I stood in front of the mirror for what felt like forever, wrapped in a thick towel, steam curling softly around me like ghosted breath. The bathroom was still, warm, and quiet—too quiet, honestly. The kind of silence that makes your thoughts louder.

  The bath had helped. My muscles felt looser, my skin flushed from the heat, and for the first time in days, I didn’t smell like ash and fear. But under all of that, I still felt… disconnected. Like I was wearing someone else's skin.

  I turned the faucet off with a slow, deliberate twist. The dripping had been rhythmic, almost grounding—until it started to feel like a countdown. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror above the sink, slightly fogged but still clear enough to see the things I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  My hair—still damp and darker than usual—clung to the sides of my face. My lips were pale. My shoulders tense. But my eyes… they were the worst.

  One warm, hazel gold. The other, pale ice blue.

  Every time I looked at them, it felt like looking into two different people. Like something inside me was permanently misaligned.

  I leaned closer, gripping the edge of the counter with both hands. The reflection followed, but for a heartbeat, just one, it was out of sync. A delay. A flicker. Like I hadn’t moved at all, but the mirror decided to catch up a second later.

  My breath hitched. I stared harder.

  The mirror caught up and behaved as if nothing happened.

  "You're tired," I whispered to myself. “That’s all.”

  But the bathroom didn’t answer. The mirror didn’t shift again. It just held me there, trapped in the gaze of a girl who wasn’t sure she was still real.

  I pressed my fingertips to my chest, feeling the beat of my heart—a real, living thing. Measured. Grounded.

  Was that enough?

  I stepped away from the counter, dragging the towel tighter around me. My feet made soft, wet prints across the floor, but when I glanced back, there were more than two sets. One fresh, the others... smeared and faint, like they'd tried to vanish before I noticed.

  I turned sharply. Nothing behind me. Just empty tile and the weight of my own breathing.

  You’re okay, I told myself again. Just nerves. Just aftershock.

  But deep down, I knew it was more than that.

  Dr. Zaraki had called me a Veldrith. He’d said I existed between states—life and death, presence and absence. I hadn’t fully believed him. Not until now. Not until I saw my reflection hesitate to be me.

  Back at the monastery, I had structure. Rules. A routine. Father Reynaud had taught me to breathe through panic, to ground myself in stillness and prayer. And for a while, that was enough. Even after the world fell apart, I tried to cling to those lessons like life preservers.

  But they couldn’t teach me how to control something no one ever told me I had. They couldn’t tell me how to hold my place in the world when the world itself wasn’t sure if I belonged in it.

  I exhaled slowly and reached for my clothes, slipping into them piece by piece like armor.

  Dr. Zaraki had said to meet him outside after I was done bathing. Something about fresh air and clearing my head.

  Maybe he was right.

  Maybe a little sunlight and open sky would make the mirror seem less alive.

  Or maybe, for the first time, I’d find out what I really was—outside the reflection, away from the steam, and silence.

  Chapter 8, Scene 2 – Draft Begins

  The cold hit me harder than I expected, even wrapped in the thick winter coat Dr. Zaraki had given me. It bit at the tips of my gloved fingers and sank into the gaps between my boots and leggings, but I didn’t mind. Not really. The chill grounded me, kept my mind from drifting too far into the echoing weirdness that had been following me since I left the bathroom.

  The courtyard behind the mansion looked like something out of a painting—silent, pristine, and eerily still beneath the weight of fresh snow. Tall trees rimmed the open space, their skeletal branches etched against the pale sky. Every inch of stone was dusted in white, like a canvas waiting for something to disturb it. Something like me.

  Dr. Zaraki stood ahead of me near the center, his dark coat hanging still in the windless air. He didn’t look back. Just waited, hands clasped behind his back like always—composed, patient, unsettlingly unreadable.

  I trudged up beside him, breath curling in the air.

  “Is this where we train?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” he replied. “Today’s not for discipline. It’s for discovery.”

  I frowned, trying to decode the vague wisdom of that sentence. “Meaning?”

  He glanced at me, just a flick of his eyes, then nodded toward the tree line. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

  A sound broke the silence—low, deep, and close. It started as a soft growl and spread like thunder behind the trees.

  Then they emerged.

  Wolves. Massive, deliberate, and terrifyingly beautiful.

  They came in slow, almost lazily, but every motion was laced with control—like dancers who knew they could kill if they misstepped. Their fur gleamed with a shimmer that wasn’t natural—not quite—and their eyes weren’t animal.

