5:00am

The door to my grandfather’s office clicks shut behind me, and I drop into the chair opposite his desk before he can tell me to sit. My pulse is still too fast. Anger has nowhere to go now, so it sits under my skin, hot and useless. "It has been humiliating," I say, staring somewhere beyond him. "Coming back to a room built for an heir when I am not one, only to find a notice on the door after dinner telling me to contact Grey if I want to sign up for patrol." Grandfather watches me for a moment. "I can imagine today has unsettled you." I huff a laugh. "That is one word for it." "But sometimes things are not about you, Josh." My jaw tightens. "She may be a gamma," he continues, "but she is exceptional." "Exceptionally annoying." The words snap out before I can stop them. Grandfather’s expression hardens at once. I know that look. I should have kept quiet. "She beat you," he says. My spine stiffens. "And then," he continues, quieter now, which is worse, "you beat her badly enough to leave her significantly injured and in need of medical attention. You did that after the match was over. After she had already won." Heat crawls up my neck. "She broke my arm." "During an approved manoeuvre." "She humiliated me." "No," he says sharply. "You humiliated yourself." The words land hard enough to silence me. Grandfather leans forwards, his eyes fixed on mine. "And not once did you apologise. I had to do so in your stead." My stomach twists. I did not know that. Somehow, that makes it worse. The old wound in my pride opens again at the knowledge that he apologised for me. I had not known that. Somehow, that makes it worse. "She broke my arm," I say, frustration rising again. "She humiliated me in front of—" Grandfather growls, loud enough to cut straight through me. I stop. "During an approved combat manoeuvre," he says sharply. "Executed correctly. You chose to fight against it because you cared more about how it looked than what was happening. You broke your arm, Josh." Heat crawls up my neck. "She put me in that position." "And you were too proud to recognise she had already won." The words hit hard enough to silence me. Grandfather leans forwards slightly, his expression colder than I am used to seeing it. "You cared more about being beaten by a gamma than about what that whole interaction truly meant." I fold my arms, because I need something to do with my hands. "And what did it truly mean?" He studies me for a long moment, then leans back in his chair with a sigh. "If I have to tell you, Josh, then you learned very little from your father over the summer." I look down at the floor, his disappointment settling over the room like weight. Dad had spent the summer trying to prepare me. Hours at a time, four days a week. Training, talking, correcting, pushing. All of it meant to shape me into something I was no longer sure nature had any intention of choosing. My hopes had been dwindling since March, since the day Dad came to Exton and asked if I had felt it. The burn. The shift. The blood-deep certainty that I was his heir now. I had felt nothing. "Go to bed, Josh," Grandfather says at last, quieter now. I get up without another word and leave. Halfway down the corridor, I nearly turn towards my old room out of habit. Then I remember. New room. Wrong corridor. Heir quarters. The room I had not earned, waiting for me anyway. It still feels strange. Too polished and deliberate, like the school has decided what I am before I have done anything to deserve it. The room mocks me. I still cannot quite believe Archer asked to move out. As though I had become dull. As though last year had not taken me apart in ways I still cannot properly explain. When I step inside, Owen is sprawled on one of the sofas in red tartan pyjama trousers, a mug of tea in his hand, looking as though he has lived here for years. He probably deserves the room more than I do. "What got you so angry?" he asks. "You flew out of here like a shot." "My grandad made a gamma patrol lead," I say bitterly. Owen’s eyebrows lift. "Lyra Grey?" I look at him. "You know her?" "Biology," he says. "She’s great." Of course she is. "I saw the note on the door," he adds. "People say her wolf fights like a beta." "Rumour," I mutter. "Maybe. But she did break your arm." I shoot him a look. Owen takes a calm sip of tea. This arrangement is already becoming irritating. I roll my eyes and yank my hoodie over my head as I head into the bedroom. Brilliant. Exactly what I needed. My new roommate already singing Grey’s praises. Maybe you need to reevaluate her, Calix suggests. No chance. She’ll hardly give me decent patrols, will she? She hates me. Before you realised it was her, you were looking at her— I growl and kick off my jeans with more force than necessary. Owen appears in the doorway, still holding his tea. "What else is bothering you?" I glance at him. "You always this observant?" "Usually." Annoying. I drag on a pair of navy joggers and shrug. "Archer asked to move away from me. Apparently I’m not the person I used to be." Owen leans against the doorframe. "Do you mean the person you were this time last year?" I nod. "He was a bit of an arsehole," Owen says. I scoff. "I was fun." Owen takes a sip of tea. "Those are not mutually exclusive." "I was fun," I say. "And plenty of girls liked me that way." My eyes move around the room properly for the first time. The outer walls are almost entirely glass, looking out over the dark grounds. Too exposed. Too sleek. Too much like somewhere designed for a version of me I have not become. "Lycan females are biologically inclined to find alphas attractive," Owen says, wandering back towards his bed. "Especially at our age." I stare at him. "Are you quoting a textbook at me?" "Probably." "Great." "I’m just saying," he continues, setting down his mug, "being wanted because you’re an alpha is not especially difficult. Or impressive." I give a short laugh. "That was a burn." "It was an observation." "Felt burn-adjacent." Owen shrugs. "You could be awful and some girls would still look at you like you were worth chasing. Personally, I’ve found being decent works better." "How noble." "Also more successful." I scoff, but the words land badly. I snort, but his words land more heavily than I want them to. My unopened suitcase sits at the end of the bed like an accusation. Another thing I have not dealt with. "What classes do you take?" Owen asks, mercifully changing the subject. "Economics and political science for pack stuff. Geography and photography because I actually like them." I unzip the suitcase and immediately