The Ashmoore training field buzzed like a beehive split in half.

Students gathered, whispering, arguing, some crying, some sharpening their claws and teeth as the dean's words still echoed:

"...support Elowyn Froste or Haspan, the fiery lycan."

Silence thudded as Lucian Speare climbed a high platform. His shiny boots scraped stone. His face looked haunted-pale, shaken, eyes hollow.

He lifted a hand.

The noise died instantly.

"My father..." his voice cracked, "...was right in front ...