposed to the best fighters in the kingdom. The problem was how he used it. He fought like someone who expected fights to end quickly, decisively, with him on top. When they didn’t, he burned energy trying to force the outcome instead of adapting. Orla was the opposite. She fought like someone who expected to be underestimated. Like someone who planned to outlast rather than overpower. Her stamina was better. Her footwork was cleaner. Her instincts were sharp without being reckless. Silas needed that. And he needed to learn it from someone who wasn’t me.

He won’t hear it from you, Faith said calmly. Too much history. Too much pride.

“I know,” I murmured internally. But he will hear it from her. That, too, I knew.

I called the next pair into the ring and stepped back, folding my arms as the match began. Wolves this time—both competent, both aggressive, both trying a little too hard to prove something. They circled, clashed, separated, then clashed again with more force than finesse. Faith watched with me, her attention split between the fighters and the ones waiting. They all show you what they fear, she said. These two fear being ordinary.

I tracked their movements, nodding faintly. Overcommitment. Predictable patterns. A tendency to mirror instead of control. “Reset,” I called when one of them stumbled and barely caught himself. They did. Barely.

As the match continued, my focus widened again—to Silas, to Orla, to the group as a whole. Training wasn’t just about fixing individual weaknesses. It was about shaping cohesion. Turning five very different cadets into something that could function under pressure, on unfamiliar ground, with lives depending on their judgment. That was the harder part.

Silas needed stamina training, yes—but more than that, he needed humility drilled into muscle memory. He needed to learn how to listen when someone smaller, faster, or less obviously powerful had something to teach him. Orla needed refinement. Control under sustained pressure. Confidence in her own authority. She had the instincts, the discipline—but she still deferred too easily, still expected to be dismissed. That would change.

You intend to put them together, Faith observed.

“Yes,” I said softly. “Carefully.”

He will resist.

“I know.”

She will not.

“No,” I agreed. “She won’t.”

The next bout ended cleanly, and I waved them out. As the cadets rotated, I made mental notes, layering observation over observation. Who adapted after mistakes. Who repeated them. Who learned by watching instead of doing. By the time the last spar ended, my plan was already forming. But combat wasn’t the only thing this Academy was for. They needed to think. They needed to judge. They needed to learn how messy real disputes were when blood, pride, and politics tangled together. Thankfully, I had resources. A handful of resolved cases—pack disputes that had ended cleanly enough to be dissected without reopening wounds. Border skirmishes resolved through mediation. Rogue incidents that had required decisive force rather than negotiation. And mock cases designed specifically to expose bias, poor judgment, and failure to consider perspective.

They would hate those. Good.

You are shaping more than fighters, Faith said.

I know, I replied. I’m shaping the people the Crown sends when talking fails.

I glanced back at Silas one last time. He had finally looked up, eyes following Orla as she listened to feedback from one of the others. There was frustration there. And something else. Interest.

By the time the last sparring match ended, the ring smelled like sweat and bruised pride. That was good. Honest work always left a mark, even if Lycan healing erased the visible ones. I dismissed the cadets with a sharp gesture and watched them peel away from the ring in small clusters—some talking quietly, some brooding, some already replaying their mistakes in their heads. That part never stopped. Not if they were worth keeping. My squad lingered. All five of them. I took a slow breath and let my gaze move over them one by one, cataloging what I’d seen, what I knew, and what I still needed to confirm.

Silas of the Royal Pack.

Orla of Black Ridge pack.

Kieran of Ironwood Pack.

Bram of Emberfall Pack.

Tavin of Gray Hollow pack.

Three wolves—Kieran, Bram, and Tavin—all male, all competent, all exactly what the Academy produced when packs sent their best behaved sons instead of their best fighters. Strong, disciplined, predictable. Useful. Not exceptional.

Silas stood apart from them without meaning to. He always did. Broad-shouldered, jaw tight, hands flexing like he was still in the ring. He looked irritated, humiliated, and—most importantly—awake. His loss to Orla had shaken him in a way nothing else here had managed to do.

Orla stood near the edge of the group, posture careful, eyes lowered just enough to be respectful without being submissive. Elis stayed quiet inside her, contained but alert. She’d pushed herself hard today. Harder than anyone else. And she was still standing. That mattered.

