Administrative Manor,
Provost's Office,
Rina's POV
The mahogany table felt like the center of the world as we sat at the confluence of ancient grudges and volatile power.
The air remained completely stalled in the aftermath of the tension Kaelion and I had generated. Jaxon, having delivered his curt apology, kept his attention rigidly fixed on Provost Azazel. He wore his indifference like a shield, choosing to believe that the rumors ghost of his past simply did not exist.
I watched him, the severed mate bond pulse in my chest acting as a familiar, dull throb. He truly believes his performance is flawless, I thought, my lips curling internally. He is so focused on displaying authority that he misses the absolute truth: he is already trapped in a game he doesn't understand.
The Provost slapped his hand onto the table, trying desperately to salvage the meeting.
"Well, esteemed students," he began, his voice high and strained, "we have several critical protocols to cover before the Opening Ceremony..."
"I must apologize again, Provost." Jaxon cut him off immediately, leaning forward dramatically, with a frustrated grunt.
He sought to dominate the space, to prove that his own problems were more important than the academy's agenda.
"You will not believe the morning I've had. My pack has been banned from Nespresso."
A low wave of confusion rippled across the table. Faethan, the Sun Fae Prince, raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, his golden aura momentarily flickering in amused disbelief. Princess Xylia, the Water Fae, leaned over to whisper a question to the Elven Princess Terrica.
"Nespresso…?" The Provost stammered, looking confused. "The abandoned estate on the edge of the forbidden sector?"
"Oh, it's not abandoned anymore," Jaxon snapped, oblivious to the growing drama he was creating. His focus was singular: the mystery of the witch who had defied him.
"Apparently it's being rejuvenated by some powerful witch. Word spread about the surge of magic, so obviously I went personally to reclaim the land for my pack. It is strategic territory, and I will not tolerate encroachment from unknown casters."
Gamma Caleb hovered rigidly behind him, arms folded and gaze sharp, but his loyalty blinded him to the magical signature seated just yards away.
"But the wards she placed?" Jaxon continued his tirade, his voice rising with theatrical, bruised pride. "I've never seen anything like them in the northern reaches. They threw me back like a rag doll. Me! Jaxon Fenrir. My clothes were ruined, and my Alpha Force couldn't even dent the perimeter."
The silence that followed was heavy with anticipation. The Dragon Prince Zadkiel looked genuinely intrigued, his molten eyes boring into Jaxon while calculating the level of power required to repel a high-ranking Lycan Alpha. Valerius, the Daemon Lord, wore a slow, chilling smile that suggested he found the Alpha's humiliation delightful.
"S-so… do you have a grudge against this witch?" The Provost swallowed hard, the fear evident in his eyes. "The new owner of the estate?"
"On the contrary." Jaxon's grin returned, predatory and sharp. "I want to meet her. Anyone who can place wards that strong - wards that can repel a Fenrir Alpha - is someone I want to hire. Or at least convince her to train my pack for the coming season. That kind of power belongs to the Fenrir Clan, one way or another."
The arrogance of his claim was astounding, but before any of the other scions could voice a protest, I decided it was time to end the farce. A cold voice slid across the room like frost forming on glass. It was quiet and perfectly controlled, yet it stole the air from every lung present.
"That would be me."
Everything froze, even the Provost's shimmering form stopped mid-ripple. The murmurs died instantly, and the rustle of Rhysandra Nychus's velvet skirt ceased as she turned to stare at me. Jaxon's gold eyes, which had been fixed on the Provost, widened in utter shock. He was hearing my voice, but his mind hadn't yet reconciled the impossible fact that the owner of that voice was the woman he had actively ignored. The cognitive dissonance was a physical force, trapping him in his chair.
Kaelion Draven, who had been watching the Alpha's performance with chilling amusement, let the faintest, most unsettling smile touch his lips. He lifted a hand to his chin, adjusting the line of his cloak, entirely enjoying the show as the Alpha's world began to crumble.
I remained perfectly seated, the absolute and terrifying focal point of the room. My aura hummed, ancient and terrifyingly calm, radiating from my gilded chair like a physical weight. Jaxon, forced to turn by the sound, choked on the air he was breathing. His golden eyes finally landed on me, and the shock was a raw, exposed wound.
"Y-you… You're alive." The accusation was a guttural, shattered gasp that broke the silence of the hall.
The Alpha mask disintegrated, revealing genuine horror and disbelief beneath the tan skin.
"Ghost," Caleb whispered from behind Jaxon, his face draining of color until he looked like a statue.
"Revenant…"
The primitive fear of the magically returned dead was a palpable scent in the air, thick and metallic.
In the same heartbeat, Caleb reacted. Instinct overriding logic, he hurled a dagger at me. It was pure reflexive defense against the impossible anomaly seated before them. A flash of silver caught the light, a whisper of power following the blade's path.
I didn't even blink as the steel raced toward my throat. The entire room saw the silver dagger flying towards the vulnerable figure in the gilded chair, but the blade never reached its target. My index and middle fingers lifted slowly from the armrest, effortlessly catching the lethal blade mid-flight with a precision that defied the laws of physics. Purple runes, ancient and complex, flared brilliantly around my hand for one terrifying second, illuminating my silver hair like a coronet of power. I held the dagger as if picking a fallen leaf from the air.
With a cold, dismissive smirk that was more potent than any Alpha's roar, I flicked my wrist. The dagger didn't fall to the floor; it reversed its trajectory, gliding with impossible control. It slipped blade-first back into the sheath concealed inside Caleb's pocket, perfectly nested as if it had never left.
I tilted my head at him, my voice cold as ice water, delivering the ultimate social and magical chastisement.
"You should be careful who you throw your grand-uncle's dagger at, Caleb Pawton. It would be a waste of a good antique."
"H-how…?" Caleb went utterly rigid, his face an ash-grey mask of shock and magical defeat.
"Only my mother knows where that dagger came from, and she is long dead." The words were barely a squeak.
I offered him a thin cold smile that promised a future of retribution.
"I know many things, Caleb Pawton, and I suggest you keep your weapons tucked away until you understand who you are facing."
Jaxon finally stood, his powerful legs threatening betrayal as he looked physically ill. He was the conqueror completely undone in a room full of his peers.
"Lumira… I-I thought you were..."
"Dead?" I asked softly, my voice barely above a whisper, yet it swallowed the space between us.
"Yes. A convenient assumption for a man who didn't want to face the consequences of his betrayal."
My gaze pinned him in place - seeing past the Alpha, past the golden boy, into the panicked core of the boy who had ruined the woman I now inhabited.
He couldn't breathe under the weight of my scrutiny. Jaxon Fenrir - alpha, tyrant, golden boy of the Hinterlands - actually took a staggering, instinctive step back, stumbling into his chair as if pushed by an invisible hand.
My presence didn't just fill the room; it swallowed Jaxon's dominance whole, leaving him a shadow in the wake of my reclamation... and I was just getting started!