Chapter 80

Chapter 80: Chapter 80

Selene stood at the edge of the training hall, her amber eyes fixed on the pair across the room.

Soren and Thorne were training together nothing unusual, they were trainer and student, after all. But there was something different about the way they moved around each other today. Something softer. Something more intimate. Soren corrected Thorne’s stance with a touch that lingered a moment too long. Thorne looked up at him with silver eyes that were warmer than they had been all week.

They’ve reconciled, Selene thought, her jaw tightening. Whatever fight they had—whatever rift I caused—they’ve mended it.

She wasn’t certain. Not yet. But the signs were there. The way Soren’s shoulders relaxed when Thorne was near. The way Thorne’s lips curved into a small, private smile whenever Soren spoke to her. The way they moved together like two people who had found their way back to each other.

I need proof, she thought. I need to know for certain. And I need an ally who knows this academy better than I do.

She found Valeria in the senior lecturers’ wing, reviewing training schedules in her office. The older woman looked up when Selene entered, her expression cool and assessing.

"Lady Selene. What an unexpected pleasure."

"I think we need to talk." Selene closed the door behind her. "About Thorne Astrlyn. About Soren. About the secrets that seem to be piling up around this academy like dead leaves."

Valeria’s eyebrows rose. "What kind of secrets?"

"The kind that could destroy a person. The kind that could bring down an entire pack." Selene sat down across from Valeria’s desk, her posture perfect, her amber eyes cold. "I know Thorne is hiding something. Something big. And I suspect you know more about it than you’re letting on."

"And if I do?"

"Then I’m proposing an alliance. Temporary, of course. You want Soren. I want Soren. The prince is in the way of both of us. So let’s remove the obstacle together."

Valeria was silent for a long moment. Then she smiled—a slow, calculating expression. "I’m listening."

The training session ended at midday, and the students gathered in the main hall for an announcement. Proctor Kane stood at the dais, his iron-gray hair immaculate, his robes pressed and formal. Lady Isolde stood beside him, her silver hair gleaming, her expression serene.

"Students of Shadowmoon and Silvermoon," Kane began, his voice carrying across the silent hall. "The annual talent showcase is now exactly one week away. His Majesty, King Aldric Thornridge, and Her Majesty, Queen Seraphina Thornridge, will arrive the day before the festivities begin. Every dignitary of note in the Seven Packs will be in attendance."

A ripple of nervous energy passed through the students.

"The joint training sessions will continue through the end of the week. The showcase events will be announced in three days. And the ball—where we will crown the King and Queen of the showcase—will take place on the final night." Kane paused, his gaze sweeping across the assembled students. "You have one week. Train hard. Rest well. And make this academy proud."

The hall erupted into excited whispers. Nyra stood with her friends near the back, her heart pounding. One week. One week until the King arrived. One week until she had to face the man who could destroy everything she loved.

Soren found her after the announcement, his hand brushing hers in the crowded corridor. "Are you alright?"

"Just nervous."

"Don’t be. Whatever happens, we face it together."

She looked up at him—the steady dark eyes, the strong jaw, the quiet confidence that had become her anchor. "Together," she agreed.

And somewhere in the shadows of the corridor, Selene watched them with cold, calculating eyes.

The abandoned classroom on the east wing was dark and cold, its windows boarded over, its desks pushed against the walls and covered in sheets of gray dust. No one came here anymore. The academy had abandoned this wing years ago, leaving it to the spiders and the mice and the students who needed somewhere to hide.

Killian was one of those students.

He sat on an old teacher’s desk, his back against the cracked chalkboard, his trousers undone, his head tilted back against the wall. His dark hair was disheveled, his eyes half-closed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Draven knelt before him, his broad shoulders blocking out the dim light from the single candle, his mouth working on Killian’s cock with practiced eagerness.

"That’s it," Killian murmured, his fingers threading through Draven’s hair. "Just like that. Don’t stop."

Draven didn’t stop. He never stopped. He was devoted in a way that was almost pathetic a dog who had been kicked too many times and still came back for more. Killian found it useful. He found it convenient. He found it absolutely nauseating.

But Draven’s mouth was warm and willing, and for a few blessed minutes, Killian could close his eyes and pretend it was someone else. Someone with dark hair and whiskey-colored eyes and hands that moved with surgical precision. Someone who never looked at him. Someone who only had eyes for Thorne.

The thought made his jaw tighten. His fingers tightened in Draven’s hair, and Draven made a muffled sound of pain.

"Sorry," Killian said, though he wasn’t. "Keep going."

Draven obeyed. He always obeyed.

