Chapter 65

Chapter 65: Chapter 65

The wine was cheap and bitter, stolen from the academy’s cellars during the chaos of the afternoon preparations. Killian had downed half the bottle before the first bell of evening, and by the time the moon rose over the towers, he was drunk enough to stop thinking.

It didn’t work. The thoughts were still there Corvin’s face, Corvin’s voice, the way Corvin looked at Thorne like he was the only person in the world. The way Corvin had looked at him in the potions lab, cold and suspicious, as if Killian was something unpleasant he’d found on the bottom of his shoe.

He doesn’t see you, the voice in his head whispered. He’ll never see you. Not while Thorne is alive.

He took another drink. The wine burned going down.

His feet carried him through the dark corridors without conscious direction, muscle memory guiding him past the sleeping quarters and the empty classrooms and the storage rooms where students weren’t supposed to go. He wasn’t looking for anything. He was just... walking. Trying to outrun the thoughts that chased him.

He found Draven in the old training hall on the east side the one that had been abandoned after the new grounds were built. Draven was sitting on a stack of dusty mats, sharpening his axe by the light of a single candle. He looked up when Killian stumbled through the door.

"Killian?" His voice was surprised, hopeful. "What are you doing here? It’s late."

"I couldn’t sleep." Killian leaned against the doorframe, the half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers. "Couldn’t stop thinking."

"About what?"

"About everything. About Corvin. About Thorne. About how everything is falling apart and no one even notices." He took another drink. "No one ever notices me."

Draven set down his axe and stood. "I notice you."

"Do you?"

"Always." Draven crossed the room and took the bottle from Killian’s hand. "You’re drunk."

"Observant."

"You should sit down before you fall down."

"I don’t want to sit. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to feel anything anymore." Killian looked at Draven—really looked at him. The broad shoulders. The strong jaw. The eyes that looked at him with something that might have been love. "Make me feel something else."

Draven hesitated. "Killian—"

"Please." The word came out cracked and desperate. "I can’t have him. I know I can’t have him. But I can have you. You’re here. You’re always here. Please."

It was the "please" that broke Draven. It always did.

He pulled Killian into his arms and kissed him hard, and Killian kissed him back with all the desperation of a man trying to drown himself in someone else’s body. The wine bottle clattered to the floor. Hands pulled at clothes. Draven’s back hit the stack of dusty mats, and Killian followed him down.

It was rough. It was angry. It was nothing like what Killian wanted—nothing like the gentle, reverent touches he imagined sharing with Corvin. But it was something. It was a release. It was a way to forget, even for a few minutes, that he was invisible to the only person who mattered.

When it was over, they lay tangled together on the mats, breathing hard. Draven reached up and touched Killian’s cheek.

"I love you," Draven whispered. "You know that, right?"

Killian didn’t answer. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes empty.

"I know," he said finally. "I know."

But the words were hollow, and they both knew it.

The main training grounds were alive with activity despite the late hour.

Corvin and his friends had claimed the eastern circle, their sparring matches drawing a small audience of curious onlookers. Lucian was still recovering from his Mistwood injury, so he sat on the sidelines offering sarcastic commentary while Corvin faced off against Orion.

"You’re slower than usual," Orion observed, blocking a strike that should have landed. "Distracted?"

"Focused," Corvin corrected. "There’s a difference."

"Is there?"

Corvin answered with a combination that caught Orion off guard, forcing him back several steps. Lucian whistled appreciatively from the sidelines.

"There it is," Lucian called. "I was starting to think you’d gone soft."

"I never go soft."

"That’s what he said."

"Lucian, I will end you."

"You’d have to catch me first, and you’re too slow tonight."

Corvin rolled his eyes and reset his stance. "Again. And this time, Orion, don’t hold back."

Orion raised an eyebrow. "You’re sure?"

"I’m sure."

The match that followed was brutal and beautiful—two highly skilled Alphas pushing each other to their limits. Lucian’s commentary faded into the background as Corvin lost himself in the rhythm of combat. Strike. Block. Counter. The familiar dance of violence was almost meditative, and for a few precious minutes, he forgot about the showcase and the King and the bond and the woman he couldn’t stop thinking about.

When they finally called a draw, both breathing hard, Lucian was grinning.

"Not bad," he said. "For a man who’s been locked in his lab for a week."

"I’ve been researching."

"Researching. Right. Is that what we’re calling it now?"

"What else would we call it?"

"Obsessing over a certain silver-haired prince?"

Corvin’s expression flickered. "I’m not obsessing."

"You’re absolutely obsessing. You’ve been different since the Mistwood. Quieter. More focused. And every time Thorne walks past, you get this look on your face like—"

"Lucian."

