The room was dim when Simon opened his eyes, but he could already feel his mother was awake.
She moved quietly through the cramped space, folding his clean tunic and smoothing the wrinkles with her palms. A small bowl of porridge steamed faintly on the table beside the bed, next to a piece of sweet root she'd traded extra work for the night before.
"Eat slowly," she whispered. "No crumbs on your collar today."
Simon nodded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His feet hit the cold floor with practiced grace—no stomping, no dragging. Even half-asleep, he moved the way she taught him: carefully, deliberately.
After he washed and dressed, she tightened the buttons on his shirt and combed his hair with her fingers. She didn't speak as she handed him his worn satchel, only kissed his forehead and reminded him in a low voice, "Watch everything. Say little. And remember—none of them know who you really are."
Then he was out the door.
The sky was pale with morning when Simon crossed the stone path to the school hall, nestled at the edge of the central compound. Already, noble children were arriving with attendants trailing behind them. Simon kept to the side as usual, unnoticed, unchallenged.
The first class of the day was History and Order—a subject whispered about by the servant-born as "the lesson meant to remind us of our place."
Simon took his seat in the back, notebook open before the noble-born even arrived. The instructor, an older man with deep-set eyes and a voice that carried without effort, began writing on the board even before all students had settled.
"Power Hierarchy of the Lycan World"
He turned to face them.
"At the top of our realm," he began, "sits the Wolf King—our supreme leader, chosen by blood and might. His word is law. His reign, absolute."
Simon's pencil moved lightly across the page.
"Below him are the noble clans," the instructor continued, "each ruled by Alphas bearing noble titles inherited through generations. Some rule over vast territories and command dozens of smaller packs. These titles—Duke, Marquess, Viscount, Baron—carry weight beyond land or military strength. They determine one's voice at the Summit, one's influence in the King's court, and one's value in the political structure."
He turned back to the board and wrote in larger, heavier strokes:
BLOOD MOON PACK — Viscount Lineage
There was a subtle shift in the front rows. A few of the noble-born sat a little straighter.
"The Blood Moon Pack," the teacher said, "holds the title of Viscount—granted generations ago by the third Wolf King after the Eastern Campaign. It has remained with them ever since, passed from father to son through coronation and rite."
He began describing the customary crowning of a new Alpha—a ceremonial affair where nobles from across the kingdom gathered in full regalia. It was not only a celebration, but a show of status. A performance of legacy. When a pack of higher rank accepted your invitation, it signaled recognition. Legitimacy.
"The greater the title," the instructor said, pausing meaningfully, "the greater the reach. A Duke commands many. A Viscount, fewer—but still more than most. Influence flows downward. Obedience, upward."
He sat in the back, behind a girl with ink on her sleeve and a boy whose pencil kept breaking. He wrote with borrowed tools on borrowed time.
No one here saw him as part of a lineage.Only she—his mother—spoke of strength as something that didn't come from titles.
The instructor finished writing, then turned toward the students.
"Know where you stand," he said. "Not all of you will climb. Some of you are born to follow."
Simon's pencil paused mid-sentence.
And yet… he kept writing.
The bell's clang still echoed as Simon gathered his things, eyes fixed on the worn stone beneath his feet. Then, soft but clear, the girl with the red ribbon called his name.
"Simon."
The flow of children slowed, some pausing mid-step. A whisper rose—a curious murmur drifting through the hall.
"Did he upset her?""Why's she calling him?""Maybe she's lonely too."
Simon didn't stop. He didn't turn. He simply kept his head bowed and walked on.
The girl watched him go, her eyes lingering in quiet thought, unreadable. She said nothing, took no step after him.
Simon's steps carried him back through the winding corridors, away from the watchers, back toward the small room where his mother waited—where the silence was heavy but safe.
Simon slipped through the door, the hush of the evening wrapping around him like a thin blanket. His mother looked up from the small fire, eyes searching but patient.
Without a word, he sat beside her on the cold floor, the worn bowl of stew placed carefully between them. The room was small, cramped, but it held a kind of quiet refuge.
He ate slowly, the day's weight still settling in his chest, while she watched him—silent, steady, a presence that anchored him even when the world outside felt uncertain.
Three months slipped by in quiet rhythm. The little room they shared changed little—except for the addition of a small, worn desk pushed against the wall. On it sat a few old books, fragile and cracked, the ones Simon had quietly received from the school. They were treasures in a world that offered few.
Each day blurred into the next, the routine steady but never easy. Simon studied by the dim light of the oil lamp, his mother nearby, always watching, always guarding the fragile hope in his eyes.
Then, one afternoon, the sharp clang of the school bell echoed through the stone corridors—signaling the end of the day. But instead of the usual dismissal, the teacher's voice carried through the hall, firm and clear.
"Next week, we begin the tests," she announced. "Prepare yourselves."
Simon felt the weight of the announcement settle deep in his chest. Tests meant more than lessons—they meant judgment, a chance to prove himself or be dismissed forever. But instead of fear, a quiet determination took root.
He would work harder than ever. Not for the teachers, not for anybody else —but for the one who believed in him. For his mother.
The small desk in their room became his command post, the old books his battle gear. Every spare moment was filled with study, every page turned a silent promise to her.
As for the girl with the red ribbon—after that day when she watched him quietly, she never called out or tried to speak again. The noble children moved on, their attention shifting elsewhere, leaving Simon to his quiet struggle at the back of the room.
But he didn't mind. His eyes were set on something far beyond their whispers and glances.
He was ready.