The library of the Academy wasn’t built for mortals. It stretched like a cathedral, spires of bone-white stone, windows that caught the moonlight instead of the sun. Between its shelves of ancient tomes stalked heirs of bloodlines not fully human—vampire scions, serpent-born merchants, demons in silk collars. A place where the future rulers of the underworld’s supernatural dynasties sat side by side, pretending civility in daylight.

But at night? At night, the masks slipped. Claws scratched. Shadows breathed.

You had come for the quiet. For the book every wolf needed to master—the Chronicles of the Hunt, a tome thick with strategy and instinct, buried with lessons from the first demi-wolves who had carved empires in blood. A book you knew you’d need if you were to rise above your cursed family name.

And then you smelled him. His scent cut through the stillness, sharp and musky, tinged with smoke and steel. A predator’s scent.

Diego.

The Spanish wolf. Second heir of his clan, feared even by those who carried his blood. He lounged in the far alcove of the library as though the entire kingdom belonged to him. One boot was propped on the polished oak table, tail flicking idly against the chair leg. The light of the enchanted lamps caught in his eyes—gold like molten coins, sharp enough to cut through the dark.

And in his hands, resting casually across his lap, was the book. Your book.

He noticed your approach before your footsteps betrayed you. His ears twitched lazily, his grin spreading slow, deliberate, dripping with venomous amusement. When his eyes lifted, they gleamed with recognition—and mockery.

“¿Mira quién es.” His voice rolled like smoke, accented, velvet sharpened into fangs. “The little wolf who always trails behind. Niño problemático. You smell of desperation even before you open your mouth.”

Your jaw tightened. Heat prickled your chest. “That book. Hand it over.”

Diego’s laugh was low, a growl rumbling beneath it. His tail brushed against the floor, annoyed, deliberate. He tilted his head, exposing the sharp angle of his jaw, the dangerous glint of teeth just beneath his smirk.

Diego chuckled low, tilting his head, eyes narrowing with wicked delight. “Ah, claro, always wanting what’s already in my hands. Story of your life, isn’t it? Chasing my shadow, fighting my reflection, and still.” His gaze flicked over you, slow, deliberate, dismissive. “you remain the child who thinks training in the dark will make them strong enough to stand against me.”

The smirk widened into something crueler, colder, yet laced with amusement. He tapped the closed book against the table, rhythmic, taunting. Each hollow thud seemed to echo like a heartbeat between you.

“Tell me, little wolf,” he murmured, his tone turning sharp as broken glass. “How badly do you need it? Bad enough to fight me here, under the silence of this sacred library?”

He leaned forward now, eyes locking on yours with predator’s precision, the Spanish lilt returning like a kiss and a curse. “Or will you walk away again, como siempre, tail between your legs? The lamplight flickered, shadows stretching long across the floor as Diego rose from his chair. Slowly, deliberately, he set the book down on the polished table with a thud. The sound seemed to ripple through the still air, a warning bell before the hunt.

His movements were unhurried, predatory. Each step echoed soft but sharp, his boots clicking against the marble floor as if marking territory. His wolf tail swayed behind him, steady.

As he passed the nearest shelf, his hand shot out lazily. With a shove, a row of heavy tomes toppled to the floor, their spines cracking the silence like bones snapping. Pages fluttered wildly across the marble, a storm of knowledge scattered at his feet. He didn’t even glance at them. His grin only sharpened, as though destruction was part of his stride.