The cold found him before consciousness did.
Not the biting, pinching kind—but the quiet sort. The cold that crept under skin and bone, that made dreams feel like distant smoke and the present feel too sharp.
"Up. Rise and shine, little birds!"
A hand banged against the wooden door. Several others followed with loud claps and sarcastic cheers.
The room stirred. Groans. Blankets rustling. The beds creaked as first-years shuffled into half-awake awareness.
Arthur sat up with a breath so steady it made him look like he'd already been awake.
He hadn't.
But reacting late wasn't a luxury he'd ever been taught.
"Come on, come on!" a fifth-year called from the open doorway. "You've got five minutes before the sun rises. Thunderbird tradition! Let's go, barefoot and brave!"
Barefoot?
Arthur swung his legs off the bed and exhaled as the stone floor met the soles of his feet. It was ice cold, of course. But cold was just a suggestion. His uncle used to say that.
The dorm was a mess of flailing arms and sleepy panic. Boys tugged on shirts backwards, others blinked around for socks before being reminded—loudly—that they weren't allowed to wear any.
"Just you, the sky, and your courage," one of the older girls teased from the hallway.
Arthur rolled his eyes slightly and followed the crowd.
---
They climbed.
Thunderbird Tower was one of the tallest structures in Ilvermorny. Built with ancient stormstone and open arches at the top, it seemed to brush the clouds on gray days—and this was one of them.
Wind howled softly around them as they rose. The stairs were wide but endless, spiraling through pockets of cold mist that drifted inside like wandering ghosts.
Some of the first-years were already shivering.
Arthur wasn't.
He was quietly amused. And mildly intrigued.
He wasn't sure what the point of the tradition was, but from the looks of it, it involved discomfort, ceremony, and a lot of upperclassmen laughing at them from the sidelines.
It was very… human.
At the top, the space opened into a flat circle of stone with no railing. Just an unbroken view of sky, cliff, and distant forest below. The clouds were hanging low this morning, thick and heavy, painted in cold grays and deep blues. Somewhere, thunder grumbled.
"Alright!" barked a tall seventh-year, standing near the center. "Barefoot. Line up. Faces to the east. Watch the sun rise, or the Tower throws you off."
That earned some chuckles.
Arthur moved to the edge like the others, toes curling slightly against the frost-slick floor. The wind caught the edge of his sleep-shirt and robe. His hair blew back, and his face tilted up.
Some kids looked nauseous. Others whispered.
Arthur said nothing.
He didn't hate heights. Not even slightly.
He leaned a little over the ledge, eyes scanning the drop.
How long before I hit the ground? he wondered.
Five seconds? Seven? Depends on the angle. Depends on how I fall.
It wasn't morbid. Just curiosity.
He'd been taught to measure things.
To think in outcomes.
He didn't flinch when a gust slammed against him. Didn't sway. Instead, he took a long breath, and it stilled something inside him.
He could almost hear Uncle Cassian now.
"The world only respects those who meet fear with calm. You're not allowed to shake. Shake later. Not now."
The wind whipped his robe again, but he stayed rooted.
Someone behind him gagged from vertigo. A girl next to him was crying softly.
Arthur didn't judge her.
But he didn't understand either.
It was just sky.
It was just space.
---
They weren't up there long. Five minutes at most.
Once the top of the sun peeked through the horizon, casting golden light across the foggy forest, the rite was declared over. The older students gave a few golf claps, a couple bows, then ushered the first-years down with playful shoves.
Arthur didn't look back.
---
He was halfway down the second flight when he felt a tug at the edge of his awareness.
Someone watching him.
He turned casually.
And saw him.
Leaning against the far wall of the landing, dressed in a loose Ilvermorny jumper and wrinkled slacks, stood Micah Reeves—his cousin, his age-mate, his once-partner-in-everything... and now an unpredictable variable.
"Wow," Micah said, grinning. "You've grown."
