Chapter 12 Chapter 12: Pretending Normal

Chapter 12 Chapter 12: Pretending Normal

The second Trial was slaughter dressed up as combat.

They called it “controlled sparring.” Three students didn’t walk off the mat. One bled out before the healers reached her; the other two were carried away under tarps while Dean Voss murmured “unfortunate but necessary” like he was reading the weather. I stood frozen at the edge of the arena, tasting copper in the air that wasn’t mine. Kieran didn’t look at me once during cleanup.

The third Trial came two weeks later—psychological, they said. They locked us in the old lecture hall under the admin building, pumped in mist that smelled like ozone and old blood, and let lunar magic peel our minds open. Worst fears made flesh. For me, it was the closets again: slamming doors, foster father’s yelling, the dark pressing in until I couldn’t breathe.

I fought it until I couldn’t.

Something inside me snapped—not metaphorically. Literally. My eyes burned gold, canines dropped, and claws tore through my palms as I clawed at the illusion of locked doors. The mist fed on fear; the more I panicked, the stronger the hallucinations became. So I stopped fighting the wolf and let it rise instead. Partial shift. Not full. Just enough to rip through the nightmare versions of every person who’d ever hurt me.

When the mist cleared six hours later, I was on my knees in the center of the room, gold eyes still glowing, blood running from my hands. The other survivors stared like I was the monster. Kieran was the one who pulled me out. He didn’t speak—just wrapped his jacket around my shoulders and walked me back to the dorm as I might shatter.

That was six weeks ago.

Since then, the gold flickers when I’m angry or scared. The claws come more easily. Holding a partial shift doesn’t feel like tearing myself apart anymore; it feels like uncurling something that’s been waiting. I still pretend to be weak in training—stumble, take hits, breathe too loud. Being good at this too soon would make Voss notice. And I’m not ready for what he wants when he notices.

The coffee maker in our dorm room gurgled like it was dying, which felt appropriate. I sat cross-legged on my bed, back against the wall, hoodie pulled up even though the radiator was hissing heat. Lyra stood at the tiny counter, measuring grounds with the kind of careful precision people use when they’re afraid of breaking something. Her hands shook—just a little—when she poured the water. I noticed. I noticed everything now. She didn’t look at me while the machine finished its death rattle.

When the drip stopped, she poured two mugs without asking if I wanted one. Black, no sugar.

The way I always took it. She carried them over like an offering and set mine on the nightstand between our beds. The steam curled up between us like a question mark. I’m sorry,” she said again. Third time this morning. Her voice was soft, almost swallowed by the radiator’s hiss. “I know I’ve said it already, but… I hate that I hurt you. "I stared at the mug. The ceramic was chipped on one side—the same chip that had been there since move-in day. “You already apologized. Twice yesterday. Once at three a.m. ”I know.” She sat on the edge of her own bed, facing me but not quite meeting my eyes. “I just need you to know I mean it. Every time.

"I picked up the mug. It was too hot. I didn’t care. The burn felt honest. “I know you mean it,” I said finally. “Doesn’t make it easier. She nodded like she’d expected that. “Toast? "I almost laughed—almost. “Sure. She got up again, popped two slices in the ancient toaster oven we weren’t supposed to have. While it heated, she pulled strawberry jam from the mini-fridge.

The label was peeling. Everything in this room felt like it was slowly coming apart. We ate in silence. Not the heavy silence from last night, but the careful kind. Like we were both testing the ice, waiting to see if it would hold. When I finished, I set the plate aside.

“We should probably go to class.” “Yeah.” She stood, brushed crumbs from her jeans. “You want to walk together? "I hesitated. Then nodded. Small steps. The hallway outside our door smelled like burnt popcorn and someone’s cheap body spray. Normal dorm smells. I clung to them like lifelines. Werewolf History was in the same vaulted room it always was—high ceilings, old wooden desks carved with initials from decades ago, the faint smell of chalk and candle wax.

Professor Langford droned on about “the necessity of hierarchy for pack survival,” his voice a steady monotone that could put anyone to sleep if they let it. I didn’t let it. I doodled instead—jagged claw marks in the margins of my notebook, over and over, until the page looked like it had been attacked. Two rows ahead, a pair of legacy girls leaned together, whispering. I caught fragments.“…last cycle’s psych trials…”“…one girl never came back the same. Kept shifting in her sleep, screaming…

”My pen stopped. The ink bled into a dark spot where I’d pressed too hardwire forced my hand to move again. Drew another claw mark. Deeper this time. When the bell rang, I packed up slowly. Lyra waited by the door. We walked out together. She didn’t ask what I’d been drawing. I didn’t offer.