regret it. I must have shoved half my wardrobe in there without thinking. "Nice. I take geography too," Owen says. "Graphic design is my other subject." I nod, lifting out an armful of clothes and dumping them into the wardrobe. Sorting can be tomorrow’s problem. Assuming tomorrow’s problems form an orderly queue, which seems unlikely. A heavy flatness settles over me as I stare at the rest of the mess. "Fancy the gym at five?" Owen asks. "I usually go at four. Don’t like going too close to dinner." He shakes his head. "Five a.m." I pause. I used to do that. Before last year. Before everything got ugly. Before I started waking up angry and calling it normal. "I’ll set my alarm," Owen says, as though the decision is already made. "You’ll enjoy it. I think it’ll do you good." He heads back out to the sitting area with his tea, leaving me staring through the glass at the dark grounds below. For a while, I just stand there, my reflection staring back. This room. This year. This version of me. None of it feels settled. Something has to give. Five a.m. used to mean discipline. Clarity. Getting ahead of the day before it had the chance to get ahead of me. Dad had spent the summer trying to knock some sense into me. Maybe it had not been a waste. I glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table, then reach over and set it. 5:00. It is a small thing. Pathetic, probably. But as I climb into bed, it feels like a step. And that is more than I had when I walked out of my grandfather’s office. Sleep comes eventually, but not well, and when my alarm cuts through the room, it feels like a blade. For a second, I have no idea where I am. Then it all comes back. New room. New year. New expectations. Grey. The continuing absence of anything resembling worthiness. I groan and roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. It is still dark outside. Properly dark. The kind of dark that makes this feel like a very bad decision. I could turn it off. Go back to sleep. No one would know. We would, Calix says quietly. Owen would. I exhale through my nose and drag a hand over my face. Yeah. Brilliant. I swing my legs out of bed before I can argue myself out of it. By the time I have pulled on a T-shirt and joggers, my body is awake enough to resent me. What used to be routine after I blended with Calix now feels strangely foreign. Like I am borrowing discipline from someone I used to be. When I step into the living room, Owen is already there. Of course he is. He is leaning against the worktop by the fridge, drinking what looks like a protein shake and looking far too put together for someone awake at this hour by choice. "There he is," he says, with more cheer than any decent person should possess before sunrise. I grunt and grab a bottle of water. We do not speak much on the way down. The school is quiet at this hour in a way it never is during the day. Empty corridors. Dimmed lights. No voices bouncing off old stone. Peaceful. I had forgotten that. The gym doors slide open, and the familiar scent hits me at once: rubber flooring, metal, the faint tang of yesterday’s sweat. There are already a handful of people here. Oddly, that helps. The place feels familiar by degrees, and something in me settles before I can talk myself out of it. I used to love it here. I want to again. "Five minutes to warm up," Owen says, already heading for the treadmills. "Yes, coach," I mutter. There is no real bite in it. If this is what Dad intended when he put Owen in my room, then I can see the shape of it. Support. Pressure. Structure. Someone steady enough not to move when I push back. Annoyingly, Owen seems built for the role. I start running. At first, it feels awful. My legs are heavy, my breathing uneven, my thoughts still knotted from yesterday evening. But after a few minutes, the rhythm takes over. Footfall. Breath. Pace. Nothing to prove. Nothing to win. Just movement. By the time I step off, I feel clearer. Not fixed. Not even close. But better. Owen tosses me a towel. "Feels good, right?" I wipe my face and nod once. "Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it." He grins as if he already has. "Too late." We move through weights after that. Nothing excessive. Controlled. Steady. Owen trains like he thinks: deliberate, efficient, no wasted effort. I used to train like that. I used to love combat for the same reason. Not because I always won, though I usually did, but because it could be clean. Honest. One body moved, another answered. Balance shifted. Skill mattered. Lately, too many people have fought my rank before they fought me. They either try too hard to prove they are not intimidated, or not hard enough because they are. Either way, it is boring. Grey had never done either. She fought the body in front of her, found the weakness in it, and made it everyone’s problem. The thought lands before I can stop it. She had made it matter. My grip tightens around the bar. I used to love combat because it was clean. Before last year twisted everything into proof. Before rank became something to wield instead of something to carry. Before Grey. The way she stood in the queue yesterday, unmoved and unimpressed. The way she looked at me in my grandfather’s office. I falter slightly in the middle of a rep. She had not looked angry. She had not risen to it. She had just gone still, shoulders tight, as though her body knew what to expect from me before I had decided what to say. Because she remembers what you did, Calix says. My jaw tightens. So do I. I push the weight up harder. "She’s fine," I mutter, too sharply. You do not know that. She handled it. The thought lands badly. I know it does. She had needed medical attention. Grandfather had apologised for me. And now she braced when I stood too close. I rack the bar with a heavy clang. Owen glances over. "Careful," Owen says. "You’re lifting like you’ve got something to prove." "I don’t," I reply, too quickly. Owen gives me a look. I grab the towel and drag it over my face, willing the thought away. Grey is patrol lead now. That is all this is. She is still a nuisance. An inconvenience. Someone I now have to answer to, because there is no version of this year where I do not sign up for patrol. This is my family’s school, our legacy, and I am an alpha. I have to. I want to. I used to love patrol. The quiet of it. The boundary lines. The certainty of having something useful to do, especially when rogues tested the edges and I could meet a threat without having to think too hard about myself. But answering to Grey? A gamma? That is what bothers me. Probably.