Arthur paused. Blinking.
"You again?" he said flatly. "What are you talking about?"
Micah stepped closer, that signature cocky tilt in his posture. "I mean… look at your arms. You've been lifting centaurs?"
Arthur gave a long-suffering exhale through his nose.
"Micah?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't."
Arthur's smile was thin. Professional. The kind he reserved for people he couldn't punch in public.
He walked past.
Micah followed, of course.
---
Back in the dorm, Arthur resumed unpacking. He opened his trunk with crisp movements, began hanging robes with clinical efficiency. His shoes were lined up in descending height. He folded a scarf like it was under examination.
Micah sat lazily on one of the spare beds, arms crossed behind his head.
Watching.
Saying nothing.
Just... watching.
It started to crawl under Arthur's skin.
"Micah," he said at last, without looking up, "Why are you still here?"
"Glad you asked," Micah said, brightening. "So. How've you been?"
Arthur turned, slow and unimpressed. "You didn't climb five flights of stairs to ask me that."
"Right. Right." Micah leaned forward, elbows to knees. "Okay, so. I need your help."
Arthur raised a brow. "I'm listening."
"It's Calla."
Arthur blinked once.
Micah stared. "Calla. From yesterday? The one with the voice like a summer breeze? The one who—"
"Micah, I've been in this school for less than twenty-four hours. I haven't even gotten my subject list yet. And you're here, talking about your crush. What even is that?"
"She's not just a crush—after yesterday she's been talking to me and—"
"Micah." Arthur dropped a neatly folded robe. "Get out."
"Arthur, come on—"
"Just… go." He crossed the room in three calm steps, took Micah by the collar, and walked him to the door.
Micah was still grinning. "We're still family—"
The door shut in his face.
Arthur exhaled and leaned against it.
A beat of silence.
Then he chuckled to himself.
"The Reeves family really is weird."
He pushed off the door and reached for his towel, stepping into the bath with a faint smirk curling one corner of his mouth.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
The first classes at Ilvermorny didn't welcome you.
They tested if you were worth keeping.
Schedules were tossed at them like challenge scrolls—thick parchment, moving ink, too many acronyms. Arthur skimmed his over breakfast, half-listening to Micah argue with a redhead about the merits of wandless dueling.
His first class?
Practical Sorcery.
His fingers tapped the edge of his wand case. Ironwood. Thunderbird. Basilisk.
Uncle Cassian said that combination was a storm in a cage. "It won't like you. It'll respect you. That's better."
The dueling hall looked like a battleground.
Literal scorch marks, cracked tiles, and lingering enchantments stained the air with ozone. Charms sparked from old impacts. The room itself felt alert.
Students—some first-years, some older—stood in rows along the walls, wands out or blades drawn. A few carried enchanted staves. One boy leaned on a spear that hummed faintly with storm-magic. These weren't polished Hogwarts wands or delicate runes. These were weapons.
A grizzled man stood at the center, back straight, expression coiled. He had a jagged scar crossing the side of his temple and a wand holstered like a dagger across his chest.
Professor Ignatius.
No one clapped. No one dared.
"Ilvermorny is not a prep school," he began, voice clipped. "Magic is not a parlor trick. It's a muscle. You stretch it, it hurts. You break it, it scars. That's how we do things here."
His eyes scanned the line of students. Landed—predictably—on Arthur.
"You," Ignatius said sharply. "Wand."
Arthur held it up, but slowly. Respectfully. He didn't speak.
"Mm." The professor squinted. "Ironwood? And something else… thunderbird and… basilisk?"
Arthur nodded.
Ignatius scoffed. "Cursed and wild. Sounds about right."
The tension snapped tighter.
Without warning, he raised his wand and barked, "Deflect this!"
A bolt of red light shot from his wand—fast, silent, no flourish.
Arthur didn't raise his wand.
He turned his palm.
