Third Person's POV Being far from the Sanchez den, Alfie's features carried the trace of the family resemblance, but unlike Magnus, whose sharp, predatory angles and dangerous aura marked him as the Shadowbane Alpha, Alfie exuded a quieter strength. His smile softened his gaze, and behind the lenses, his eyes rippled with the calm shimmer of moonlit water. Aysel didn't know how to respond. She had no memory of him, no shared past. They weren't kin in any meaningful sense-not like Magnus and the other Shadowbane wolves, where loyalty and rivalry ran deep. To her eyes, the Sanchez den was divided neatly: allies of Magnus, or adversaries. Alfie fell into neither category. So she simply murmured an indifferent, "Oh," not intending to pry. Why should she care that he claimed to have seen her before? Her attention flicked instead toward the dining area. Magnus had promised her a small cake, but it hadn't arrived yet. Alfie chuckled softly again, almost imperceptibly. If it weren't for Magnus' presence, if he hadn't witnessed the chaos by the pond, he might have truly reconsidered his stance. He remembered the year he first saw her. He was a junior in academy, accompanying a mentor to judge a competition in A City. Amid a crowd of students, she had stood out-striking, solitary, and unlike her outwardly sociable sister, who flitted among admirers and thrived in the spotlight. Alfie had always known not to judge by appearances. That week, he observed the subtle manipulations, the whispered provocations, and the envy swirling among the young wolves around her. Boys who might have been envious or frustrated by her talent and cunning ended up confounded, their schemes unraveling. He had watched, detached, without the impulse to intervene, even though she had made a lasting impression on him at first sight. Outwardly, he appeared gentle, approachable, the kind of young wolf girls admired from afar. But beneath the calm, the cold pride of the Sanchez line ran deep. He was not naturally compassionate; even as a child, he had walked past bloodied victims of bullying without flinching. His mother, Johanna, had been incapable of full-hearted love for him, her heart hardened by the enmity surrounding his birth. His father, Lyall Sanchez, had been distant but carried a subtle guilt, thinking him the child of another, and the family dynamic was one of careful distance, of restrained care and silent voids. Alfie grew up learning that the world was harsh, human desires ugly, and survival often meant keeping the heart distant. He preferred the company of creatures untainted by human pettiness. Insects, oddities, creatures that could be observed and understood. Aysel-at sixteen, then just a fledgling of Moonvale-reminded him of the most exquisite butterfly: delicate, brilliant, ephemeral.Until the competition's second day. He discovered her trapped in a restroom, locked inside. As he debated whether to intervene, she simply retrieved a small knife and a set of lockpicks from her bag, calmly freeing herself and climbing out the window. A sixteen-year-old girl, carrying her own tools of escape. Alfie laughed silently at the audacity. In the hall, he met her gaze-dark yet luminous, calm and indifferent. She did not flinch at his observation, only lifted her slender neck like a swan, stepping toward the arena with measured grace. Interest pricked his instincts, and he followed. He watched as she dominated the competition, each boy who might have harbored jealousy or petulance swiftly undone by her intelligence and skill. Her uniform wrinkled, her face smudged with dust from earlier skirmishes, yet on the arena floor, she outshone every competitor. Then came the retribution. Boys who dared provoke her were rounded up, pushed into the washroom, and dunked repeatedly in icy water. Ordinary students dared not enter, peering from the shadows, horrified. Alfie lingered, observing, watching the balance of chaos and order, the assertion of her dominance. On the final day, a violent storm struck. Alfie noticed his blue-tongued skink missing. Concerned, he went outside and saw Aysel's sister with a couple waiting to retrieve her. Her sister admitted that Aysel had clashed with a boy and left in a huff. The parents, upset but distracted, barely inquired, they brought Aysel's sister away for celebration but even hadn't wait for Aysel. Alfie chuckled softly. The older sister had claimed a minor prize, while Aysel, unassuming yet radiant, had crushed the competition. He waited under the eaves, rain dripping, until Aysel emerged, small and purposeful, scanning for someone. She crouched near the ground with quiet precision, and in her palm was the skink he had lost. "Why are you still following me?" she asked, a mixture of amusement and reproach in her calm voice. "Sorry... I can't take you home. You'd die."