I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.

Patréon.com/emperordragon

________________________________________

Lucas's Perspective

The final bell rang out through the school, its sharp clang echoing down the corridors like a starting gun. Within seconds, the familiar chaos erupted—backpacks slamming shut, sneakers squeaking against tile floors, and a blur of voices rising in excitement as students flooded the hallways, eager to escape into the afternoon.

I moved with the current, dodging bodies and sidestepping open locker doors as I made my way toward Jenny. I was ready to drive her home—our new routine, quiet and easy.

She was surrounded by her friends, laughter spilling out of their little circle as she recounted some story. Her face was lit up in that way it often was when she wasn't thinking too hard, just being herself. When she finally noticed me, her smile didn't falter.

"Hey," she said easily, shifting her bag higher onto her shoulder like it weighed nothing. "I'm going over to Emily's after school. We're working on that history project. I'll call Patrick to pick me up later, okay?"

I gave a small nod, keeping my reply short. "Alright. Don't be late."

She offered me a quick, grateful smile before turning back to her friends, slipping back into their laughter without missing a beat. I watched her for a moment, then turned and made my way toward the parking lot. The hallways were still buzzing with movement—students shouting across groups, doors slamming, sneakers thudding down stairwells. The usual end-of-day madness.

I had just reached the stairwell when someone stepped in front of me, blocking my path with practiced precision.

Malia.

There was no greeting, no small talk. She jumped right in. "Isaac's heading to lacrosse practice."

I raised an eyebrow, surprised at the urgency in her voice. "Makes sense. He's on the team."

Her expression didn't change. "You know what I mean," she said flatly. "Lacrosse is full contact—he could lose control during practice. Go stop him."

I kept walking, though I slowed my pace. "I know what the risks are," I said, my voice calm. "But Isaac's not reckless. He's steady, more than most. He's not someone who just snaps."

Malia followed me without hesitation. Her voice tightened. "That doesn't matter. It only takes a second. One hit, one flash of instinct, and it's too late."

I came to a stop, turning to face her fully. There was something in her tone—something beneath the worry. A deeper fear that didn't belong entirely to Isaac.

I studied her for a moment, then asked, "This isn't just about him, is it?"

She hesitated—just a beat—but it was enough. Her eyes dropped briefly before she looked up again, something raw flickering there.

"No," she said. "It's not."

The hallway around us had begun to empty, the noise thinning to scattered echoes. I let the quiet stretch between us.

"When Laura said you know what it's like to lose control," I said slowly, "what did she mean?"

For a moment, Malia didn't respond. Her gaze drifted away, not toward anything in particular—but inward, like she was searching through memories buried long ago.

Then she spoke, her voice quieter than before. "When I was younger, controlling my werewolf side came easy. Easier than most. I could shift into a full wolf whenever I wanted. No full moon, no emotional triggers—just... control."

She paused, her eyes distant now. Her tone had flattened, like she was reciting facts instead of memories.

"But when I was six," she went on, "there was a full moon. I was running through the woods in my wolf form. I felt free—wild, but free. And then... I lost it."

The silence around us deepened. I didn't interrupt.

"I attacked a little girl," she said finally.

Her voice didn't shake, but the weight behind the words was undeniable. It pressed into every syllable.

"Laura found me just in time. She stopped me before anything... irreversible happened. The girl wasn't badly hurt. But she could have been." Malia swallowed hard. "I almost—" She stopped herself, lips tightening.

I stayed quiet. This wasn't the kind of story you filled with noise or sympathy. It demanded silence.

She took a slow breath. "After that night... I couldn't shift into a wolf anymore. Not once. It's like something inside me shut down. Like I locked that part of myself away."

I looked at her carefully then, really looked. Her face was composed, her posture still, but there was a shadow there—deep and familiar. Guilt. Not the fleeting kind, but the kind that lives inside you for years, reshaping how you see yourself.

"You didn't hurt her," I said eventually, offering the truth gently. "You didn't get the chance."

Malia's jaw tightened—not in anger, but in resistance. Not at me, but at herself.

"She's still gets scared whenever she sees a dog," she said, barely above a whisper. "Any kind. She crosses the street when she sees one. Because of me."

The words weren't loud, but they echoed between us.

I wanted to reach out—say something to take that weight off her shoulders. Tell her that she was a child, that it wasn't her fault. That it could have happened to any young werewolf still learning to balance instinct and control.

But I knew those words wouldn't help.

Because Malia had already decided, long ago, where the blame belonged. And no amount of reason or reassurance could pull her out of the shadow she'd lived under since she was six years old.

All I could do was stand there, in the silence she trusted me with, and not look away.