Chapter 85 Control and collapse
IRIS
I don’t expect anything to feel different.
But it does.
Maybe it’s the sleep. Maybe it’s the food. Maybe it’s just the fact that I asked for this, that I chose this time around. Whatever the reason is, something in me clicks into place as I lace up my boots and step outside the next morning.
The air is crisp, the kind that bites a little when you inhale too deep. Mist still curls along the treetops, low and silver, and the clearing looks the same as always, worn grass, flattened earth, the old wooden post where my grandfather keeps the training weapons. Nothing’s changed.
Except me.
My grandfather’s already there. Of course he is. He doesn’t speak when I arrive, just gives a single nod. That’s all I need. Not a lecture, not sarcasm, not judgment.
We begin.
It starts with stances.
“Weight on the balls of your feet,” he says, same as always.
But this time, I’m already adjusting before he finishes the sentence. I feel the tension in my calves, the alignment of my knees. I don’t just hear the correction, I feel it.
He watches. Says nothing.
We move to footwork next. He calls out the sequences: shift left, pivot, slide back, center. We drill them again and again. I mess up a few, slip once in the dew-slick grass, but each time I reset faster. My legs remember what to do before my mind catches up.
Then come the strikes.
He holds the pad on his forearm, same as the last. Only this time, I don’t rush. I don’t swing wildly.
I focus.
Breath. Form. Contact.
My fist meets the pad with a clean, solid thud.
He glances at me, something unreadable passing over his face.
We go again.
And again.
Hours pass like this.
The sun lifts higher in the sky, burning off the mist. I shed my hoodie halfway through and tie it around my waist, heat prickling across my shoulders. Sweat rolls down my spine. My knuckles throb, but it’s different now, not from clumsy contact or misplaced weight. It’s just effort. Honest, earned effort.
Somewhere between the second and third round of drills, I catch it.
A look.
It’s brief. Barely there. But I see it.
My grandfather’s lips twitch. Just a fraction. The corner of his mouth curves, like a smile he’s not quite ready to let me see.
And that does something to me.
I don’t know why it hits as hard as it does. Maybe because he’s never praised me outright. Maybe because all I’ve gotten until now are corrections and silence. But that almost-smile is more than enough.
I drive harder.
I move cleaner.
I fall once and get back up without waiting to be told.
His expression doesn’t change much, but I notice the small things. The way his posture shifts. The way he stops interrupting so often. The way his corrections come slower, like I’m not giving him as much to fix.
We even move to weapons, short staff drills. It’s the first time he’s let me handle anything since the first week I got here.
He demonstrates. I mimic.
He corrects. I adapt.
And somewhere, deep in the middle of it, something in me begins to wake.
It starts small.
A flicker beneath the surface of my skin. A low, crawling heat in my chest that pulses in rhythm with my heartbeat.
Then it grows.
Flares.
Spreads.
My vision blurs around the edges, just a little. The wind feels sharper. Every sound gets louder: the crunch of boots on dirt, the birds in the trees, the creak of wood under tension. I can smell the sweat on my grandfather’s shirt. I can hear his pulse. I can feel the muscles in his arm contract a second before he moves.
The staff slips from my hands.
I stumble back, breathing hard.
“Iris?” my grandfather says.
But his voice sounds distant. Muffled. Like it’s coming from the end of a long tunnel.
I double over.
It’s like fire under my skin. Crawling, clawing, stretching. My spine aches. My fingers twitch involuntarily, curling like they’re preparing to shift into something else. My bones feel too big for my body, like they’re trying to split open and become something more, something ancient and terrible and alive.
“I…” I choke on the word. My mouth tastes like blood and copper and ash.
My knees hit the ground.
Not like earlier.
This time it’s not exhaustion.
It’s instinct.
It's pressure.
It's the wolf.
Pushing up from under my skin, desperate to break free.
“Breathe,” my grandfather says sharply, kneeling beside me.
I can’t.
Not properly.
My breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps. The pain is unbearable, sharp and liquid all at once, like something inside me is tearing and reforming at the same time. My fingers splay out on the ground. My nails are blackening, elongating.
“I can’t stop it,” I whisper, voice breaking.
“Yes, you can.”
His hand clamps around the back of my neck, not gentle, but grounding.
“You are not shifting right now,” he says firmly, voice low. “You’re not ready. Do you hear me?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, teeth clenched so tightly my jaw spasms.
“Iris. Do you hear me?”
“Yes!” I gasp.
“Then fight it. Pull it back. You’re stronger than this.”
I want to believe him.
I try to believe him.
But the wolf doesn’t want to retreat.
It howls inside me, not with sound, but with sensation. Rage. Hunger. Pain. It wants out. It needs out.
And still, I fight it.
Clenching every muscle. Digging my fingers into the dirt. Locking my body down like a cage.
Seconds stretch like hours. Sweat pours down my temples. My vision pulses in and out. But slowly, slowly, the fire fades.
The claws recede.
The bones stop shifting.
And the wolf… retreats.
I collapse onto my side, heaving. The earth is cool against my cheek. My whole body shakes with leftover adrenaline and heat and fear.
My grandfather crouches beside me, silent. He doesn’t touch me again. He doesn’t help me up.
But after a moment, he says softly, “You’re doing good.”
It catches me off guard.
I turn my head, just enough to see him.
His face is unreadable again. But I don’t miss the flicker in his eyes, the brief flash of something almost like pride. Something careful. Real.
“You’re not in control yet,” he adds. “But you didn’t break. That matters.”
I nod, or try to. Everything feels heavy.
He stands.
“Go rest. We’ll go again tomorrow.”
He walks away without waiting for an answer.
I lie there for another few minutes, breathing slowly. The pain has faded, but the echo of it lingers, reminding me that the wolf is closer now. Closer than it’s ever been.
And I didn’t lose.
Not today.