There was a ripple in the stands as heads turned to follow the progress of our group. Walking suddenly became an effort, as if their scrutiny had somehow intensified gravity. I wrestled with a surge of panic, trying to tell myself that I was used to this kind of exposure, but the reassurance fell laughably short. Yes, I'd been stared at all my life — initially for my uncanny resemblance to a lab rat, and eventually for the prestige of my position at Swan Hill Academy — but this wasn't the attention I'd grown up with. To these people, I had something to prove.

The rest of the High Pack awaited us in the middle of the field. Lawrence and Louise were quick to join them, shedding their friendly personas like work uniforms after a long day, slipping into the enviable comfort of authoritarian composure.

I searched their ranks for potential weaknesses, starting with the boy at the end of the line. Dean Hawkins had introduced himself at the assembly as the Omega of the High Pack, the lowest ranking member, but I wasn't stupid enough to dismiss him as a threat. Ambition glinted in his grey eyes like sunlight off a steel blade. His mousy hair was unkempt, and he slouched with the indifference of a big cat at the zoo, but I knew he'd turn lethal in an instant if provoked. The arms poking through his ragged leather vest were slight at first glance, but upon closer inspection I realised that their muscle was simply compact. Dean would certainly pack a punch.

Next in line were Lawrence and Louise, in the order of their rankings. I skipped them, having seen enough throughout the day to understand that they were both cunning and dangerous, despite Lawrence's jovial temperament and Louise's angelic beauty, both of which inspired a disarming trust in their own right. And so it was the Delta, ranked fourth highest within the school, that truly seized my attention.

I couldn't help but compare myself to the girl, knowing that she held the title of Head She-Wolf. In the absence of a High Luna, a rank that was synonymous with marrying into power, the Head She-Wolf was theoretically the most powerful and successful woman in any school. I was looking at the ultimate symbol of female empowerment in an otherwise male-dominated shadow-society. The stick against which we all measured our own worth.

Piper Cross was as short as I was tall, sporting the hourglass curves I'd longed for all of my adolescent life. I felt envy corkscrew into my chest as I took in her burnished, caramel skin and the sleek curtain of hair that fell to the middle of her back, the rich, dark brown of cocoa powder. She waited in that line with the patience of an experienced predator, quiet and watchful, anticipating movement — anticipating prey.

Her emerald, almond-shaped eyes locked onto mine.

The whole school might have been looking at me, but she saw me. Saw the threat that I posed to their hierarchy, saw my selfish ambition and determination. I'd never felt so unbearably transparent in my life. I almost felt ashamed of what I was going to do next.

"Initiates!" Colden barked, demanding our attention. "I won't welcome you to the school."

The people in the stands went dead quiet, recognising that their conversations were worthless compared to whatever the High Alpha had to say.

"You might think I'm being rude," he went on, blue eyes excruciatingly sharp in both colour and regard as they set upon us, one by one. When they landed on me, lingering for a moment, I stopped breathing. He was indomitable, inaccessible, inhuman. Even with the bodies of several other werewolves between us as fodder, I felt threatened by his presence. "But that is the harsh reality of our shadow society. You must earn your place in our community. You must earn my duty of care. That process begins today."

The people in the stands cheered. Colden allowed the applause to exist for a generous moment before slaughtering it with a sharp hand gesture.

I was taken aback by the demonstration of power. Even the High Alpha at my last school hadn't held this kind of sway over the student body; the kids would sooner mock him than entertain such a dramatic display. It was almost reverent, the way in which people reacted to Colden. Like he was superman incarnate, or some kind of living god.

"Who among you volunteers to be the first fighter?" Colden demanded to know.

I almost groaned. I'd been hoping for a roll-call, or a random selection — anything, really, other than having to decide amongst ourselves who would go first. No one in my group looked even remotely prepared to fight, let alone fight first. Even Roland, usually intoxicated by his own confidence, was stalling by looking at the ground. Pathetic!

Huffing with irritation, I shouldered my way to the front of the group. "I am ready."

Colden stared at me, taking his sweet time judging my worth. I wanted to die, or at least curl up into a ball and pretend I was dead, like one of those pill bugs my brother used to torment when we were little. Finally, he nodded at one of his pack members.

