-Vaughn Blackmore:
Morning doesn't come quietly here.
It never does.
Even before the bell, before the footsteps in the hallway, before the voices start bleeding through the walls, there's this… shift. Something in the air that changes, like the entire place is waking up at once, stretching into another day that doesn't care whether you're ready or not.
I wake up before it happens.
Again.
My eyes open slowly, adjusting to the faint light slipping through the thin gap in the curtains. For a moment, I don't move. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting myself exist in that small pocket of silence before everything starts demanding something from me.
My body aches.
It's deep, settled into my muscles in a way that feels permanent now. My arms feel heavy, my legs worse, my shoulders tight from yesterday's drills. Even my back protests when I shift slightly against the mattress.
It's not sharp pain.
It's not something I need to fix.
It's just… there.
A reminder.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand over my face before pushing myself up into a sitting position. My elbows rest on my knees, head dipping forward slightly as I let myself breathe for a second.
Then I reach for my cap.
It's always the first thing I grab.
My fingers close around it without looking, and I pull it on, adjusting it carefully until it sits exactly how I need it to. The familiar pressure settles something in me instantly, something instinctive that I don't question anymore.
I roll my shoulders once, trying to loosen the stiffness, then glance across the room.
Darien is still asleep.
Of course he is.
He's half off the bed, one leg hanging over the side, blanket twisted around his waist like he fought it in his sleep and lost. One arm is thrown over his face, covering his eyes completely, like that alone is enough to keep the day from reaching him.
I watch him for a second longer than necessary.
Then I stand.
"Darien."
No response.
I take a few steps closer, nudging the edge of his bed lightly with my foot.
"Darien."
He groans immediately, turning his head just enough to press his face deeper into the pillow. "No," he mumbles.
I blink. "No?"
"Not happening," he mutters, voice thick with sleep. "You can go without me."
I cross my arms, looking down at him. "That's not how this works."
"That's exactly how this works," he replies without opening his eyes. "You go. I stay. Everyone wins."
"That's not what's going to happen."
He lets out a long, dramatic groan, dragging his hand down his face before finally cracking one eye open to look at me. "You ever think about being less… intense in the morning?"
"No."
"Yeah," he mutters. "Didn't think so."
I don't move.
I just stand there, staring at him.
That seems to annoy him more than anything I could've said.
He exhales sharply through his nose, pushing himself up slowly, like every movement is personally offensive to him. His hair sticks up in every direction, and his expression is somewhere between exhausted and irritated.
"You're unbelievable," he says, rubbing his face with both hands. "You know that, right?"
"You're welcome," I reply calmly.
"If I collapse during training, I'm blaming you."
"If you collapse, it's because you didn't wake up on time."
"That sounds like something you'd say to justify it."
"It's also true."
He stares at me for a second, then huffs out a quiet laugh despite himself, shaking his head. "I don't know why I talk to you."
"You started it."
"I regret it."
"Too late now."
He mutters something under his breath as he swings his legs off the bed, reaching for his shirt. "Give me two minutes."
"You have one."
"You're pushing it."
"So are you."
He glares at me, but there's no real heat behind it.
Just routine.
I step back, giving him space to get dressed while I grab my own things, adjusting my sleeves and rolling my shoulders again to work out the stiffness.
By the time we step out into the hallway, the camp is already awake.
Doors are open. Voices echo. Footsteps overlap in uneven rhythms. Some people are fully alert, already moving with purpose. Others look like they're still halfway asleep, dragging themselves forward out of obligation rather than choice.
Darien falls into step beside me, still fixing his shirt. "I hate mornings," he mutters.
"I've noticed."
"You enjoy this, don't you?"
"Not really."
He glances at me. "Could've fooled me."
—
The training field feels different today.
It's not obvious at first.
Everything looks the same. Same layout. Same groups forming, same instructors moving through the space with sharp, practiced focus. The routines are familiar. The structure hasn't changed.
But the energy has.
There's something underneath it.
Something quieter.
People are talking more than usual—but not louder. If anything, their voices are lower, closer, like they don't want to be overheard.
I catch pieces of it as we walk past.
"…I'm telling you, he's already here."
"…this morning, yeah. I saw him near the main building."
"…Grayson. It has to be him."
The name sticks.
Not because I recognize it.