A ripple of golden light shimmered in front of him like a heat mirage. The spell struck it, cracked like thunder, and dissolved.
Murmurs rippled across the class.
Ignatius didn't look impressed. In fact, he looked irritated.
"Of course," he muttered. "Another freak."
Arthur narrowed his eyes.
"I used a defense ward," he said, calm but not submissive.
"No wand," Ignatius said sharply. "No incantation. No permission." He circled Arthur now, looking him over. "You're a third-year transfer from… where?"
"Hogwarts."
A pause. A twitch of the professor's lip.
Ignatius barked a bitter laugh. "Oh, of course. You learned tea-party dueling and feel special because you blocked a spark."
The class snickered nervously. Arthur didn't blink.
"Sir," he said, "I'd rather not start fights with instructors. But if you'd like a demonstration of what we do learn at Hogwarts, I'm happy to oblige."
That shut the room up.
Ignatius' eyes flashed. His grin was cold and wolfish. "Control your freakish gifts, Reeves. This is Ilvermorny. We don't do theater here. We do pain."
Arthur held his gaze.
"Understood."
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
Beast Bonding 101
The name sounded charming. Like a gentle lesson in magical caretaking.
It wasn't.
"Your creature is your legacy," the instructor announced, voice crisp and unwavering. "Your reflection. Your mistake, if you've bonded wrong."
Students shifted, some excited, others visibly anxious, standing in a long line at the edge of the west forest—an enormous stretch of towering evergreens and enchanted underbrush that loomed like a living fortress around Ilvermorny's rear towers. Pale morning mist clung to the gnarled trunks and curled between roots like ghosts unwilling to leave.
"Call them," the professor instructed. "Your bond is already in the woods, waiting. If they know your name, they will come."
Several students stepped forward without hesitation.
One boy lifted a carved wooden whistle to his lips and blew a clear, shrill note. A blur shot through the trees—a griffin cub, feathers tousled and wings fluttering with youthful clumsiness. It landed on the boy's outstretched arm with a soft, eager chirp.
Another summoned a small wyvern, scaled and sinuous, its amber eyes shining with curious intelligence. A glassback fox emerged, its translucent fur shimmering in the muted light. A cinnamon-scented fire lizard flicked its tongue, smoke curling from its nostrils.
Arthur waited, heart steady but mind spinning.
When his name was called, he stepped forward and stopped just beyond the tree line.
He inhaled deeply, mouth closed, and sent the silent call.
Alpha, he called with steady intent.
Nothing stirred.
The mist seemed to thicken, pressing cold fingers against his skin.
Alpha.
Still nothing.
He tried again, focusing harder—strength, determination, the fierce bond that Cassian Reeves, his uncle and the last known master beasttongue of the family, had told him about. Not something summoned by charm or magic or orb, but a living thing, rooted in marrow and blood.
Behind him, a few students snickered. Feet shuffled.
The professor's voice cut through the growing noise. "Mr. Reeves, please control your animal."
Before Arthur could answer—
A shadow blotted the pale morning light.
From above.
A snowy owl, far larger than any natural size, dove like a streak of frost-laced lightning. It circled once, wings beating with effortless power, before settling with disdain on a nearby branch beside Arthur.
The owl blinked slowly, then spoke. Its voice was crisp, casual, dripping with contempt.
"Tell your professor I'm busy chewing his dignity. He tastes like stale confidence and pine."
Silence fell like a stone.
Only Arthur heard it.
He glanced around, then turned to the class and translated, dry and unamused.
"Alpha says your dignity tastes like stale confidence and pine."
Laughter exploded from the crowd. Some doubled over, others gasped and covered their mouths. One girl nearly choked on her charm tag.
The instructor's brow furrowed, her eyes sharp with disapproval. "You're translating?"
Arthur nodded, one hand brushing absently against the smooth ironwood wand tucked at his belt. The wand was a rare heirloom—crafted from dark ironwood, with a thunderbird feather core and basilisk heartstring that pulsed faintly with latent power.
