The morning sun filtered through the high windows of the dining hall, casting long, soft rays across the worn wooden tables.
The usual chatter of students filled the air, but today there was a different buzz, an undercurrent of anticipation.
The first day of practical magics was finally here—the day we’d get to put everything we’d learned in theory to the test.
For some, it was a dream come true.
For me?
Well, I wasn’t exactly jumping out of my seat with excitement.
“So, are you excited as I am for our first day of practical magics?” Farrah’s voice practically sparkled as she slid into the seat opposite me, the force of her enthusiasm almost knocking her over.
Her strawberry locks bounced around her face, and her baby blues lit up with that all-too-familiar gleam of excitement.
I had seen that look before, on the first day of every new class, on her birthday, and any day that ended in a “y.”
I glanced up from my plate, where my half-eaten toast lay forgotten, and shrugged my shoulders, trying to suppress a sigh.
“Meh.”
Farrah’s eyes rounded in disbelief, her lips parting as if she’d heard the most scandalous thing imaginable.
She froze, her excitement momentarily suspended in the air between us.
I could practically hear the gears turning in her head as she tried to process my response.
“Meh?” she repeated, as though it was a foreign language.
“That’s it?”
Farrah’s face scrunched in confusion, her bright eyes wide with an almost painful level of disbelief.
“How can you be so cavalier about doing something so monumental?
I mean, today we get to practice magic, not just read about it and memorize spells and potions!” Her voice was practically vibrating with the sheer intensity of her excitement.
She was right, I guess.
This wasn’t just another class.
This was the real deal.
Today, we would finally start using magic—not in the abstract, textbook way we’d been doing for years, but with our own hands.
It would show the teachers and students just how strong we were, how ready we were for the challenges ahead.
It would play a part in determining our future placements when we eventually left the Institute for the academy.
It was the first step toward whatever came next, and everyone in our year was practically vibrating with anticipation.
But there was one thing Farrah had forgotten—something that made all her enthusiasm feel like a distant hum in the back of my mind.
“It won’t be the first time I’m doing magic, Farr,” I said, my voice casual, though a little more pointed than I intended.
“My mom had been teaching me the basics since I was, like, five.”
Farrah’s face shifted, a flicker of realization dawning in her expression.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said, her voice softening, almost apologetic.
“I keep forgetting you had an entire life before the Institute.”
Her words hung there for a moment, and I suddenly wished she hadn’t reminded me.
The life I had before all of this—before the chaos, the loss, the uncertainty—was slipping further from my grasp with every passing day.
While I knew what life was like on the outside—before everything changed—Farrah only knew life here.
Her mother had passed away during childbirth, and her father was never known.
There were no relatives to speak of, no family left to take her in.
She was raised in an orphanage before she eventually made her way to the Institute, arriving just two months before I did.
It sucks.
It sucks more than I think she lets on, but the truth is, most kids here had some version of the same story.
We were all survivors, in our own ways—each of us marked by some kind of loss, some kind of empty space that the Institute tried to fill, though never completely.
Farrah and I met on my first day here.
We were assigned to the same room, which I’m sure was no coincidence.
She was quick to inform me of how things worked—what to do, what not to do, who to avoid, where the best snacks were hidden.
Her mouth moved a mile a minute, and it took an entire four hours before she stopped long enough for me to even introduce myself.
But I didn’t mind.
It was what I liked about her, too.
She filled the silence, and in a place like this, sometimes that was the only thing that kept you sane.
The soft chime of the bell echoed through the dining hall, signaling that we had ten minutes before classes started.
Farrah jumped to her feet with an agility that always made me wonder if she had a bit of vampire blood hidden somewhere in her veins.
She stuffed the last bite of her breakfast into her mouth with all the grace of a person who had perfected the art of eating under pressure, all while grabbing up her books in a frenzy.
I couldn’t help but chuckle as I watched her scramble, her usual bubbly energy in overdrive.
With everything packed, she shot me a grin and fell into step beside me, her pace quickening to match mine.
We walked together to our first class of the day, the halls of the Institute buzzing with the same nervous energy that I could feel vibrating through my own skin.
The tension in the air was thick, like everyone was holding their breath for what was to come.
Farrah’s presence was comforting, though.
In all the uncertainty and change, she was the one constant.
She wasn’t just my best friend—she was like the sister I’d never had.
