Chapter 5 #2
"Nova Bardot." He uses my full name, formal trial language. "No pack. No bloodline declaration. No family connections to any recognized line. Guardian deceased. Parents deceased, cause of death listed as vehicle accident."
He lets that sit in the air.
"We know about the library," he continues. "What you've been researching. Council records, bloodline histories, Silverpelt references." He tilts his head. "Interesting reading for someone with no declared bloodline. Silverpelt wolves don't exist anymore. The Council made sure of that."
I say nothing. In dominance trials, silence is a valid response.
"Your parents," the third figure says, his voice rougher than the others. "Tell us what you know about how they died."
"Vehicle accident," I say. "That's what's on record."
"And what do you think is true?"
"I think I don't know you well enough to answer that."
Nico makes a sound that might be approval. "She holds position. I'll give her that."
"Position without power," the third figure says. "Dangerous combination."
Caspian steps forward and even with the mask I can feel the weight of Alpha assessment.
"You're unranked here, Nova. No allies, no pack, no one to speak for your bloodline.
We need to know what you are. Whether you're a dormant Alpha who'll challenge for position, a worthless Omega who'll weaken the pack, or something else entirely. "
"And if I'm something else?"
"That depends entirely on what that something is.
" He's close enough now that I can see his eyes through the mask's openings.
"Some wolves submit to testing quickly. Those assessments are clean and fast. Some hold position longer.
Those are the ones who earn respect or elimination, depending on what we find. "
"I'm not interested in either."
"That's not your choice." He reaches out and for a second I think he's going to touch my face, establish physical dominance, but he stops just short.
"You have information about your bloodline, about what you might be, about why you're really here.
We need to determine if you're a threat to pack hierarchy.
Eventually you'll show us what you are. The only question is whether you do it voluntarily or whether we force it out. "
I look at him and I think about pack law, about the fact that this isn't personal cruelty, it's biological imperative.
They need to know if I'm a threat. "If you're trying to intimidate me into submission, it's working.
If you're trying to make me show my hand before I understand what's happening, you're wasting your time. "
"We'll see."
He steps back. The three of them turn toward the far end of the chapel. I hear a door open and close, footsteps receding, and then silence.
I wait ten seconds. Then I go to the front door.
The handle doesn't turn.
I put both hands on it and push. It gives me nothing. Someone bolted it from outside. This is part of the trial. Testing whether I can problem-solve under pressure, whether I panic, whether I have the resourcefulness to escape.
I step back. I breathe once, slow, and I look at the room.
The candles are still burning. The narrow windows near the roof are too small. The shuttered windows along the walls won't budge. The side door is bolted.
I work methodically around the room, testing each window. At the far end there's a window that's latched but not shuttered, and when I press the frame it flexes.
I find the heaviest candleholder, solid iron, and I strike the frame beside the latch. The rust cracks. Three more strikes and the latch shears and the window swings out.
The opening is narrow. I have to drag the collapsed pew over to reach the right angle, and climbing through I catch both forearms on the rough stone, the inside of my left arm scraping open in a long line that I feel as heat first and then sharp pain.
I drop to the ground outside and land in a crouch. The cold air hits my face and I stay crouched for a moment with my hands flat on the frozen ground, breathing.
The cut is open properly, running from below my elbow to my wrist. Not deep but long. The blood is dark. I press my right hand over it and I stand.
I look back at the chapel. Stone, dark, the candlelight leaking faintly through sealed shutters.
They left me in there not to torture me but to test me. Can she think under pressure? Can she problem-solve? Does she panic or does she adapt? This is how wolves assess potential pack members, how they determine rank.
I wrap my right hand around my left forearm, apply pressure, and I walk back to the dormitory.
The window with the broken latch is where I left it. I climb through, go up three flights, and in the bathroom I run cold water over the cut. Then I tear a strip from an old shirt and wrap it tight.
Back in my room I lie down with my hands flat at my sides and I stare at the ceiling.
I don't sleep.
I lie there and I think with as much clarity as I can manage. They're testing me because they can smell I'm different, because I don't fit their categories, because unknown wolves are threats until proven otherwise. This isn't personal. This is pack law.
They know things about my parents. They have access to records I don't have. They think I might be Silverpelt, which means they think I might be dormant Alpha bloodline, which means they see me as a potential threat to their hierarchy.
They're right that I'm hiding something. They're not right about what.
The cut on my arm is still bleeding slightly through the cloth. I press my palm against it and I wait for the familiar warmth of my body knitting itself together, the strange fast healing I've had since I was twelve.
It doesn't come.
I lie there for ten minutes. The cut keeps bleeding, the skin stays open. Something about this place, or the stress I'm under, or what they did to me tonight has disrupted whatever mechanism usually handles this. My body isn't healing as it should.
I press harder on the wound and I watch the ceiling get lighter as the sky shifts from black to dark grey. When the grey is full I get up, wash my face, change my shirt, and go down to breakfast with my arm wrapped in white cloth under my sleeve where no one can see it.
In the morning, nothing.
Not a word in the corridors, not a look across the dining hall, nothing in any class. The silence isn't absence, it's enforced pack protocol. The trial happened outside official channels. Therefore it didn't happen. Therefore my arm under my sleeve is nothing anyone can acknowledge.
But I can feel it in the building.
The extra space that opens around me in the main corridor, wolves instinctively giving a wide berth to someone under assessment.
A table near the library emptying before I sit down, individuals developing pressing reasons to be elsewhere.
In History the student who used to share notes with me finds a different seat, pack instinct overriding personal preference.
The girl who was friendly in the first week has developed perfectly delivered apologies. She has other obligations, she has a study group, she has a thing. Each time she means it, and each time pack hierarchy is working exactly as designed.
I eat alone at the back table, eating everything on my plate because not eating would signal weakness.
I don't look at Caspian's table where he sits easy and central with Nico beside him.
I don't look at the faculty table where Professor Harmon is a dark presence at the end.
In every class I take my notes and I answer questions when called on, proving I'm still functional, still holding position.
I carry the isolation like an uncomfortable coat that doesn't fit well but is mine now regardless.
What I don't do is show submission. I don't eat less, don't walk faster past groups of students, don't let my eyes drop when Caspian and Nico pass me in the corridor. Pack hierarchy is established through body language and I'm not giving them submission signals.
I look straight ahead and I keep walking.
When Lily sits down across from me at breakfast without saying anything, just puts her tray down and starts eating, the simple uncalculated fact of her there is the first demonstration of pack loyalty I've received and I have to look at my food for a moment before I trust my face.
"The trials will continue," she says without looking up from her plate. "They won't consider passing you until they've determined exactly what you are."
"I know."
"You got out of the chapel. That's good. Shows resourcefulness." She spears something on her fork. "But they're going to escalate. They need to see how you handle real pressure."
"I'll handle it."
She looks at me finally. "I know you will. I just want you to know I'm here, in whatever ways I can be."
I nod once.
We finish breakfast without talking and we walk to first class together, and I carry the small unremarkable warmth of that through the entire morning.