The bus ride to the Academy felt longer than any trip I had taken in my life, even though I knew it was barely an hour. Maybe it was because the world outside the window looked too normal—trees, roads, shops, people walking their dogs. Everything carried on like nothing had changed.
Like my brother wasn't missing.
Like I wasn't pretending to be him.
Like I wasn't heading straight into the place that swallowed him whole.
By the time the bus turned off the main road, my palms were damp inside Elliot's gloves. I wiped them against my pants and straightened his blazer for the hundredth time.
A large stone archway rose at the end of the long road, carved with the words:
"ROYAL TRISKELION ACADEMY"
"ALPHA DIVISION"
Even from a distance, the Academy looked intimidating. Four massive towers lined the main building, banners hanging from their peaks—deep navy blue with silver accents, the crest of the Academy stitched into each one. The gates themselves were wrought iron, tall enough to swallow a two-story house.
And packed with students.
Dozens of boys in uniform gathered near the entrance, some laughing, others bragging, many standing in tight circles like they owned the ground they stepped on. Alpha pheromones weighed down the air—clean, sharp, cold, heavy. None of them smelled like home. None of them smelled like Elliot.
I kept my chin down and followed the stream of students toward the gate. My backpack felt too heavy. My shoes seemed too loud.
A security officer at the front of the line shouted, "Next!"
My heart hammered.
This was the scent checkpoint—the part Elliot had warned me about. Alphas didn't need to think much about it, but for an Omega in disguise, crossing that threshold could mean the end of my freedom. Maybe worse.
I swallowed, touching the inside of my sleeve where I'd hidden the suppressor vial.
"Stay calm," I whispered under my breath. "You're Elliot. You're just another Alpha."
I stepped forward when it was my turn.
A metal arch, similar to an airport scanner but sleeker and thinner, stood between two guards. Lights traced along its edges, glowing faintly blue.
A student ahead of me walked through and the scanner chimed once—approved.
Then it was my turn.
I stepped under the arch.
My pulse jumped so violently that I almost felt dizzy. I held my breath and waited.
One second.
Two.
Three.
A soft chime echoed.
Blue light flashed once.
"Approved."
I exhaled—maybe too loudly—but no one seemed to notice. My legs felt weak with relief.
You did it, I thought.
You passed.
You're inside.
The gates opened.
I walked through.
And the moment I did, everything changed.
The Academy grounds spread out like a scene from a movie—wide courtyards, stone pathways, towering buildings with glass walls reflecting the sky. Students moved in groups, all wearing the same uniform but carrying themselves in ways that revealed who was rich, who was dangerous, and who had power to spare.
There was no place for someone like me here.
But I kept walking.
As I crossed the courtyard, I felt eyes on me. Not in a paranoid way—more like the natural attention an unfamiliar student would get on the first day. Still, it made my skin prickle.
A group of elite students in tailored uniforms leaned against the fountain. They looked older, sharper, the kind of people who had never worried about scholarship fines or broken phones or missing brothers.
One of them—a tall boy with copper hair and intense bronze eyes—glanced at me for half a second before turning back to his group. Cassian Valehart. I recognized him instantly. Elliot had mentioned him once in passing.
"Most dangerous Alpha in the Elite Guard," he'd told me.
"Don't get on his bad side, Ellie."
I looked away.
More students brushed past me—some friendly, some uninterested, some curious.
Then one slowed down.
He was slim, with short black hair and half-frame glasses. He walked like he was memorizing the entire courtyard at once—eyes scanning, mouth curved in a faint smile.
Rowan Blackwell.
The information broker.
Our eyes met for a split second.
His smile widened, like he had found something interesting. Or dangerous.
I looked away quickly.
"Elliot?" someone called.
My heart jumped into my throat—but it wasn't directed at me. Another student named Elliot turned somewhere behind me and waved.
I exhaled.
Too close.
I followed the induction signs toward the dorm assignment area, trying to walk the way Elliot walked—straight, confident, relaxed. But every step felt shaky.
"Hey, you. New guy."
I froze.
A tall Alpha student stepped in front of me, smirking. His friends hovered behind him.
"You're in my way," he said.
"No, I'm not," I replied—Elliot's tone, casual and cool.
The guy stepped closer. He was testing me. Trying to figure out where I stood in the unspoken hierarchy.
"Never seen you before," he said. "What dorm?"
"Still waiting on assignment."
He smirked again. "Scholarship?"
I held my breath. "No."
He leaned forward slightly, scent pressing against me in a subtle challenge. Instinct screamed at me to step back or lower my gaze, but I forced myself to keep my shoulders squared.