We didn’t need words to fill the silence as we walked side by side.
There was something unspoken between us, a shared understanding of what it was like to live in a world that felt half-familiar, half-foreign.
The kind of bond only those who had lost and found each other could share.
Our first class of the day was Lycan history, and I made a beeline for the front row, much to Farrah’s dismay.
She always teased me for taking this class so seriously, for filling up my notebook with notes and facts as though it would somehow make a difference.
But, to be honest, I couldn’t help it.
There weren’t that many wolves at the Institute, and the few who were here kept to themselves.
Wolves were notorious for having large families, for living in these huge, tight-knit packs.
So, even if a kid lost both parents, there was always someone willing to take them in.
For someone like me, who had no pack, no family, no one left to fall back on, it was important to understand this side of things.
These teachings, these stories and traditions, connected me to something I’d never really experienced but felt a deep pull toward.
I paid close attention in this class for one simple reason: in a few months, I’d be experiencing my first shift, and I needed to know everything I could about that part of myself.
The idea of going through it without understanding the process—the way it felt, the risks, the aftermath—terrified me.
So, I sat up straight, absorbing every word, every history, every lesson about the Lycan heritage, the shifts, the instincts.
I couldn’t exactly tell Farrah the real reason I was so serious about this class, though.
She was my best friend, but telling her that I was part wolf—and that in three months, I’d finally experience the change for the first time—wasn’t something I was ready for.
I had no idea how she’d react, and the last thing I wanted was for her to treat me differently or make a big deal out of it.
So, I let her jabs slide, pretending they didn’t bother me.
She didn’t understand why it mattered.
For her, this was just another class, another opportunity to learn something new.
For me, it felt like life or death.
I’m so absorbed in the chapter detailing what to expect in the days leading up to my first shift that I don’t even realize I’ve been called until Ms.
Bailey’s slender fingers tap sharply against my desk.
The sudden sound breaks my concentration, and I reluctantly drag my eyes from the pages of the ancient book, blinking up at her.
Her steely gaze meets mine, piercing and unwavering.
It’s the same look she gives every student who dares to zone out during her class, but it’s more unsettling when it’s directed at me.
“Ms.
Adams,” she begins, her voice smooth but sharp, “while I commend your enthusiasm to learn, you must also be aware of what goes on around you.
You’re being called to the headmaster’s office.
Take your things with you.”
I feel a chill run down my spine at the mention of the headmaster.
No one ever got called to his office for a good reason.
I quickly gather my notes and books, trying to hide the nervous flutter in my chest.
I slowly close the textbook with a soft thud, reluctant to part with it just as I’ve reached the good part—the section on the signs leading up to the first shift.
It’s like the universe itself is mocking me.
Of course, right when I’m finally diving into the details that might help me understand what’s coming, I have to give up my reading material.
I pass the book back to Ms.
Bailey, my fingers brushing against the edge of the weathered cover as I do.
Then I glance over to Farrah, hoping for some kind of explanation.
She looks back at me, her brow furrowed in confusion, before giving me a shrug and a shake of her head.
Her silent response tells me she’s as clueless as I am about why I’m being called out.
Typical, I think, sinking into a slight irritation.
Just when I was finally getting into it, I’m yanked away from the one thing that will help me feel like I have some control over what’s coming.
Ms.
Bailey watches me for a moment, as though assessing whether I’m going to cause any trouble, before she gives a subtle nod, signaling for me to go.
The room seems to tilt as I stand, my legs stiff with tension.
The eyes of the other students follow me as I walk out of the classroom, their whispers barely audible over the rush of blood in my ears.
I make my way quickly to the administration building, the dull echo of my footsteps resonating through the quiet hallways.
My mind races, turning over every possibility, every reason I could be summoned to the headmaster’s office.
But nothing adds up.
I haven’t done anything wrong—at least, not in the past few years.
Since my first couple of weeks here, I’ve done everything I can to keep a low profile.
I’ve kept my head down, stayed out of trouble, and made sure not to draw attention to myself.
The last thing I want is to become a target, especially with everything I’m hiding.
I slow down as I approach the door, taking a deep breath to steady myself before reaching for the handle.
My heart beats in my throat, but I open the door and step inside, hoping for the best.
I step into the office, the air feeling heavier with each passing moment.
The soft hum of the secretary’s phone call fills the space as I stand quietly, waiting for her to notice me.
