Emily At An All Boys Werewolf Academy!

Here i come.

Emily’s pov

It worked—though nothing comes without a price. My wish to go to the Academy was granted, but my identity as a woman in society was temporarily stripped. Still, it did not come without consequences. They gave me an ultimatum: twelve months, a whole school year, to prove myself—or lose more than I could afford.

I groaned inwardly. Lord knows how much worse this could get if they found out that I baited Dr. Drew into lying. Not just prison—death was on the table, as well as the castration of my family line for generations to come.

The train’s intercom crackled, snapping me out of my thoughts: "The train is about to reach the last station, Saint Andrew's. Please be advised that it is the final stop."

As the train slowed, Saint Andrew’s station emerged through the fogged glass, surrounded by dark plumes of smoke and the constant rumble of industry. The platform was a bustling mess—workers hurried in all directions, the clash of voices and metal echoing through the haze. The air was thick with the scent of coal and rusted iron, a far cry from the pristine chambers my family was accustomed to. The station was not really terrible, but it was far from what I had known. Nonetheless, I was not bothered.

My parents nearly had a fit when the elders decided to punish me by insisting I take the train instead of the automobile from home to the Academy. I did not know what was more laughable—their misguided belief that this was a punishment, or the fact that their spoiled brats would’ve been throwing tantrums if their parents had sent them off to a train station

Though my parents never taught me to ride a train, I had always known how. My brother, stoic and skilled, had shown me everything. Horseback riding, driving, and, yes, even how to catch a train. He was a few seconds older, yet his vast network of skills always left me flabbergasted. That, and his overly private nature.

Sighing, I took out the note, the edges frayed and worn. Under direct light, it seemed like a simple scrap of paper. But in the flickering candlelight, the neat handwriting became clearer—my brother’s last words… or rather, his last set of numbers.

345.

I spent days after his death trying to make sense of it, but it did not click. It wasn’t until his Academy uniform was returned that I made the connection. BWA345. That was his room number. Could it be that is where he died? But his body was found in water—so what did that mean?

The questions would not stop and i knew it too. The only way to silence the endless streams of doubt was to board a boat and sail to the one place I hadn’t had the luxury to explore as a woman, a luxury now added with my life hanging on balance, BWA room 345, here I come.