"Relax," I said flatly, like Elliot would've.
A faint gleam of respect flickered in his eyes before he shrugged and stepped aside.
"See you around, newbie."
I walked away as calmly as possible…
…until I reached a corner and my knees almost buckled.
This place was a battlefield disguised as a school.
How did Elliot survive here?
How would I?
I reached the assignment hall—a tall structure with glass doors and a marble interior. Students buzzed around the front desk, collecting room numbers and maps.
I joined the line, palms damp.
"Name?" the woman at the counter asked when it was my turn.
"Elliot Fonze," I said, steady as I could.
She checked her list, nodded, and handed me an envelope.
"Room 407. East Wing Elite Dorm. Your roommate has already checked in."
My stomach tightened.
Elliot told me once that Elite Dorms were rare for scholarship students. They were usually reserved for nobles, heirs, elites, and—
Wait.
Roommate.
Checked in.
My hand shook as I opened the envelope.
Inside was a single card:
"407 – HORACE ISAAC FRINTON."
I stopped breathing.
The Crown Prince.
The actual, real Crown Prince of Frinton.
My new roommate.
Oh no.
No.
This couldn't be happening.
The Crown Prince was an Alpha of the highest lineage—someone born with instincts sharper than blades, trained to sense lies, trained to detect danger, trained to recognize even the smallest shift in scent.
I was an Omega pretending to be an Alpha.
A suppressor could hide a lot.
But could it hide from him?
I stared at the room assignment card until everything around me felt faint.
This was too much.
Too dangerous.
Too close.
The entire world suddenly tilted—and for the first time since Elliot vanished, I felt genuinely, heart-stoppingly afraid.
I had to live in the same room as the Crown Prince.
Share a space.
Sleep in the same dorm.
Walk the same halls.
Every day.
Every night.
If he sensed anything wrong about me…
It was over.
My disguise.
My freedom.
My search for Elliot.
Everything.
I forced myself to breathe slowly.
I had no choice.
If this was the room fate assigned me, then I'd walk into it—because Elliot probably did too.
And maybe, just maybe, this was where the truth waited.
With shaky hands, I gathered my bag and headed toward the Elite Dorm building.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
At the door, I paused.
My fingers curled around the handle.
And then…
I opened it.
The Elite Dorm building felt nothing like a student residence. It looked more like a high-end hotel—glass walls, polished floors, metal railings that gleamed under ceiling lights. The air smelled faintly of cedar, mint, and a dozen different Alpha scents layered over one another.
Each one felt like a warning.
I walked slowly, following the hallway signs toward Room 407. Footsteps echoed behind me, laughter spilled from somewhere upstairs, and the buzz of high-ranked students filled the air. Every scent hit my senses with sharp clarity, and every one of them reminded me I didn't belong here.
I stopped in front of the staircase, taking a moment.
"Just breathe," I told myself. "One step at a time."
The suppressor was still working—I couldn't smell my own scent at all. But the lack of it made me feel strangely hollow, like something essential was missing.
Halfway up the stairs, two guys passed me—both tall, both clearly from wealthy Alpha families. They glanced at me with the same mix of curiosity and silent evaluation I'd been seeing all morning.
The same look people gave Elliot.
I looked down and kept walking.
Finally, I reached the fourth floor. The hall was quieter here—more serious, more orderly. Soft light came in from tall windows, and the floor was carpeted to muffle footsteps. Brass number plates marked each door.
Then—
"407."
The door looked normal—just wood and metal like the others—but it felt like a wall between the life I knew and the life I was forcing myself into.
I stood there for a full minute before knocking.
My pulse thudded hard.
No answer.
I swallowed, turned the handle slowly, and pushed the door open.
The dorm room was larger than I expected—two beds, two desks, two wardrobes, and a balcony at the back. The window curtains were open, letting in afternoon light.
On the left side of the room, one bed was already neatly made.
A dark blazer hung over the chair. A silver pen lay on the desk beside several perfectly organized books.
And someone stood beside the balcony door.
He turned when I stepped inside.
For a split second, the world seemed to go quiet.
Crown Prince "Horace Isaac Frinton" was exactly how people described him—tall, perfectly put together, and sharp around the edges. His ash-blond hair fell just above cool silver-blue eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. His uniform fit him like it had been tailored specifically for him. His posture was impossibly straight, controlled.
And the moment he saw me, something in the air shifted.
His scent hit me immediately—clean and cold like winter wind, but with a faint warmth beneath it, like warm amber buried under frost. It wasn't overpowering, but it wrapped around the room in a way that made every instinct in my body go still.
He was an Alpha.
A royal Alpha.
And my new roommate.