"Beasttongue," he said quietly.
Her eyes narrowed. "Another one of the Reeves. Of course."
Arthur tilted his head, curiosity flickering behind his steady gaze.
"Ma'am?"
She muttered, voice low, "Family business. Dangerous legacy." Then, waving a hand toward the line, she added, "Go stand with the others. We'll come back to you."
As he passed, Arthur caught sight of a slender figure watching from the sidelines. Dark hair, intense blue eyes behind polished glasses—Daniel Reeves, the assistant magizoology teacher. His cousin.
Daniel's mouth twitched in a smirk that was half amusement, half warning.
Arthur didn't return it. Not yet.
But for the first time since arriving at Ilvermorny, something twisted in the corner of his lips—a faint, almost reluctant smile.
Her voice was sharp, but there was an edge of exasperation.
"You have five hours before the next class. Fix this."
Arthur raised a brow. "Fix it? You mean convince a gigantic wolf to behave?"
She gave him a look that could freeze fire.
"He's is not a pet. He's your bond. If you want to succeed here, you need to learn to work with him. Not against him."
Arthur's mind flashed back to the moment he'd arrived—exhausted and alone in this strange school—and the massive wolf that had appeared in the shadows, eyes like storm clouds. Alpha, the silent sentinel who had bonded to him that very first night.
They hated each other.
Well, maybe "hate" was too simple a word for it. It was more like a constant, snarling competition. Both sassy, both egotistical, the most incompatible pair Ilvermorny had ever seen.
But the bond was unbreakable.
Arthur's gaze drifted to his wand. The one his uncle had entrusted to him—ironwood that felt like cold steel in his grip, a thunderbird feather that crackled faintly with static, and a basilisk core that seemed to hum with its own dark secrets.
He'd never known about bonds like this until it happened.
No orb. No ritual.
Just the wild, raw presence of Alpha, waiting in the forest, bound by something older than magic or man.
And now, the owl's insolence had put him on notice.
Arthur smirked.
Five hours wasn't much time.
But if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to get under the skin of a giant, sassy wolf.
And win.
∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
2 hours and 15 minutes later... or, more accurately, 2 hours and 45 minutes till doom.
Arthur sat in the middle row of the Potions dungeon, elbow on table, cheek on palm, staring blankly at a bubbling cauldron filled with a greenish solution that smelled like a mix of mint and burnt toast. The class was droning on in the background, some explanation about fluxweed ratios and lunar infusions, but Arthur wasn't really here.
How the hell was he supposed to convince Alpha?
They'd tolerated each other once. Barely. Their first meeting had ended in a silent agreement to not kill each other in their sleep. That was as far as the "bond" had ever gone. Alpha didn't follow commands. Alpha didn't even like being near him. The wolf was distant, sarcastic, and always looking at Arthur like he was the disappointment.
He rubbed his temple. Maybe he was.
Then something soft brushed against his cheek—hand, warm and feather-light.
He blinked and turned to the side.
Evelyne. The girl he'd bumped into in the Hall yesterday. She was sitting right beside him, eyes curious, mouth curled in amusement.
"You look like you're going to die in the next two hours or something," she whispered.
Arthur let out a dry chuckle. "That is a possibility."
He sat up slightly, rubbing his eyes.
"Unless you have a brilliant way to convince a magical creature that's five times more egotistical than a human and explicitly hates my guts... to come out of a forest?"
Evelyne leaned her chin on her fist, thoughtful. "Hmm. Well... all it takes is trust, I guess."
Arthur grimaced. "That was... helpfully vague."
She laughed, and it was a soft, tinkling thing that briefly pushed the gloom away.
Then Arthur felt it. Something coming at him fast.
Side trajectory. 3 o'clock. Air displacement... velocity about—
He thrummed out a small splice of magic with barely a twitch of his fingers—just enough to catch it mid-air before it smacked him in the head.