When it was over, Killian pulled Draven up and kissed him hard, tasting himself on his lips. It was not affection. It was distraction. It was control. It was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

"I have a plan," Killian murmured against Draven’s mouth.

"A plan?"

"For the showcase. For Thorne." Killian pulled back just enough to look into Draven’s eyes. "The last plan failed because we relied on others. The poison. The Mistwood. All of it fell apart because we trusted people who weren’t committed enough. But this time—" He leaned in and pressed his lips to Draven’s ear, whispering words too soft for anyone else to hear. "This time, it will be just us. No intermediaries. No failures."

Draven listened. His eyes widened. Then a slow, cruel smile spread across his face.

"You’re brilliant," he breathed. "Absolutely brilliant."

"I know." Killian kissed him again. "Now let’s practice. We only have one chance to get this right."

Draven laughed—a low, dark sound—and pulled Killian closer. The candle flickered. The shadows danced on the walls. And the abandoned classroom filled with the sounds of their mingled breathing.

The training grounds were quiet in the late afternoon, most students having retreated to the cafeteria or their dormitories for a well-deserved rest. Ragnar stood in the center of the eastern sparring circle, his axe resting on his shoulder, his scarred face split in a wide grin.

"Again," he said.

Finn lay flat on his back in the dirt, gasping for breath. "I hate you."

"You’ve mentioned that. Several times. Get up."

"I can’t. I’m dead. You’ve killed me. I hope you’re happy."

"I’ll be happy when you block my overhead strike properly. Get up."

Finn groaned and pushed himself to his feet. His training clothes were covered in dust, his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and there was a bruise forming on his forearm where Ragnar’s axe had caught him during their last exchange. But his eyes were bright and determined, and his lips were curved in a grin that matched Ragnar’s own.

"You’re a tyrant," Finn said, raising his practice sword.

"I’m a trainer. There’s a difference."

"Not from where I’m standing."

Ragnar lunged. Finn blocked—actually blocked, his sword catching the axe’s haft and deflecting it to the side. Ragnar’s eyebrows rose.

"Better," he admitted. "Much better."

"I’ve been practicing."

"I can tell. Your footwork is cleaner. Your blocks are faster. You’re not hesitating anymore."

"I had a good teacher."

"A great teacher, you mean."

"Adequate. I had an adequate teacher."

Ragnar laughed and lowered his axe. "Come on. Let’s take a break. You’ve earned it."

They settled onto a stone bench at the edge of the training grounds, their weapons resting beside them, their shoulders touching. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose, and the air was cool and still.

"The showcase is in a week," Finn said quietly. "Are you nervous?"

"Terrified," Ragnar admitted. "But I’m not competing for myself. I’m competing for the academy. For my team. For you."

"For me?"

"Of course for you." Ragnar turned to look at him, his scarred face unusually serious. "You’ve worked harder than anyone I’ve ever trained. You’ve gone from barely being able to climb a wall to holding your own against seniors. I want the King to see that. I want everyone to see that."

Finn’s cheeks flushed. "You’re going to make me blush."

"You’re already blushing."

"Shut up."

Ragnar laughed and slung his arm around Finn’s shoulders. "I’m proud of you, you know. Not just as a trainer. As..." He hesitated, searching for the right word. "As someone who cares about you."

"As your boyfriend?"

"Is that what we are?"

"I don’t know. Is it?"

Ragnar was quiet for a moment. Then he leaned in and kissed Finn—soft and slow, the kind of kiss that was meant to be felt rather than described. When he pulled back, his scarred face was gentler than Finn had ever seen it.

"Yeah," Ragnar said. "I think it is."

Finn’s grin could have lit up the entire training ground. "Good. Because I’ve been calling you my boyfriend to Marek for weeks. It would have been really awkward if you didn’t agree."

"You’ve been what?"

"Kidding! I’m kidding. Mostly."

Ragnar shook his head, but he was smiling. "You’re impossible."

"You love it."

"I love you, you idiot. There’s a difference."

Finn’s heart stuttered. "You... what?"

Ragnar’s ears turned red. "I said what I said."

"You love me?"

"Don’t make me repeat it. It was hard enough the first time."

Finn launched himself at Ragnar, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him with enough force to nearly knock them both off the bench. Ragnar caught him—he always caught him—and kissed him back, and for a long moment, the training ground was the best place in the world.

"I love you too," Finn murmured against his lips. "Just so you know."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Because you’re terrible at hiding things. You wear your heart on your sleeve. It’s one of the things I love about you."

"You made a list?"

"Shut up."

"You definitely made a list."

Ragnar kissed him again to shut him up.