My heart beats faster now, each pulse drumming in my ears as if it knows something I don’t.
“Headmaster Winthrop sent for me?
Genesis Adams,” I say, keeping my voice steady, though it’s hard to ignore the undercurrent of tension.
She doesn’t look up immediately, but I watch as she picks up the phone, murmuring something into the receiver in a tone that’s too low for me to catch.
I shift on my feet, fingers curling into the sleeves of my uniform, and after what feels like an eternity, she places the phone back down and finally meets my gaze.
“You may go in, Ms.
Adams,” she says, her voice businesslike, her expression unreadable.
I nod, a quick dip of my head that I hope doesn’t come off as too stiff.
My breath catches in my chest, but I turn toward the door, the wood smooth under my fingers as I approach it.
I knock twice, the sound of my knuckles against the door feeling too loud in the quiet of the office.
“Come in,” a muffled voice responds from the other side, deep and authoritative.
I twist the handle slowly, taking another breath to calm the storm of nerves churning inside me.
The door creaks open and I step into the room.
The moment I step into the room, I’m hit by the weight of the atmosphere.
The headmaster sits behind a large mahogany desk, his hands clasped in front of him, his posture immaculate.
His gaze is steady, calculating.
The room is rich with history—bookshelves filled with thick tomes, the faint smell of old wood and ink lingering in the air, and behind him, several portraits hang on the wall, all of past headmasters who had once held this position.
But it takes me a moment to realize there’s someone else in the room.
Seated across from Headmaster Winthrop is an older woman, her dark hair neatly swept into a bun.
The strands of charcoal grey running through her bangs catch my eye first.
Her eyes—sharp, yet not unkind—glint as they catch mine.
A smile stretches across her face, her expression warm yet somehow guarded, as if she’s seen more than she’s willing to let on.
I look from her to the headmaster, then back again, uncertainty creeping in.
What is this about?
What does she want with me?
There’s a pause that stretches longer than it should before the headmaster speaks, his voice breaking through the silence like a heavy stone dropped into still water.
“Ms.
Adams,” he begins, his tone neutral but not unkind.
“Please, have a seat.”
He gestures to the chair next to the woman.
I hesitate for a moment, my pulse quickening, before I walk over and sit, carefully placing my hands in my lap to keep them from trembling.
I force myself to look at him—Headmaster Winthrop.
He’s a middle-aged man with sharp features, a neatly combed head of graying hair, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.
His demeanor is usually calm and composed, but today there’s something off about him.
He’s fidgeting, adjusting his glasses, tapping his fingers against his desk.
I can’t ignore the woman sitting across from him any longer.
She’s looking at me, and I feel her gaze like a weight pressing against the side of my face.
There’s an air of control about her, a stillness that makes my skin crawl.
Her dark hair is pulled into a tight bun, and her clothes are elegant, but not in a flashy way.
She exudes an aura of quiet authority.
The way she watches me—calculating, almost predatory—makes me feel exposed, like I’m some sort of specimen on display.
The silence between us thickens, stretching on like a taut wire.
I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears, and I have to fight the urge to shift in my seat.
Finally, unable to stand the quiet any longer, I blurt out, “Did I do something wrong?
Why am I here?”
My voice cracks a little, and I quickly clear my throat.
I’m not a child anymore, but this situation is giving me a flash of that helplessness I felt when I was younger.
The uncertainty.
The fear of the unknown.
Headmaster Winthrop seems momentarily taken aback by my outburst, his brows furrowing as if he hadn’t expected me to speak so soon.
For a moment, he just stares at me, like he’s weighing how to respond.
But then, he lets out a breath and straightens in his chair.
“No, no, Genesis,” he says, his voice softer now, as though trying to reassure me.
“You haven’t done anything wrong.
I’ve called you in because… well, I have some news to share with you.”
I feel the weight of his words, but they don’t make things any clearer.
My heart begins to race again, and I try not to show the anxiety creeping up my throat.
The woman across from me hasn’t spoken a word, but I can feel her eyes on me—patient, calculating, as if she’s waiting for something.
I can’t place it, but it unsettles me.
He hesitates for a moment before continuing, shifting in his seat and looking over at the woman.
Then, he turns his focus back to me.
“This is Ms.
Tilly St’Clair,” he says, voice tight.
“Your grandmother.”