The cafeteria at lunch was loud in the way cafeterias always are—trays clattering, laughter spiking too high, the constant undercurrent of too many voices talking over each other. I found Ivy and Dex at our usual corner table. Ivy had her headphones half-on, scrolling through something on her phone. Dex was disassembling a sandwich as it owed him money. I slid into my seat. Lyra hesitated, then took the chair at the far end of the table. Not next to me. Not quite across from me either. In-between. Safe distance. Ivy looked up. “You okay?” “Fine,” I lied. Automatic. Dex snorted without looking away from his sandwich.

“You say that as we believe it. ”Before I could answer, Rowan dropped into the seat beside me, as he belonged there. He always did that—appeared without warning, all easy confidence and legacy entitlement that somehow never felt entitled when it was directed at me. “Still waiting for my rematch, Winters,” he said, stealing a fry from Ivy’s tray. She swatted his hand without heat. I rolled my eyes. “You lost. Gracefully, but you lost. ”He grinned.

“Gracefully is debatable. But yeah. You were terrifying with that staff. In a good way.”I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. Almost a smile. Almost. Lyra watched the exchange quietly. When Rowan launched into an exaggerated retelling of the fight—complete with sound effects for the staff hitting sand—the table laughed. Even Lyra let out a small, surprised huff. I caught myself laughing too. Real laugh. Short startled emit felt good. It felt wrong. How could anything feel good right now? Across the room, at the instructors’ table, Kieran sat alone. He wasn’t eating. Just watching.

When our eyes met, he didn’t look away. His expression was unreadable, but the gold flecks in his irises caught the light for half a second. Then he dropped his gaze to his untouched plate. I looked down at my tray. Appetite gone. Afternoon conditioning was the usual forest loop. Mandatory for everyone in the Trials program, rain or shine. Today it was threatening rain—clouds low and heavy, air thick with the promise of it. I kept pace in the middle of the pack, breathing loud enough to sound winded, stumbling once on a root for show. Invisible. Safe. But my senses betrayed me. I heard the individual footfalls of the runners ahead—each one distinct. Smelled the sharp tang of their sweat, the wet-earth promise of rain still miles away. My skin prickled.

I almost tripped for real when a different scent cut through the others—pine, smoke, wolf. Close. Too close. I scanned the trees. Nothing. Just shadows and dripping ferns. But I felt it. Watched. I finished the loop without falling behind. Kieran wasn’t there. Or if he was, he stayed hidden.

Evening library shift was the closest thing to peace I’d had all day. The stacks smelled like dust and old leather and forgotten things. I shelved returns slowly, letting the rhythm settle something jagged in my chest. Most students were at dinner or in their rooms. The place was quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead lights and the occasional creak of the building settling. I found the book on a reselling cart near the mythology section. Bonds of the Blood. Leather spine cracked, gold lettering faded. I opened it carefully. Skimmed the first few pages until a paragraph caught my eye:

“True pull is instinctual, undeniable—a recognition that bypasses conscious choice. Forced alignment, however, mimics the sensation through sustained proximity, dominance displays, and lunar reinforcement. The body learns to respond even when the heart resists. Over time, the line between the two blurs until the captive believes the cage is home. ”My fingers tightened on the page. I snapped the book shut, heart hammering. Tucked it under my arm to check out later.

No one was at the circulation desk. I scanned it myself—quiet beep, green light. Slipped it into my backpack like contraband. Back in the dorm, Lyra was already in pajamas, reading on her bed. She looked up when I entered. “Long shift?” “Yeah. ”I kicked off my shoes and sat on my bed. The flower was still in the drawer where I’d hidden it. I hadn’t touched it since morning. Now I opened the drawer slowly. White petals. Still fresh. Still smelling faintly of pine and smoke. Lyra noticed. “What’s that? ”I closed the drawer. “Nothing. "She didn’t push. I lay back, staring at the ceiling. The radiator hissed. Outside, the first drops of rain tapped against the window like fingers. I closed my eyes. Tried to pretend everything was normal. But normal was a lie. And the flower in my drawer smelled like the man who was supposed to break me. I didn’t sleep much.