But because everyone else does.
Darien hears it too. I can tell by the way his posture shifts slightly, the way his attention flicks toward a group nearby before snapping back.
We reach the usual spot, where Cole and Marcus are already standing, mid-conversation. They both look up as we approach, their expressions shifting immediately.
"You heard?" Cole says, not even bothering with a greeting.
Darien exhales. "Yeah, we caught parts of it. What's going on?"
Cole glances around quickly, like he's checking who's close enough to hear, then steps in a little closer. "Grayson," he says, lowering his voice. "Ryland Grayson."
Marcus nods slightly, his arms crossed. "He got here this morning."
There's a pause.
Darien lets out a quiet whistle under his breath. "Well… that's great."
"That's not great," Cole mutters. "That's a problem."
I stay quiet.
But I listen.
"Why?" Darien asks, frowning slightly. "He's just another Alpha, right?"
Marcus shakes his head. "No. Not just another Alpha."
Cole leans in a little more, voice dropping further. "He's next in line. Head Alpha. His pack's one of the strongest there is. His father is an enigma."
Darien's expression shifts. "You're serious?"
"Yeah," Cole says. "People don't talk about him for no reason."
Marcus adds, quieter now, "They say he's not just strong. He's… precise. Controlled. Like he doesn't waste movement, doesn't lose focus. Ever."
Darien exhales slowly. "That sounds exhausting."
"That sounds dangerous," Marcus corrects.
There's a brief silence.
Cole glances at me. "You heard of him?"
I shake my head once. "No."
"Lucky you," Marcus mutters.
Another whistle cuts through the air before anyone can say more.
Sharp.
Immediate.
The instructor steps forward, his presence enough to pull everyone's attention without effort.
"Line up," he calls.
We move instantly.
No hesitation.
The group falls into formation, rows straightening, shoulders squaring, the low murmur of conversation fading into silence almost immediately.
The instructor walks slowly along the front, his gaze moving over each of us like he's measuring something we can't see.
"How are we feeling today?" he asks.
No one answers.
It's not a real question.
He nods anyway, like he expected that.
"Good," he says. "Because today—"
He stops.
Just slightly.
His attention shifts toward the edge of the field.
And that's when I feel it.
That shift again.
The same one from earlier.
He straightens a little, then says, "Before we begin, we have someone joining us."
There's movement in the line.
Subtle, but immediate.
Everyone's attention shifts in the same direction.
And then—
He walks in.
A guy. A tall man.
He moves as if he belongs here already, as the space adjusts around him instead of the other way around. Each step is measured and controlled, as nothing about him happens by accident.
From where I'm standing, I take him in slowly.
He's tall.
Not just in height—but in presence.
Broad shoulders, solid build, the kind of strength that doesn't need to prove itself because it's already obvious. His hair is short, freshly cut, sharp in a way that makes everything about him look more deliberate.
More precise.
There's nothing careless about him.
Nothing loose.
Everything is controlled.
The instructor steps slightly to the side. "This is Ryland Grayson," he says, his voice carrying just enough weight to make it clear this matters. "He'll be training with us from now on."
There's a shift in the group.
It's not loud.
But it's there.
Respect.
Awareness.
Something heavier than curiosity.
Ryland doesn't speak immediately.
He just looks.
His gaze moves slowly across the line, taking in every face, every posture, every detail like he's already placing people where they belong.
And then—
It lands on me.
It doesn't pass over.
It stops.
Just for a second.
But it's enough.
There's nothing obvious in his expression.
No smile.
No frown.
Nothing anyone else would notice.
But I feel it.
That look.
Sharp.
Cold.
Assessing in a way that feels less like curiosity and more like judgment already made.
Like he already decided something about me.
Like I've already failed something I didn't know I was being tested on.
My jaw tightens slightly.
I don't look away.
I don't drop my gaze.
I hold it.
Just for that second.
And in that second—
There's something there.
Something subtle.
No approval.
Not even real interest.
Something closer to… dismissal.
Like I'm already out of place.
Like, I don't belong here.
Then he moves on.
Just like that.
Like I'm not worth more than a glance.
The instructor starts speaking again, explaining something about schedules, expectations, integration—
I don't hear it.
Because something just shifted.
Something real.
And I already know—
This isn't going to stay quiet anymore.