The piece of chalk stopped mid-flight, hovered in front of his face.
He turned slowly toward the front of the classroom.
The Potions professor was glaring at him from behind a set of brass-rimmed goggles and a face smudged with soot. Professor… what was his name again? Arthur blinked once, twice.
Ah yes.
Professor Potions.
"Mr. Reeves," the man said coolly. "If you have time to chat during my explanation of tertiary toxic layering, surely you have time to answer a few questions?"
Arthur sighed internally. Wonderful.
He flicked the chalk gently to the side and clasped his hands like a model student.
"Of course, Professor... Potions."
A few muffled snorts came from around the class.
The professor's eyes narrowed like a cat that just spotted a rat in a library.
"First question. If a Golberroot solution is left to ferment under a hunter's moon, what effect does that have on its antidotal properties?"
Arthur didn't blink.
"It increases the binding capacity of the solution by 17%, but only if silverleaf isn't already part of the base infusion."
"Correct," the professor said tightly, pacing forward. "Next: What's the required drop ratio of powdered basilisk fang to moonstone dust when attempting a Venom Inversion brew?"
"One to three. One drop basilisk to every three crushed moonstone granules, stir counterclockwise only."
"Third," the professor said, now quite close. "Name three herbs that neutralize psychological illusions caused by dreamshade vapor, and explain how you'd combine them in a restorative tonic."
Arthur leaned back just slightly, as if offended it wasn't harder.
"Skullpepper for grounding, sweet valerian for emotional recalibration, and ghostmint for stabilizing memory patterns. Grind them fresh, infuse in warm starlight water for twelve hours, then add a whisper of truthroot. Boom. Clarity."
A pause.
The professor raised his hand with visible reluctance. Five glowing, pale-orange dots lit up one side of Arthur's badge. He was now at 25 IBPS. Some students actually clapped. Even the badge shimmered slightly, its lines beginning to shift into the next level's pattern.
Arthur gave a half-smirk and turned back around—
Then stopped.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Ghostmint.
Clarity.
Memory stabilization.
That's what he needed.
He didn't need Alpha to like him. He needed Alpha to trust that Arthur remembered who he was. That Arthur wasn't just some confused teenager with an ancient wand and a confusing legacy.
He needed to show Alpha what he saw when they first met.
That moment. That connection.
Alpha hadn't chosen him out of pity.
He'd chosen him because Arthur was wild enough to survive.
The wolf didn't want obedience.
He wanted someone who could stand beside him, not behind.
Arthur slowly reached into his satchel and scribbled something in his notebook.
Potion idea:
Starlit ghostmint + sweet valerian + memory thread infusion = temporary illusion clarity.
Use? Show Alpha that moment again.
He snapped the notebook shut and glanced at Evelyne, who was pretending not to be watching him.
"I owe you one," he whispered.
She smiled. "Just trust yourself a little, Reeves."
He stared ahead.
He had just under two hours now.
Time to do something reckless.
And maybe, just maybe… right.
∆∆∆∆∆∆
Maybe 1 hour and 6 minutes to go.
Arthur had wrapped up half his classes for the day and found himself trudging through thickening snow toward the forest. Oddly enough, he wasn't cold. Not really. There was a strange warmth under his skin, like a quiet hum—like the forest was pulling him in. He could faintly sense it now: Alpha's presence. The bond was thin...but real.
At the forest's edge, Arthur cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Alpha!"
Silence.
He sighed, stepped past the frost-laced roots, and moved into the trees. Snow blanketed everything in a soft white hush. For a moment, he forgot why he came, caught up in the sheer serenity—until the thoughts began to pour in.
Creatures.
Dozens of them. Their voices—not literal, but emotional echoes—started to crowd his mind. He grimaced, clenching his jaw, trying to focus.
That's when he saw her—Daniel's gryffin.
