Crown of the Shadow Wolf

Lucy

“Well, look what the river washed in.”

The voice is sharp, coated in honeyed poison. I keep my eyes fixed on the worn toes of my leather boots, focusing on the scuff marks my father made when he was patching them for me last week. Don’t look up. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

“I didn’t realize the Apex Games were accepting charity cases now,” the voice continues, closer this time. A pair of immaculate, silver-buckled boots stops directly in front of mine. They probably cost more than our entire pack’s winter stores.

“Honestly, Marin, I’m surprised she found her way here,” a second voice snickers. “A dud like her, without a wolf to guide her senses. It’s a miracle she’s not lost in the woods, chasing squirrels.”

The laughter that follows is cruel and high pitched. It echoes in the grand registration hall of Lycan Academy, a place of polished marble and vaulted ceilings that seems designed to make someone like me feel small. It’s working. My worn tunic, patched and faded from years of use, feels like a shroud.

I finally lift my chin. Marin Silvermoon stands before me, a perfect porcelain doll with platinum hair and eyes the color of a frozen lake. She’s the Alpha daughter of the most powerful pack on the continent, and she looks at me like I’m something she scraped off her shoe.

“Did you lose your tongue, Clearwater?” Marin asks, tilting her head. Her perfectly sculpted lips curve into a sneer. “Or did you trade it for a slot in the games? I heard your pack was on its last legs. What did your Alpha have to promise? A decade of servitude?”

My hands clench into fists at my sides. I can feel the eyes of dozens of other contestants on us, Alphas and Betas from powerful packs, all of them radiating an energy I can’t feel, a connection I can’t share. To them, I am a broken thing. A werewolf without a wolf.

“I’m here to compete,” I say. My voice is quiet, but it doesn’t tremble. I will not let it tremble.

“Compete?” Marin lets out a theatrical gasp, placing a hand over her heart. “Darling, you’re here to be the first one eliminated. You’re a placeholder. A joke. Everyone knows your sister, Lyra, was supposed to take this spot.”

My breath hitches. The mention of Lyra’s name is a physical blow.

“But she’s too sick, isn’t she?” Marin leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carries through the silent hall. “So they sent the dud instead. The wolfless omega. Tell me, how does it feel to be the greatest disappointment your pack has ever produced?”

Anger, hot and sharp, cuts through the fear. I think of Lyra’s face, pale and thin against her pillow, her breathing a shallow rasp. I remember her gripping my hand, her eyes pleading. ‘Go for me, Lucy. Be my strength.’

That memory is my armor. “I’d rather be a disappointment than a bully,” I reply, meeting her icy gaze.

For a moment, surprise flickers across Marin’s face before it hardens into pure fury. “You little–”

She never finishes. A sudden hush falls over the hall. The ambient chatter of dozens of anxious contenders dies instantly. The air, already thick with tension, grows heavy, charged with an oppressive, electric power. Everyone turns towards the massive oak doors.

They swing open, and he enters.

Evan Blackwood.

He doesn’t just walk into a room; he conquers it. He is the reigning champion of the Apex Games, the Alpha of the most formidable pack in the territories, and he moves with a lethal grace that makes every other wolf in this hall look like a clumsy pup. His hair is as black as a moonless night, and his eyes are the color of a stormy sky. Power radiates from him in visible waves, a palpable force that demands respect, that demands silence.

Marin, who just seconds ago was a queen in her own mind, is now just another courtier. She straightens up, a simpering smile replacing her sneer. Every contender in the room seems to stand a little taller, trying to catch his eye, hoping to be noticed by the champion.

Evan’s gaze sweeps across the room, dismissive and cold. He assesses the new crop of hopefuls with the bored expression of a predator surveying a field of mice. Then, for a single, shocking heartbeat, his eyes land on me. There’s no pity in his look, no disgust like I see in everyone else’s. It’s a brief, penetrating glance. An assessment. He takes in my worn clothes, my defiant posture, the wolfless scent that must be an offense to his powerful senses. Then his eyes move on, as if he’s already forgotten me.

My heart is hammering against my ribs. It felt like he saw right through me, past the omega, past the dud, and into the terrified girl who is only here because her sister is dying.