What could only be described as a living sculpture sauntered over. The man's features were impeccably chiselled, though the illusion was dispelled by the tangled mess of blonde hair falling into his eyes, swaying with the wind. I focussed on that tiny movement, trying to remember his name, hating the warmth that was creeping up my neck. The way he planted his bare feet in the sand...

I was objectifying him again. I felt a hot rush of shame as I met his eyes. They were deep and clear and sparkling with life, like windows to the seaside. Seriously, what is wrong with me?

This time I focussed exclusively on what he was doing. He held an ancient scroll in one hand, and the other was stretched out between us. Was I supposed to pay to enter this Tournament? I knew it was a school for rich kids, but still...

"Oh," I said aloud, reeling with embarrassment at my stupidity. Too quickly, I placed my hand in his. He squeezed it and shook it warmly, and I couldn't help but marvel over the way our hands fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.

"Hey," he said, with a husky voice that matched the rest of him. "I'm —"

"Sail Bronte," I interjected, the name coming to me with the speed and intensity of a lightning bolt. "I remember. You were introduced at the assembly as the Gamma of the High Pack."

"I was going to say that I'm here to go through the list with you, but you're right — where are my manners?" Sail grinned, obviously pleased that his reputation had preceded him. "I'm Sail, but you already know that. And you might you be?"

"Ivy," I choked out. "Ivy Thatcher."

His smile grew even wider. "Pretty name. It matches the rest of you."

Oh, dear lord. He was flirting with me. I wondered if I should flip my hair, or wink — did people still wink at each other? An elaborate plan to stretch suggestively raced through my mind, like I was getting pumped for the Placing Tournament, but I shook my head at the ridiculous turn of thought. I needed to play it cool, especially if I was going to get anywhere in this school. But I could already feel the heat flaming in my cheeks, and I knew that Sail could see that I was blushing, too. Not for the first time, I cursed my rice-paper skin.

Still, the twinkle in his eyes remained. Did he find my awkwardness endearing, or was he just amused by it? I wasn't sure why the distinction felt so important to me.

"Sail," Colden warned. His voice drove through me like icicles, and suddenly I remembered what I was here to do, who I was here to fight. The gravity of the situation weighed upon me anew, and I disentangled my fingers from Sail's, letting my hand drop.

"Ivy Thatcher," Sail addressed me, entirely formal now. "What was your previous rank?"

"I was..." I hesitated, feeling the weight of all those stares again. Shaking my head, as if to dislodge their attention as one would disturb settling flies, I tried again. "I was the Epsilon of the High Pack at Swan Hill Academy," I said, letting my words ring loud and clear. Colden was proof that one didn't need to stoop to shouting in order to make themselves heard. "I was also the Head She-Wolf, as the High Alpha had no partner."

There was a collective gasp as the spectators took in the title and its implications. A member of the High Pack at another school, transferring in their senior year? It was unheard of. It was scandalous.

Determined to ignore them, I snatched up Sail's scroll and scanned the list of my potential victims with brutal efficiency. Ridgeview Academy comprised approximately one hundred packs, each capped at ten people — save the High Pack, which was capped at seven, just like the city packs.

"Careful," Sail muttered, shifting uncomfortably as I man-handled the scroll. "That thing's a priceless magical artefact. Cane paid a pretty penny for it."

For the first time since taking it, I registered the sensation of the paper beneath my fingers. Only it wasn't paper, I realised with rising disgust; it was a thin sheet of shifting leather. "Let me guess," I said, inspecting the bone spindles, carved into the likeness of snarling wolves. "A witch spelled this to change the names on the list whenever someone's rank changes?"

Sail nodded. "He really hates paperwork."

I wanted to smile, but the urgency of my situation was closing in. I knew the smart option would be to let go of my old title gracefully and settle for a lower position in another pack. I knew the High Pack wouldn't take well to an infiltration of their ranks. As a newcomer, I had absolutely no right to begin at the top or make important decisions on behalf of their community. I could already hear the cries of outrage. I hadn't grown up in this place. How could I possibly represent them if I didn't understand their ways?

But I resolved to inspire their trust, for the alternative was unthinkable. There was no way that I could blindly trust them with my protection, not after what I'd suffered. Not after the way I'd been betrayed.

I would have a hand in any decisions that might shape my life.

"I choose Dean Hawkins," I declared, throwing caution to the wind. "The Omega of the High Pack."