  They were intelligent. Observant.

  My breath caught. These weren’t wolves.

  These were werewolves.

  They circled the edges of the courtyard first, forming a crescent, watching me with a blend of curiosity and scrutiny. One shook snow from its pelt with a powerful shudder, then sat down like it owned the place.

  Another padded forward, golden eyes locked on me. Not threatening, but... assessing.

  I stood frozen, unsure what to do.

  Zaraki didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  Then the pack split, parting like a curtain, and through it came a wolf that could only be described as regal. Midnight black, with fur so deep it absorbed the light. Gray streaked his muzzle like old ash dusted across coal, and his paws landed silently, one after the other, like he didn’t walk… he judged.

  There was a weight to him. Not physical, not exactly. It was in the way the other wolves shifted around him, subtle adjustments in their posture, the way their ears angled ever so slightly in deference. He wasn’t growling. He didn’t need to. He simply was, and they responded.

  I didn’t move. My breath felt caught in my ribs, like my body wasn’t quite convinced this wasn’t some new kind of dream.

  Then he looked at me.

  His eyes—amber-gold, burning sharp—met mine, and for a moment, I just stared back.

  Something about them itched behind my thoughts. Not the color. Not the shape. The expression. The way they scanned me. Read me. Like I was a puzzle, a situation to evaluate, a threat to contain—or dismiss.

  I had seen that look before.

  My pulse jumped.

  It hit me like a jolt: those were the same eyes that had locked onto mine across the interrogation room. Cold. Precise. Measuring.

  Mr. Staroko.

  He had walked into that sheriff’s office like the room belonged to him. Sleek suit. Black briefcase. Voice like stone. Now, without a single word, he was doing it again—only this time, wrapped in fur instead of fabric.

  I glanced over at Dr. Zaraki, needing something—acknowledgment, confirmation, anything to tell me I wasn’t losing my mind.

  He didn’t look surprised. Didn’t even blink. Just raised an eyebrow and gave me the faintest nod.

  Not a warning. Not encouragement.

  Just... truth.

  I turned back slowly. Staroko was still watching me, completely still, completely aware.

  Then, after a long breath, he sat. Calm. Composed.

  He didn’t growl. Didn’t posture.

  He didn’t have to.

  I didn’t know how long I stood there, heart pounding. One of the younger wolves approached and nudged the back of my thigh. I startled. Another came up beside me, brushing my side with a warm flank, tail wagging slightly.

  A third rolled over right in front of me, massive paws tucked to its chest, exposing its belly with a lazy chuff.

  “What…?” I whispered.

  “They’re curious,” Zaraki said behind me, finally breaking the silence. “And you’re something new.”

  The third wolf wiggled slightly. Waiting.

  I knelt slowly, hand out, trembling only a little.

  The wolf’s tail flopped against the snow in approval. I placed my hand on its stomach, half-expecting it to vanish or bite or burst into flames.

  But it just let out a low, pleased rumble.

  I laughed. I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out—quick and sharp and surprised.

  Another wolf jumped into the mix. Then another.

  Suddenly, I was surrounded.

  Snow flew up in soft plumes around me, powder sticking to my boots, my sleeves, the ends of my hair. The air was filled with the thump of paws and the huffing breaths of wolves moving at full tilt—not with aggression, but with wild, reckless joy.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  One brushed past me, his flank warm against my thigh, tail wagging hard enough to whip snow into my face. I laughed, actually laughed, wiping it off with my glove just in time to get bowled into by another one—a shaggy gray with a goofy, lolling tongue who seemed far too proud of his sneak attack.

  I tumbled backward, landing in the snow with a soft thud. Cold immediately soaked through the back of my coat, but it didn’t matter. Before I could sit up, two more wolves were there, sniffing, nudging, playful growls rumbling low in their chests as they pawed at my legs like overgrown puppies.

  Their fur brushed my hands, my knees, my face. One licked the side of my cheek. I squealed and swatted playfully at him, and he darted back with a satisfied chuff before flopping onto his back and wriggling for belly rubs.

  It was chaos. Big, fuzzy, slightly slobbery chaos.

  And I didn’t care.

  I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe, my chest heaving from the cold air and the sudden, unexpected lightness inside me. Something inside cracked wide open—something old and tight and scared—and for once, nothing rushed in to fill it.

