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 and lavender with a powdery undertone unique to his personal stock.

He didn’t speak. He just exhaled through his nose and moved faster.

His chest was tight.

Why did it bother him?

He had told Azpen to give it to her. He just hadn’t expected the fact to wake something wild within him. Or.... something confused.

Was he soft? Or worse... was he.... gay?

No. No, no.

He shook his head. Cursed under his breath. The moment the whistle blew to end the senior lap, he peeled away from the main group and stormed toward the gathering hall exit with the rest of the upperclassmen.

The lousy newbies began their violent race behind him.

“I need cold water." He muttered to no one in particular. “And a new brain.”

An hour later, the juniors assembled in the Instinct Studies Classroom. The room was open-roofed and circular, with wind chimes hanging from the ceiling and bright candles burning faintly at the corners. The instructor — a middle-aged Beta named Master Yorrin — stood with arms crossed behind his back.

“Scenting is not just about instinct. It’s about processing.” He began. “Sometimes your wolf gives you a signal, but your brain misinterprets it. We scent things we crave. Things we fear. Even things we want to destroy. Anything.”

A pause.

He looked around the class.

“Today’s exercise will help you practice honesty.”

The students straightened, some already groaning in protest.

“Testing your mind's process helps before I begin to mess with your mind. You will each scent one person. Your wolf will say something. You will write it down. And hand it directly to them. No names. No debates.”

Whispers flew around the room.

“Twenty of you will start according to your sitting from the right hand side.” Master Yorrin added. “One sheet each. Write. Tear. Deliver.”

Scrolls and charcoal sticks were passed out.

That same boy who was always tormenting her was among the first twenty.

Elowyn jumped but tried to remain composed.

A few boys laughed, already elbowing each other about who to go first.

Elowyn sat still, eyes on the paper.

She hadn't spoken to anyone all morning.

Suddenly, a crumpled piece dropped on her lap.

She opened it.

“You smell like anxiety and deception.”

Her jaw clenched.

Another fell near her boot.

"Your scent has been wiped out pure with the herbs."

More.

"You're so tiny, you're not processable."

"You're so scrawny, you smell scrawny."

"Empty."

“Is your wolf dead?”

Another.

“Are you even real?”

The words piled. One vulgar. One sarcastic. One painfully honest.

Elowyn stared ahead, refusing to break. But it stung.

At a point, she blinked back tears and hoped no one had noticed.

Then....

A clean slip of paper landed silently on her desk.

No smirk followed it. No cruel chuckle.

Just quiet.

She unfolded it.

She raised her head up and saw the boy who seemed very analytical anytime he was around her. The boy who was always giving her the creeps.

She burst open with curiosity so she hurriedly went back to reading as he passed her by.

Elowyn didn't even notice the hefty boy who bent over and whispered something vulgar in her ear.

“Same scent as yesterday. Muted. But buried under something powdery. Like binding dust. Wolf can’t read it. Doesn’t mean it’s not there.

-Riven Thorney.”

Her breath caught.

It echoed the same words Baron had spoken in the scenting arena the day before — to the instructors.

Only one person had been that retentive when he said it.

And that was Riven Thorney.

He was watching her again. Calm. Curious. Dangerous.

She folded the slip quietly and stuck it in her pocket.

This one felt different.

Someone had noticed her.

Not what she lacked.

But what she might be hiding.

And it was beginning to confuse her.