I turned and headed for my office, already knowing they’d follow instructions and disperse to showers and recovery without being told. They were learning. Slowly, but they were learning. Inside, I dropped into the chair behind my desk and pulled up the training logs on my tablet, fingers moving automatically as I reviewed footage, stats, and my own notes. Endurance curves. Reaction time. Recovery rate. Mistake frequency. Silas’s profile glared at me.

He needs a primary trainer, Faith said, not unkindly. And not one he can ignore.

“I know.” I leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, cycling through options.

Kieran was disciplined, but he lacked adaptability. He’d reinforce Silas’s worst habit—doing exactly what he was taught, even when it stopped working.

Bram was aggressive, strong, and straightforward. Too straightforward. He’d push Silas harder physically, but he’d never challenge the underlying mindset.

Tavin was observant, cautious, good at analysis. He’d talk Silas in circles and get ignored for it.

I sighed. None of them will reach him, Faith said bluntly. He won’t respect them.

“And Orla?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

Faith didn’t hesitate. She already did.

I frowned slightly, replaying the spar in my head. Orla hadn’t dominated Silas. She hadn’t embarrassed him deliberately. She’d simply outlasted him. Redirected his strength. Made him work until his mistakes stacked high enough to matter.

She exposes his flaws without attacking his pride directly, Faith continued. And he cannot dismiss her victory without lying to himself.

“That’s not a small thing,” I murmured.

No, Faith agreed. And he will listen to her because he does not want to lose to her again.

I exhaled slowly, the last of my resistance draining away. “All right,” I said. “Orla it is.”

Faith’s approval rolled through me, steady and satisfied. They balance each other, she said. Overconfidence and hesitation. Force and endurance. Pride and patience.

I sat forward again and opened the mindlink.

Ryan, I sent.

The response came almost immediately, familiar and warm. Elara. How bad was today?

I smiled faintly. Your son got laid out by a first-year shifter. Cleanly.

There was a pause. Then amusement spilled through the link so strongly I could practically hear him laugh. I’m assuming this was instructive.

Very. I let a hint of satisfaction bleed through. He’s bruised, but awake. He demanded a rematch.

That earned me an actual laugh. Rayla is going to love that, he said. Who’s the cadet?

Orla. Leopard shifter. Black Ridge. Omega-born. I paused deliberately. She’s good, Ryan. Disciplined. Determined. And she doesn’t flinch around him.

Another pause. Longer this time. Then Rayla’s presence brushed the link, curious and sharp.

A leopard? She asked. I want to meet her.

I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. I figured you would.

Keep me updated, Ryan said. And Elara—don’t go easy on him.

I never do, I replied.

I closed the link just as a soft knock sounded at the door. “Enter,” I called. Orla stepped inside hesitantly, hands clasped in front of her, eyes flicking up to mine before darting away again. She looked smaller here, out of the ring, out of the noise. Younger. That, too, mattered.

“Senior Cadet,” she began, then hesitated. “I—I had a question.”

“Sit,” I said, gesturing to the chair across from my desk.

She obeyed, perching on the edge like she might bolt if given the chance. “What’s on your mind?” I asked.

Orla took a breath. “If… if I run into problems,” she said carefully, “because I’m not a wolf. Or a Lycan. I mean—if someone takes issue with that.” Her fingers tightened together. “I want to know what I should do.”

I studied her for a long moment. Then I leaned forward slightly, resting my forearms on the desk. “You bring it to me,” I said simply. Her eyes lifted. “Anyone who messes with you,” I continued, voice calm and very deliberate, “messes with me.”

She swallowed. I tilted my head, a small smile curving my mouth. “I don’t flaunt it,” I added lightly, “but I am the sister of the king.” I winked and the tension drained out of her all at once.

Relief hit her so hard she let out a small, surprised giggle before she could stop herself. “Thank you,” she said, breathless. “I—thank you.”

“Get some rest,” I told her. “Tomorrow will be worse.”

She smiled nervously, nodded, and slipped back out the door.

I leaned back in my chair once she was gone, fingers steepled, thoughts already reorganizing themselves. Timid. Unsure. Conditioned to expect dismissal. A weakness. One I could fix. Silas was the opposite—overconfident, entitled by birth, unused to being challenged by anyone who didn’t already outrank him.

Faith stirred, pleased. You see it now, she said.

“Yes,” I replied quietly. “I do.”

Together, they were exactly what the other lacked. And if I did my job right? They would either tear each other apart—

—or become something far more dangerous than either of them alone. Either way, the Academy would get what it needed. And so would the Crown.