"I’m just saying. If you want to talk about it—"

"I don’t."

"Fine." Lucian held up his hands. "But if you change your mind, I’m here. I’m always here. Even when you’re being insufferable."

Corvin almost smiled. "I appreciate that."

"Good. Now help me up. My side still hurts, and Orion hit me with a training dummy earlier."

"You hit yourself with a training dummy."

"It attacked me first."

Across the training grounds, Ragnar and Soren were locked in their own sparring match.

They had been friends since childhood brothers in all but blood and their fighting styles reflected years of shared training. They knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses, each other’s tells and habits. A spar between them was less a fight and more a conversation, each strike and counter a word in a language only they understood.

Ragnar lunged. Soren sidestepped, caught his arm, and used the momentum to spin him off balance. Ragnar stumbled, recovered, and laughed.

"Your footwork is wrong," Soren said.

"My footwork is fine."

"Your right foot is dragging. You’re compensating for your left knee." Soren demonstrated the correction. "Like this. See the difference?"

Ragnar tried the stance again, adjusted, and nodded. "Better?"

"Better."

They resumed their spar, the rhythm of their blows echoing across the grounds. After a few minutes, Ragnar spoke again.

"So. The showcase. Your father. Everything that’s coming."

"What about it?"

"Are you ready?"

Soren blocked a strike and countered. "I have to be."

"That’s not what I asked."

"I know." Soren dropped his stance slightly, and Ragnar mirrored him. "I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. But I don’t have a choice."

"You always have a choice."

"Not about this." Soren lunged, and Ragnar barely blocked in time. "My father is coming. He’ll expect perfection. He’ll expect me to be the heir he trained me to be. The Lycan. The future king. And I have to pretend that everything is fine while the woman I’m bonded to hides in plain sight, pretending to be a man, with assassins circling and a betrothal contract hanging over my head."

"That’s a lot."

"It’s exhausting."

"Have you told her? About the betrothal?"

Soren’s rhythm faltered for just a moment. "No."

"Soren—"

"I know. I should have told her weeks ago. I should have told her in the forest. I should have told her in the healer’s wing. But every time I try, the words won’t come." He blocked a strike and countered. "I’m afraid, Ragnar. Afraid of losing her. Afraid of what she’ll think. Afraid that when she finds out I’ve been hiding this from her, she’ll never trust me again."

"She’ll understand."

"How do you know?"

"Because she loves you." Ragnar lowered his fists. "I’ve seen the way she looks at you. The way she smiles when you’re not looking. The way she risked her life to follow you into the rogue’s trap. That’s not just the bond. That’s real."

Soren was quiet for a moment. "When did you get so wise?"

"I’ve always been wise. You were just too busy brooding to notice."

"I don’t brood."

"You’re brooding right now."

Soren almost smiled. "Shut up and fight."

They resumed their spar, and for a little while, the weight on Soren’s shoulders felt just a little bit lighter.

Nyra’s training session with her friends had dissolved into chaos somewhere around the third round.

Finn was on the ground, laughing so hard he couldn’t stand. Marek stood over him with a bemused expression, his practice sword dangling loosely from his hand. Jasper sat on a bench nearby, his book open in his lap, though his eyes were on the scene before him rather than the pages.

"I yield," Finn gasped. "I yield. You win. You’re the champion. The king of everything."

"I didn’t even hit you," Marek said.

"You looked at me threateningly. It was very intimidating."

"I was blinking."

"Intimidatingly."

Nyra was leaning against a training post, her own laughter making her ribs ache. It felt good to laugh. Good to forget, even for a moment, the weight of everything that was coming.

"Finn, you’re hopeless," she said.

"I’m not hopeless. I’m creatively defensive. I lull my opponents into a false sense of security by falling over."

"Is that a strategy?"

"It’s my strategy. It’s very effective."

"It’s very something."

Jasper closed his book. "The Silvermoon delegation arrives tomorrow."

The laughter faded. The reminder of the outside world was like a cold wind through the training ground.

"I know," Nyra said.

"Are you ready?"

"I have to be."

"That’s what everyone keeps saying." Jasper’s sharp eyes met hers. "But being ready isn’t just about training. It’s about being prepared for anything. The girls from Silvermoon are not like the students here. They’re trained in politics as much as combat. They’ll be watching everything. Analyzing everything. Looking for weaknesses."

"Then I won’t show them any."

Jasper nodded slowly. "Good. But be careful, Thorne. The showcase is a battlefield, and you’re one of the most visible targets."

"I’m always a target."

"I know. That’s what worries me."