  No fear. No grief. No pain. Just snow and teeth and tongues and tails. I didn’t feel watched. Or threatened. Or broken. I felt… included. Like I belonged here, even if just for this sliver of time.

  The wolves didn't treat me like something fragile. They didn’t pull away like I might shatter, or stare at me like they were trying to understand what I was. They just played. And in doing that, they invited me to be part of the pack, even if only for a few fleeting hours.

  I rolled over and pushed myself up to my knees, brushing clumps of snow from my coat. One of the younger wolves leapt into a crouch beside me, tongue hanging out, front legs lowered in that universal “let’s go again” pose.

  “I’m gonna regret this tomorrow,” I muttered, already half-laughing as I lunged toward him.

  We crashed together in the snow, a blur of limbs and frost and fur.

  I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye and turned.

  Dr. Zaraki sat off to the side, half in shadow beneath a skeletal tree. He’d settled into one of the wrought iron chairs, legs crossed, back straight. A gloved butler—how he kept appearing without a sound, I’d never know—had just handed him a steaming mug.

  He sipped it slowly, watching everything with the same unreadable calm he always wore. But… there was something else this time. The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, not exactly. But close.

  Beside him, Staroko sat in his wolf form, completely still. Like a sentinel. Regal. Focused. His eyes tracked me not like prey or puzzle—but with an almost paternal distance, as if he was filing this moment away for later review.

  I looked down at my gloves, now soaked through. My breath puffed visibly in the air as I tried to catch it, heart thudding against my ribs from running and tumbling and laughing so hard I felt drunk on it.

  I hadn’t felt this way in years.

  Maybe ever.

  The sun crept higher, casting faint light through the overcast, and the cold no longer mattered.

  For the first time since the monastery, since I could remember—I felt safe.

  I stood there, panting lightly, cheeks flushed and sore from smiling. The wolves were finally beginning to slow down, flopping into snowbanks, tongues lolling, sides heaving. One of them stretched out beside me like an exhausted rug and let out a satisfied huff before rolling onto his back with a groan.

  I laughed again, softer this time. Less giddy, more… real. That quiet kind of laugh that feels like it belongs to you and not just the moment.

  A pair of warm eyes blinked up at me. The wolf beside me nudged my leg once before dropping his head into the snow with a contented sigh. The sound made something inside me ache in a way I couldn’t explain.

  I looked over toward Dr. Zaraki again. He hadn’t moved. Still seated, still sipping, still watching.

  Staroko sat beside him, ears angled forward, his body alert but not tense. Observing.

  That’s when another younger wolf—one I hadn’t noticed before—came bounding in from the trees, full of fresh energy and absolutely zero regard for personal space.

  He let out a playful woof, paws thudding as he rushed forward.

  I turned just in time to see him leap. And something inside me shut off. I didn’t mean to flinch. I didn’t try to do anything.

  But the world blinked.

  For the briefest instant, the snow beneath my feet felt unreal, like I’d stepped through a film of static. Cold rushed past my spine, not wind—displacement. Like I had been there… and then I wasn’t.

  I was five feet to the left.

  The wolf passed through the space I’d just occupied and smashed face-first into the snow with a startled yelp, legs splayed, fur puffed up like someone had shocked him.

  The echo of me remained behind, just for a breath. A flickering, translucent outline—my outline—lingering where I’d stood. It turned its head, just slightly, mimicking my movement a second too late… then vanished, scattered like ash in wind.

  Everything stopped.

  The wolves who had been lounging now stood. Ears perked. Tails lowered. A few took cautious steps back, eyes fixed on me.

  I stared at the space I’d been, heart thudding in my throat. My hands trembled at my sides.

  Did I do that?

  Dr. Zaraki was no longer sitting back. He’d leaned forward slightly, one arm resting across his knee, the other lifting his tea to his lips with slow, measured grace.

  Staroko’s head tilted. His eyes widened just enough to register surprise—his first visible reaction since he’d appeared.

  I tried to speak. Couldn’t.

  Zaraki lowered his mug just enough to speak, voice mild.

  “Fascinating.”

  He turned slightly to Staroko without looking away from me.

  “The last Veldrith I encountered never did that.”

  Staroko, still in wolf form, blinked once. His jaw hung open just a hair. No growl, no threat—just visible shock.

  The cold didn’t feel sharp anymore. It felt thin. Like I could fall through it if I moved the wrong way. I swallowed hard, hands clenching into fists. What had I just done?