“Alright, settle down, pups,” a gruff voice barks from the front of the hall. An old, grizzled wolf with a scarred face stands beside a large, glowing rune stone. This is Master Torvin, the head instructor and a former champion himself. “Welcome to Lycan Academy. Welcome to the Apex Games. Your rank, your future, your mate… it all starts here. But first, we need to know what you are. Or, in some cases, what you are not.”

His eyes flick pointedly in my direction. More quiet snickers ripple through the crowd.

“The arcane stone measures the strength of your inner wolf,” Torvin explains, gesturing to the pulsating artifact. “Step forward, place your hand upon it. The magic will seek your core. It will be… unpleasant. Your reading will be displayed on the board. This is your starting rank. Don’t disappoint me.”

One by one, they step forward. The first is a broad shouldered Alpha from the Stonecrest pack. He places his hand on the stone, and a guttural roar tears from his throat as blue light engulfs him. He stumbles back, panting, as a high number flashes onto the large scoreboard above. The crowd murmurs in appreciation.

A slender beta goes next. She whimpers as the light takes her, collapsing to her knees. Her score is respectable, but her display of weakness earns her a few disdainful looks.

Marin steps forward like she’s walking onto a stage. She places her palm on the stone with a delicate grace. The light that envelops her is a brilliant, blinding silver. She grits her teeth, a faint sheen of sweat on her brow, but she remains standing. Her score flashes onto the board, the highest yet. She throws a triumphant, venomous smirk directly at me.

My turn is coming. My stomach feels like it’s full of churning ice. I’ve never been touched by raw arcane magic before. They say for a wolfless, it’s like being set on fire from the inside out. The magic searches for a beast to connect with, and when it finds an empty void, it recoils violently.

I touch the small, carved wooden bird in my pocket. Lyra made it for me. Its smooth surface grounds me.

“Next. Clearwater,” Torvin calls out, his voice laced with boredom.

Every eye in the hall is on me. I can feel their anticipation, their hunger for my humiliation. They want to see me scream. They want to see me break. I walk forward, my boots silent on the marble floor. The world narrows to the glowing stone in front of me.

I think of Lyra. Her frail form. Her fierce belief in me. ‘You’re stronger than any of them, Lucy. You just have a different kind of strength.’

I place my hand on the stone.

Pain.

It’s not fire. It’s worse. It’s a thousand icy needles stabbing into every nerve, seeking a connection, an echo of a wolf spirit that isn’t there. The magic shrieks into the hollow space inside me, a silent, metaphysical scream of frustration. It rips and tears at my soul, demanding an answer from the void.

I clench my jaw. I will not scream. I will not give Marin the satisfaction.

Instead of fighting it, I open myself to it. I feed the arcane torment with my own. I give it every sneer, every pitying look, every lonely night spent listening for a howl I would never hear. I give it the fear that gnaws at my heart for Lyra, the desperation of my pack, the crushing weight of being the only broken thing in a world of predators.

I channel a lifetime of quiet suffering into a single point of focus. I build a wall of sheer human will against the magical onslaught. The pain is immense, a tidal wave that should shatter me.

But I do not flinch.

I don’t make a sound. I don’t even tremble. I just stand there, my hand pressed against the stone, my expression calm, my breathing even. I stare straight ahead, my focus on a point on the far wall, and I endure.

It feels like an eternity. Then, the light sputters and dies. The pain recedes, leaving a dull ache in its place. I pull my hand back slowly.

A single digit, barely above zero, flickers onto the scoreboard next to my name. A wave of derisive laughter washes over the hall.

“Pathetic,” Torvin grunts, already looking past me. “Barely a flicker. As expected. Next!”

I turn and walk back to my spot at the edge of the room, keeping my head held high. I ignore the jeers and the mocking looks. I did what I came to do. I survived.

I risk a glance across the room, to where Evan Blackwood stands, observing the proceedings. He hasn’t moved. But his bored expression is gone. His head is tilted almost imperceptibly, his stormy eyes narrowed. He isn’t looking at the scoreboard with its pathetic number.

He’s looking at me.

And in his gaze, I don’t see mockery. I see a flicker of something else. Something I can’t name. It’s sharp, analytical, and… intrigued. It’s as if he didn’t see a dud who barely registered on the scale. He saw a girl withstand a torrent of arcane power without making a sound, and he’s the only one in this entire hall who understands what that truly means.