Reborn by Moonlight: My Revenge to Alpha

The days began to settle into a routine, a quiet rhythm marked by Idris's hours spent studying under my watchful eye. Each morning, I'd arrive in the study to find him already seated at the desk, flipping through the heavy tomes that filled the room.

I had been assigned the task of observing his progress and ensuring he prepared for the upcoming examination arranged by the Duke. At first, I'd been skeptical—after all, Idris was known for his impatience with authority, and he'd turned away several of his tutors. But as I watched him, I began to see something unexpected.

Despite his indifference to formal instruction, Idris was highly intelligent, almost frighteningly so. Whenever I tested him on his knowledge by posing questions from the material, he would answer with ease, his responses quick and accurate. And when I asked for explanations, his answers revealed an impressive grasp of detail, showing that he understood far more than he let on.

This didn't make watching him any less tedious, though. Often, I found myself growing restless as he behaved so surprisingly well, making it rather uneventful. One afternoon, as I absently dusted a nearby shelf, a particular title caught my eye: The Manual of Non-Human Species Studies.

The book's title alone intrigued me, and though I quickly grabbed it, I realized I couldn't take it without risking suspicion. I needed to appear casual, as if I were gathering various volumes for my own interests.

To avoid arousing suspicion, I also selected a few fairy tale books and poetry collections, then inquired of Idris, "Master Idris, may I borrow a few books to read?"

Idris looked up, his gaze flicking over the books in my arms with faint amusement. "Do you plan on using these books as pillows?"

As expected, he was as acerbic as ever. I mustered a smile. "Seeing Master Idris study so diligently is truly inspiring. I simply wish to broaden my knowledge."

"Reading impractical books will only make you dumber," Idris retorted sharply.

"In that case, I'll take it as permission granted," I pretended not to hear his remark.

He merely shook his head, turning back to his studies, the slightest hint of a smirk on his lips. It was a small victory, but it meant he hadn't noticed my curiosity about his true nature.

I had seen Idris transform once, and even though it was long ago and under horrifying circumstances, I had no choice but to acknowledge the fact that he was, indeed, a werewolf. I had no idea what studying his kind could reveal, but I needed every piece of information I could gather if I was going to understand him and prevent a future tragedy.

Over the next several days, I would read The Manual of Non-Human Species Studies, whenever I have time alone. The book explained the characteristics of various non-human creatures, from werewolves to vampires and even witches.

I also gained more insight into the werewolf community specifically. From the information gleaned from the book I borrowed from Idris, I speculated that perhaps many members of the Gordondale family were werewolves.

For instance, I suspected Duke Donovan might be a werewolf himself and possibly the Alpha of a wolf pack, with his eldest son, Tristan, likely poised to succeed him. As for Cassandra, she seemed highly likely to be Idris's mate.

Yet, according to The Manual of Non-Human Species Studies, werewolves, despite their extraordinary strength and swiftness, tended to keep a low profile in everyday life, endeavoring to conceal their identities within human society to minimize unnecessary conflict and panic.

The weeks passed, and soon it was the day of the examination, the much-anticipated event that would determine the progress of the Duke's children. The Duke himself had made it clear that the study results would have a tangible effect in his assessment of the quality of the potential successors.

I had assumed Idris would excel, especially after witnessing his understanding of the material firsthand, but he surprised me.

To my shock, Idris left nearly half of the questions unanswered. Page after page remained blank, his handwriting scrawled across only a few lines of each answer sheet.

When he turned in his work, his face was impassive, as though he didn't care what anyone thought of him. But the sight of those empty pages sent a wave of confusion through me. Why would he, after all his effort and understanding, refuse to complete the test?

Idris's teacher, a stern, gray-haired man with thin glasses and an even thinner patience for Idris's defiance, scanned through the papers with an unimpressed frown. With each blank answer, his scowl deepened, his lips curling in obvious disapproval.

"This is exactly what I expected," he muttered loud enough for all to hear, his tone laced with disappointment. "Lord Idris has always been the least promising of the Duke's children. Clearly, he lacks the dedication required to take on the role of successor. Lord Tristan, by contrast, shows all the qualities we seek in a leader."

I watched Idris's face carefully, waiting for a reaction, but his expression remained stoic, his eyes fixed on a spot just past the teacher's shoulder.

Whatever he was feeling, it was buried beneath his carefully controlled demeanor. It was unclear what he was really planning to do there, but somehow it was quite upsetting watching him like this, refusing to defend himself even when faced with such blatant criticism.

But then I quickly talked myself out of this feeling – Why would I care about misjudgement against Idris after all?

During these days, I have also began to notice a pattern in Idris' schedule. At first, it was subtle—he would disappear in the evenings, returning hours later with a quiet, unreadable expression. Sometimes, Cassandra would accompany him, though she seemed hesitant, her own gaze holding traces of worry and uncertainty.

As the days passed, Idris's absences became more frequent, stretching from the late hours of the night into parts of the day. He would leave the manor without explanation, and I was left to tend to my duties in the eerie stillness of the estate.

It was during one of these absences that I encountered Gabriel Whitmore, Idris's right-hand man. Gabriel was hard to miss—a tall, striking man with sharp, chiseled features, a tangle of light brown hair tied back loosely, and a pair of piercing hazel eyes that seemed to see through everything. He appeared to be a lot more approachable than Idris.

Gabriel appeared at Gordondale Manor more frequently now. I had caught snippets of their conversations in passing, but they were always too hushed, too cautious for me to make sense of.

Something was definitely brewing, the increasing frequency of Gabriel's visits, combined with Idris's and Cassandra's unexplained departures, made it clear that they were preparing for something. But what?