"Excuse me," he said, almost instinctively, in Beasttongue. To him, it sounded like English. "You wouldn't happen to know where Alpha is?"
The gryffin looked over lazily. "Nah... he always goes for the high places. Elevated platforms. He's a bit of a diva, really."
Arthur blinked. "Self-centered… centre..."
He scanned the area. A clearing. Right at the middle of the forest, raised slightly above the rest. That had to be it.
"Thank you—uh, what's your name?"
"Sephira. Just call me Seph."
"Thanks, Seph," he said before breaking into a jog.
It didn't take long. Alpha was right where he expected—perched atop the elevation, curled like a king upon his throne. Snow shimmered against his gleaming fur.
Arthur slowed as he approached, stopping ten feet away.
"Alpha?" he said, soft but sure.
The wolf cracked open one eye. "Go back to where you came from, Twiglet." Then closed it again.
"Nope. Not without you."
Alpha let out something between a sigh and a growl. He stood, all massive shadow and simmering disdain.
"And if I say no?" he said, stepping down from his perch. His eyes gleamed, cold as steel.
Arthur swallowed. He'd faced Voldemort. Twice. Even a basilisk. But nothing—nothing—had ever felt like this.
"Th-then... I'll have to make you see."
Alpha bared his fangs. "So be it, Twiglet."
In a flash, he lunged.
Arthur barely rolled aside, crashing into the snow. The air whooshed from his lungs. He found his footing, but the wolf was already circling him.
"Alpha, wa—"
Too late. Alpha slammed into him from the side, paw like a hammer.
Darkness.
He came to with snow clinging to his lashes and warm blood trickling down the side of his face. A soft ring filled his ears. Around him, more creatures had gathered, drawn to the duel—or to the spectacle.
Come on, brain, he thought, this would be a good time for a flashback.
Alpha approached slowly, eyes never leaving him.
"I've always hated everything," he said, voice almost too calm. "Humans. Creatures. Even myself. I never thought I'd meet a human I could hate most of all.
Arthur Reeves... you will learn. You will learn of my pain."
The wolf charged again.
Arthur managed to throw up a shield—Protego!—but it wasn't enough. The barrier cracked under the blow and flung him backward.
Then—a flicker. A memory.
Daniel... flaring his Beasttongue. Teaching him to channel magic through connection, not just words...
Arthur had done it once with Cryomancy, but never with Beasttongue. He'd never thought to try.
Until now.
As Alpha backed up, preparing for another charge, Arthur reached in—not just into himself, but into the forest. Into the voices.
They were there—like whispers. The emotions of the creatures. Layers of feeling. Confusion. Fear. Curiosity. Until...
Alpha.
A thought. A voice. Buried but clear.
"I wish he would just give up on me already."
Arthur clung to it. Pulled it out like a thread and flared his magic. The ground beneath him trembled slightly. Snow swirled around him unnaturally.
His eyes changed—golden, lupine. His hair turned white as ash.
The aura was unmistakable.
The forest stilled.
The other creatures stepped back, murmuring restlessly in thought. Even Sephira gasped.
Arthur met the wolf's eyes and said, calmly:
"Alpha. Calm down."
Alpha stopped—mid-run. Paws dug into the snow, eyes wide. His body trembled slightly.
His jaw hung open—not in anger.
In shock.
As if some deep, ancient instinct had just told him:
Obey.
"How did—" Alpha's voice cracked, the question hanging in the silence like a shattered promise.
But Arthur wasn't listening to those words. Not really.
He was listening to the quiet beneath them—the tremor beneath the roar.
The ache.
The scream no one had ever heard.
The heavy weight of years tangled in betrayal, regret, and frost.
He was listening to Alpha's heart.
And in that moment, something old and painful bloomed between them—like frost flowers pushed through frozen ground, delicate but unrelenting.
In Alpha's mind, scenes flashed like shards of shattered glass, painful and vivid.