  The wolf that had jumped—his snout now buried in a snowbank—pulled himself upright with a low grunt, shaking snow from his fur and blinking like he wasn’t sure what had hit him. He glanced over his shoulder, not at Dr. Zaraki, not even at the other wolves—at me.

  The look wasn’t angry. It was… confused.

  Around us, the pack had stilled. No more paw thuds. No playful growls. No wagging tails. They were watching me now—not with hostility, but with something far heavier. Caution. Curiosity. Confusion.

  Their ears flicked. Some paced in slow arcs. A few lowered their heads, eyes never leaving me. The younger ones—the ones who had tackled me, nuzzled me, flopped into the snow like oversized puppies—they backed away first. Not in fear. Just… uncertain.

  Like they weren’t sure if I was still the girl they had been playing with.

  I stood there, breath misting the air, too afraid to move. My heart thudded, too loud in my ears. My fingers were still half-raised, like maybe if I kept them still, the world wouldn’t decide I was dangerous.

  I hadn’t meant to do it. I hadn’t even tried.

  The echo—that ghost of me—it had just happened. And it had felt… natural. Like blinking. Like breathing. And that terrified me more than anything. Because the wolves had felt it, too. They didn’t understand what I was now. And I didn’t either.

  I let my eyes drift over them—ears twitching, fur shifting in the breeze, powerful bodies caught somewhere between animal and person, reverent and wary. They’d accepted me. And now, they didn’t know what I was. That hurt more than it should have.

  A warmth spread at my back—Dr. Zaraki’s presence still seated, still calm. But even without looking, I knew his eyes were on me. Studying. Calculating. Not cruelly. Just… curious.

  The wolves hadn’t rejected me. But they’d seen something they didn’t understand.

  And the truth was… so had I.

  The courtyard was still.

  The kind of still that pressed against your ears. Like the snow had swallowed sound itself.

  I stood there, surrounded but alone, feeling the weight of every golden, silver, and midnight eye fixed on me. Every heartbeat felt like it echoed. The space between me and the pack stretched wider than the courtyard itself.

  Then, Staroko moved.

  He rose from his seated position beside Dr. Zaraki with the kind of fluid grace that made you forget how massive he really was. Each step was measured, deliberate—no fear, no hesitation. The other wolves tracked him but didn’t follow.

  I swallowed, every muscle in my body tightening as he approached. I didn’t know if I should kneel. Speak. Back away.

  I did nothing.

  He stopped in front of me. Those amber eyes locked onto mine again. Not calculating this time. Just watching. Seeing me. Then, slowly, he lifted his head and nudged my hand. Not hard. Not aggressive. Just enough to press his snout into my palm. His fur was warm. Dense. The kind of warmth that sank through skin and into your bones. My fingers curled slightly on instinct, brushing the thick ridge between his ears.

  He made a sound—low, almost a huff. Not a growl. Not quite approval. More like a final note in a song no one else could hear. Then he turned away. One sharp, clipped yip left his throat, and the pack responded like a single living body.

  The younger wolves peeled away first, followed by the larger ones. Some gave me a final glance. Others didn’t. But none came close again. One by one, they disappeared into the tree line. Staroko was the last to leave. His black form melted into the forest like it had never been there.

  And just like that, the courtyard was empty again. Just snow. My footprints. And the faint shimmer of where I might’ve stood… or where I didn’t.

  For a long time, I didn’t move.

  The wind stirred the trees. The snow beneath my boots crunched softly as I shifted my weight, but otherwise, the world had settled back into stillness. The kind that felt sacred.

  Dr. Zaraki didn’t speak.

  He didn’t need to.

  I heard the soft creak of his chair as he rose, the steady crunch of his boots as he walked toward me. He stopped at my side, his presence unhurried, composed. I glanced up at him, unsure of what I was supposed to say.

  He simply gestured toward the mansion.

  I nodded and fell into step beside him.

  We walked in silence. The cold bit gently at my cheeks and fingers, but it didn’t feel harsh anymore. Not like before. It was just there—real, grounding, sharp in the best way. The snow muffled our footsteps, and I found myself focusing on the rhythmic crunch of it beneath our boots. It was oddly calming.

  My thoughts chased themselves in quiet spirals—trying to hold onto the warmth from earlier, the joy, the laughter. Trying not to overthink the way it had ended.

  I’d… jumped.

