THE TRIPLET ALPHAS ARE HERS

Chapter 162: The First Graduate

The palace kitchens were already in chaos when Tom arrived.

Pots clanged. Chefs shouted. Servants ran between stations, balancing trays and avoiding collisions. The air smelled of roasting meat, fresh bread, and something sweet baking in the far ovens. Tom stood at the entrance, his new apron clutched in his hands, his face pale.

He was seventeen. Human. The first graduate of Seren’s school.

And he was terrified.

"You must be the new cook." A wolf woman with flour on her apron appeared before him. She was broad-shouldered, grey-muzzled, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. "I’m Marga. Head of kitchens. You’re late."

"The guards at the gate; they didn’t believe I was supposed to be here."

"Human. Young. First day." Marga snorted. "I’ll have words with them. Follow me."

Tom followed.

The kitchens were larger than he had imagined. Rows of ovens. Massive cauldrons. A butchering table where a wolf was breaking down a side of beef. A pastry station where three humans were rolling dough. The staff was mixed. Wolves and humans, working side by side, shouting orders and jokes across the steam. frёeωebɳovel.com

"Your station is here." Marga pointed to a small prep table near the ovens. "You’ll start with vegetables. Onions, carrots, celery. Basic knife work. If you prove yourself, you’ll move to sauces. Then meats. Then maybe, someday, your own station."

Tom nodded. His hands were shaking.

"Relax, boy. I don’t bite." Marga’s eyes glinted. "Unless you burn my soup. Then I bite."

She walked away.

Tom stared at the pile of onions.

Seren found him an hour later.

He was crying—not from emotion, from the onions. His eyes were red, his cheeks wet, his knife work steady despite the tears. He had already filled two bowls with perfectly diced vegetables.

"Tom." Seren leaned against the prep table. "How’s your first day?"

He looked up, startled. "Your Majesty—I didn’t—you shouldn’t be—" fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

"I should be wherever I want to be." She smiled. "I used to work in these kitchens, you know. Before. When I was a servant."

Tom’s eyes widened. "You?"

"Me. I peeled potatoes. Scoured pots. Hid from the head cook when I burned the bread." She picked up an onion and examined it. "Marga was here then too. She threw a ladle at my head once."

"I’m afraid of her."

"Good. Fear keeps you sharp."

Tom set down his knife.

"Your Majesty, can I ask you something?"

"Seren. When we’re in the kitchens, call me Seren."

"Seren." He tested the name. "How did you do it? How did you go from... this... to queen?"

Seren set down the onion.

"I didn’t do it alone. I had friends. Lysa, who shared her bread when I was hungry. My mother, who taught me to heal. The triplets, who saw me when I was invisible." She met his eyes. "And I worked. Every day. I learned everything I could. I made mistakes. I got back up. I kept going."

"That’s not a plan."

"It’s the only plan that works."

Tom was silent for a moment. Then he laughed; a nervous, surprised sound.

"You’re not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"A queen. Crown. Scepter. Speeches about duty and destiny."

Seren laughed. "I give those too. But not in the kitchens. In the kitchens, I’m just someone who knows how hard it is to start at the bottom."

Marga appeared. "Your Majesty, the council is asking for you."

"Tell them I’m busy."

"Your Majesty—"

"Tell them I’m inspiring the youth. It’s a royal duty."

Marga rolled her eyes and walked away.

Seren turned back to Tom. "The point is this: I started as a servant. If I can become queen, you can become a cook. Not because it’s easy. Because it’s possible. Because the old rules don’t apply anymore. Because you’re the first graduate of the school, and everyone will be watching to see if you succeed or fail."

Tom swallowed. "No pressure."

"All the pressure. But also, all the opportunity." She put a hand on his shoulder. "You’re talented, Tom. That’s why you’re here. Not because you’re human. Not because you’re a charity case. Because Marga tasted your food at the graduation feast and said, ’I want that boy in my kitchen.’"

"She said that?"

"She said, ’That boy cooks like his life depends on it.’ I’m paraphrasing. There were more expletives."

Tom laughed again; real this time. "Thank you, Your Maj...Seren. Thank you."

"Now get back to work. Those onions won’t dice themselves."

Tom worked through the morning.

He diced vegetables. He prepped stocks. He watched the other cooks, learning their rhythms, their techniques, their shortcuts. At midday, Marga let him make a simple sauce. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t terrible.

"Acceptable," Marga said. "Tomorrow, we will work on your knife speed."

Tom nodded, exhausted, exhilarated, terrified.

He had done it.

His first day.

He hadn’t burned anything. Hadn’t cut himself. Hadn’t been thrown out.

That night in the royal chamber, Seren told the triplets about Tom.

Kael was sceptical. "One graduate. That’s not a revolution."

"It’s a start." Seren sat on the edge of the bed. "He’s seventeen and human. He got a job based on his skills, not his species. That’s never happened before."

"Never?" Theron asked.

"Never. Humans worked in the kitchens, but they were servants. They scrubbed floors and washed dishes. They didn’t cook. That was wolf work."

Aeron nodded slowly. "Until now."

"Until now."

Kael pulled her close. "You’re changing things."

"Tom is changing things. I just opened the door."

The bond hummed.

The next morning, Seren visited the kitchens again.

Tom was already there, his station set up, his knife sharp. He looked less terrified than yesterday. Still nervous, but focused.

"How’s day two?" Seren asked.

"Better. I only cut myself once."

"That’s progress."

He grinned. "That’s what Marga said. Then she threw a towel at my head."

"Sounds like Marga."

Seren watched him work. His knife moved steadily through the vegetables, even, precise. He had found his rhythm.

"The first graduate," she said quietly.

Tom looked up. "What?"

"The first graduate of the school. You’re making history, Tom. Every time you chop an onion, every time you make a sauce, every time you walk through these kitchens with your head high—you’re proving that the old ways are over."

Tom’s hands stilled.

"That’s a lot of pressure."

"It’s rather a lot of *purpose*."

He was silent for a moment. Then he picked up his knife and kept chopping.

Seren smiled and walked away.

The school had its first graduate.

The future had begun.