A clearing bathed in golden light—warmth so distant it almost hurt.
A young wolf, proud and untamed, fur gleaming in the sun.
A partner—human, gentle-faced, kind-eyed—words sweet as honey, full of promises and laughter.
Trust forged in quiet moments, bonds built on fragile hope.
Then—
The sudden chaos of battle.
The sharp scent of iron, blood, and smoke.
A scream that tore through the air, desperate and broken.
"Hold them off, buddy! I'll come back—I swear it!"
But that promise shattered in the heat of battle like brittle ice.
The bond fractured—splintered beyond repair.
The pain was unbearable—not just the wounds to flesh and fur, but the ripping of soul.
Something torn so deep inside that it left an empty void, cold and hollow and filled with rage.
"Humans," Alpha had muttered then, his voice dripping with bitterness as he lay bleeding, barely clinging to life,
"are filth. They don't deserve us. They'll always leave."
From that crushing betrayal, something new was born.
Alpha.
Not just a name.
An armor.
A warning to all who dared to get close.
A fortress built around a lone wolf's broken heart.
Unreachable. Untouchable. Unbroken.
Until Arthur.
---
Arthur stood silently in the snowy forest, feeling the weight of memories flooding through him like a relentless tide.
It was more than cold—it was the cold that settled deep inside your bones, the kind that gnawed at your spirit.
Now he understood.
Why the bond should never have formed again.
Why it had, despite every rule.
And why Alpha was so afraid to let it be real.
Unknown to Arthur, this sharing of pain and memories was a two-way street.
Alpha felt more than his own torment. He felt Arthur's hidden wounds—what lay beneath the defiant, sassy exterior.
A child shaped by years of loneliness and trauma, forced to build walls of sarcasm and coldness around a heart desperate for shelter.
He saw Arthur's childhood before school, a fragile time masked in innocence.
The nightmare of the first year—when Arthur's whole world shattered, revealing the brutal truth: his parents had been murdered by a dark wizard he never knew existed—Voldemort. A near-death experience that left scars invisible but bleeding all the same.
The summer after that first year, when Arthur learned the chilling secret of his bloodline—that his mother's family were dark wizards, cursed and hunted, and that he was never meant to survive childhood.
The second year, when a terrifying encounter with a memory of Voldemort himself forced Arthur to face his darkest fears, battle a monstrous basilisk, and awaken a shadow lurking deep within himself.
Alpha's thoughts were harsh but honest: This kid's probably had it worse than me.
---
Arthur's magic flared, trembling at the edge of control. His body wavered, the strain almost overwhelming.
He released the energy, and nearly collapsed beneath its weight—
But Alpha was there, catching him effortlessly.
"I'm sorry," Arthur mumbled, voice raw and fragile, eyes avoiding Alpha's.
Alpha's fierce gaze softened for a fleeting moment.
"I'm sorry too," he said quietly, "but that doesn't change anything. You're still a weird kid."
Arthur managed a weak smile, the smallest crack in his armor.
"I know... I'm still working on it."
Alpha's tone shifted, a hint of warning threading through his words.
"Listen. All these emotions you're bottling up… if you don't let them out soon, they'll come back to bite you hard."
Arthur teased back, voice light but eyes guarded.
"Aww, stop worrying about me, fluffy. I'll be fine."
The wolf grunted, unimpressed.
"By the way... aren't we supposed to be somewhere?"
Arthur glanced at the mental clock ticking down in his mind—fifteen minutes to go.
"We're never making it," he sighed.
Alpha's smirk was a rare, genuine thing—warm and knowing.
"Then you're gonna have to learn from me, twiglet. Always learn to arrive in style."
Their laughter broke the heavy silence as they began walking through the forest together, side by side.
Two souls, scarred but slowly healing, bound not just by magic, but by something far more fragile—trust, and the hope that even broken things can be made whole again.