  I hadn’t meant to. Hadn’t even thought about doing it. But I’d moved through space like it was a curtain I’d brushed aside.

  And the echo—the ghost of me—I hadn’t called it. It had just been there.

  The walk back to the mansion was quiet, and not the uncomfortable kind. It was the kind that let everything breathe—the snow, the air, my thoughts. I was tired in a way that felt good. The kind of tired that meant I’d done something right. For the first time in… God, I didn’t even know how long… I felt like I’d been allowed to exist without the weight of expectation or danger pressing down on me.

  Dr. Zaraki walked beside me at a comfortable pace. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The silence between us felt like something earned.

  We entered the house through the side, the heavy oak door groaning softly behind us as it shut out the cold. The warmth inside wrapped around me instantly, chasing the chill from my cheeks and fingers. I followed him through a quiet hallway lined with art and old photographs, the kind you didn’t glance at unless you were ready to face someone’s entire story.

  He stopped at a wide set of double doors and opened them with a simple push.

  The office beyond made me pause.

  It was enormous.

  Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves climbed up the walls, each one filled with volumes of every shape and age. The scent of old paper and polished wood hung thick in the air, comforting in a way I didn’t expect. A massive desk of dark wood dominated the center of the room, its surface meticulous, not a single item out of place.

  Two deep leather armchairs faced the desk, worn but regal, their dark surfaces gleaming softly in the muted lighting.

  And behind the desk—hung high in solemn reverence—was a painting.

  I didn’t realize I’d stopped moving until Zaraki glanced over his shoulder at me.

  The woman in the painting sat curled sideways in one of the same leather chairs now resting before me. Her legs were draped over the armrest, completely absorbed in the book she held in her lap. Her auburn hair—more copper than red—poured down her back like liquid fire. There was something so peaceful about her expression, so content, it hurt to look at.

  I didn’t know who she was.

  But whoever she’d been, she mattered here.

  A lot.

  Zaraki gestured silently to the armchair nearest me. I moved toward it slowly and sank down, still stealing glances at the painting like it might shift if I stared too long.

  Across the room, nestled against the far wall, was something that hissed softly and released little puffs of steam—an antique brass contraption that looked equal parts sculpture and machine. Its gears clicked with delicate precision, the lion-motif etchings on its face catching the amber light from a nearby lamp.

  Zaraki moved to it with the ease of habit. He adjusted a dial, released a spout, and set two cups down on the narrow counter beside it.

  The air filled with the gentle scent of steeping tea—earthy, floral, warm.

  I folded my hands in my lap, trying not to fidget.

  Everything in this room was intentional. From the steam that rose in perfect spirals to the polished arms of the chairs to the way Dr. Zaraki carried himself as though chaos would bend around him before he’d ever raise his voice.

  He returned with both cups, offering one to me without a word. I accepted it with both hands, the heat bleeding into my palms, grounding me.

  He took his place behind the desk, sat, and lifted his own cup.

  For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of steam and the tick of a nearby clock.

  Then, finally, he spoke.

  “How do you feel?”

  The question wasn’t probing. It wasn’t weighted. It was just… honest.

  I looked down into the cup. The surface trembled slightly, catching the light like glass.

  “Tired,” I admitted. “But… happy. Lighter.”

  He nodded, unsurprised.

  “For someone like you,” he said, “that feeling is more than comfort. It’s control.”

  I looked up at him, uncertain.

  He set his cup down with a soft clink and leaned forward slightly, folding his hands together.

  “Your power,” he said, “isn’t like most. It doesn’t come from incantations or blood or biology. It responds to state. Emotional balance. Self-possession. Your presence—the part of you that holds you in this world—depends on how anchored you are to yourself.”

  I stared at him.

  “You mean… if I get too emotional, I lose control?”

  “Not always,” he said. “Emotion isn’t your enemy. It’s your catalyst. What matters is awareness. Intention. Knowing what you can do—and when not to.”

  I shifted slightly in the chair, the leather creaking under my weight.

  “At the monastery,” he continued, “they taught you calm. Stillness. Discipline. And for a while, that was enough. But they never knew what you were. How could they teach you to control something they didn’t understand?”

  I looked down at the cup again.

  The tea no longer shook.

  “They taught you to suppress,” he said. “But they didn’t teach you to understand. That’s where we begin.”

  I didn’t speak for a moment. The painting behind him felt heavier now, like its silent witness lent weight to his words. Like whoever she was, she understood.

  And in a strange way… so did I.