His gaze lowered to the card in my hand.
"You're… Elliot Fonze?" he asked.
His voice was calm, smooth, but there was a slight narrowing in his eyes—as if he already sensed something was off.
I swallowed and nodded. "Yeah. That's me."
A lie.
A dangerous one.
He studied me openly, taking in my hair, my stance, the shape of my shoulders, the way I held myself. His eyes lingered—not rudely, but assessing. Calculating.
I forced myself not to fidget.
He stepped forward slightly, close enough that I felt the temperature of the air change.
"Why are you so late?" he asked.
I blinked. "Late?"
"Most of the new Elite Dorm students checked in this morning. You're one of the last."
"Oh." I looked down and shrugged lightly. "Got held up."
Not a great answer, but not suspicious either.
Horace's gaze didn't shift from my face.
"Held up by what?"
His tone wasn't rude—it was direct. Too direct. Like someone trained to catch lies before the speaker even finished them.
My heart stuttered once, but I kept my voice even. "Family stuff."
A pause.
Then he nodded once. "I see."
He walked past me toward the right side of the room where the second bed waited. His movements were precise, almost quiet—like someone who had been trained to move efficiently.
"You'll take that side," he said, gesturing to the bed nearest the door.
I nodded, even though he wasn't looking at me.
It was safer if he didn't.
I dropped my bag on the bed and tried to settle my nerves. The room felt warm, but the back of my neck felt cold. Horace kept glancing at me—subtly, from the corner of his eye—each time I moved.
As if he was cataloguing every detail.
As if he could smell something wrong.
I prayed he couldn't.
The suppressor was strong, but royals were trained differently. They had scent recognition drilled into them from childhood. If anyone could break through a suppressor, it would be someone like him.
I forced myself to unpack slowly—shirts, notebooks, toiletries—trying not to look rushed or anxious.
"So," Horace said behind me, "you were here last semester."
My hand froze around a folded shirt.
He continued, "Your file says you transferred to Alpha Division last year but didn't complete the final training period. Why?"
I swallowed.
"That was… personal," I said carefully.
I had no idea what Elliot's file said.
I had no idea what he left behind.
I had no idea what Horace already knew.
I had to step lightly.
Horace closed the textbook he was holding and turned fully toward me.
"You speak differently now."
My heart dropped.
"What?"
"Your file interview recordings show you speaking more casually," he said. "More confident. Today you seem… different."
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
I forced a shrug. "People change."
Horace didn't blink. "Not that quickly."
I clenched my jaw to keep my expression steady.
He took a step toward me.
I felt a wave of his scent—cold winter wind, soft amber trails—brush against me, brushing against my senses. Not intentionally dominant, but instinctively probing.
My pulse spiked.
His eyes narrowed slightly, reacting to the subtle shift in my breathing.
"Are you sick?" he asked.
"No," I said quickly.
"You're sweating."
"No, I'm not."
He raised an eyebrow.
Great. Now I was definitely sweating.
I stepped back, putting distance between us. "I'm just tired, okay? The trip was long."
Horace watched me for a moment. His expression wasn't angry—just thoughtful. Curious. Suspicious.
But then he nodded slowly and stepped back. "Fine. If you say so."
Relief washed over me—too quickly.
Because the moment he returned to his desk, the door behind me opened.
A tall Alpha with light blond hair and a sharp, polished uniform stepped inside. His posture screamed authority.
Lucian Astor.
Dorm Captain.
And based on the strict expression on his face, he didn't do "friendly."
"New roommate?" he said, glancing between the two of us.
"Elliot Fonze," Horace replied.
Lucian's gaze flicked to me—sharp, calculating, assessing in seconds.
"I remember you," he said. "You were here briefly last semester."
I nodded, trying to look casual. "Yeah."
"You disappeared without warning," Lucian continued.
My breath caught.
Horace turned to look at me again.
"I had family issues," I said quickly.
Lucian watched me for a long, uncomfortable moment—too long—then finally nodded.
"Don't disappear again," he said flatly. "The Academy doesn't tolerate inconsistency."
"I won't."
He stepped aside, letting the door swing open wider.
"Induction orientation at 4 PM," he said. "Don't be late."
Then he left.
The door clicked shut.
Horace looked at me again—not aggressively, not suspiciously, but with the quiet intensity of someone who didn't like puzzles.
"You have a lot of things you're not saying," he said quietly.
I swallowed.
"And you notice too much," I whispered.
He blinked—surprised by the honesty.
Then he said, almost reluctantly:
"That tends to happen when someone shares my room."
That night would be the longest of my life.
Because the more I tried to breathe... the more it felt like Horace was listening.