Chapter 56: Silver in the Blood

It had been four days since Ignatius had pulled Arthur aside near the school's observatory — four days since he'd claimed that Cassian, his uncle, had once tried to use Reeves blood in hybrid experiments under the name Project Silverfang. Four days since Arthur walked away, jaw tight, with Alpha pacing silently beside him like a ghost tethered to his doubts.

But the words had not left.

He was obsessed with the Reeves bloodline. Thought your magic could bind any creature, any mind...

And now they echoed with every spell he cast. Like guilt had sewn itself into the lining of his magic.

The sky outside Ilvermorny was a bleached white, snow hanging in the air like dust that forgot how to fall. Inside Transfiguration Hall, the atmosphere was brittle — all gleaming desks, orderly rows, and the faint scent of chalk and flame residue.

The classroom smelled faintly of scorched parchment and metal. The air was thick with quiet tension, the way it always got when Professor Kalden, a temporary replacement for Professor Rowen, asked them to work without words. Rows of students hunched over their individual crystal basins, each containing a conjured flame, its dance slow and shallow.

This is projection-based transformation," Kalden instructed, pacing the rows. "Shift the fire into ice. Flame is rage. Ice is restraint. Command your element, or it will command you."

Arthur sat in the fourth row. Elbows on the table, wand gripped like it owed him something. Micah beside him — slouched, grinning, his flame already sputtering with more confidence than actual substance.

Arthur stared at the flickering flame.

He focused.

It flickered again — then dimmed. No frost. Just failure.

Next to him, Micah made a light sound under his breath, a teasing sort of chuckle.

"Might wanna stop thinking about females, Arthur. Distracting your frost chakra or whatever."

Arthur gave a stiff snort. Not quite a laugh, not quite a growl.

"Funny. Try that line again when you're not failing harder than I am."

Micah grinned. "I'm failing flamboyantly. There's a difference."

Arthur exhaled again slowly. Focused.

Transform. Fire to ice. Heat to control. Let the rage cool.

He whispered the incantation under his breath, letting it pool in his core before pushing it outward.

The flame flickered.

Then glowed white.

Then — flash-freeze. A layer of frost crystallized instantly around the edges of the basin. The fire vanished, replaced by a thin swirl of mist and sparkling ice, like a captured winter breath.

A few students looked over.

Even Kalden paused.

Micah, beside him, let out a soft whistle. "Okay, Frost Prince. That was kinda sexy."

Arthur gave a brief, cautious smirk. "Don't let Calla hear you say that."

"Please. If Calla knew how often I was failing flamboyantly for her attention…"

Arthur allowed himself the smallest of smirks. He'd done it.

But then—

Something inside him clicked. Shifted. Woke up.

The thought wasn't his. Not quite.

They're afraid of you. They want you controlled. Quiet. Obedient.

His heart skipped. That voice — that tone. Cold, deep, wrapped in silk and spite. It's happening again.

"You hear that, don't you?" Arthur murmured without meaning to. His voice too low for Micah to catch. His fingers twitched.

Inside, the voice continued:

Do it again. Show them what they're so scared of.

"No," Arthur whispered again, under his breath. "Not now."

He lied to you. Ignatius. He's framing your uncle. Gaslighting you. And Kalden — he thinks you're dangerous. They all do. Why not prove them right?

Arthur blinked hard, shaking his head.

But his hand moved.

He raised his wand again, instinct overriding reason. He barely murmured the trigger. Not the same spell — this one was unfiltered, untamed. Not Transfiguration. Something else.

Boom.

A violent burst of cold exploded from the basin. Ice, raw and punishing, the kind that curled along the walls and cracked glass. A sudden screech tore through the room as frost veined up the desks and over the floor in jagged trails.

Students screamed and backed away. Some slipped.

The ice spread fast — sharp, white, and angry.

Micah swore under his breath, swatting away a barrage of icicles that burst upward from beneath the desk with ease.

Professor Kalden raised a barrier just in time, deflecting the surge before it reached the lectern.

"ENOUGH!"

His voice thundered, magic laced through it like steel.

Arthur stood frozen — no pun needed — staring at the damage, his breath fogging in the air like smoke from a dying fire.

His wand arm trembled.

So did his eyes. For a brief second, they shimmered — pale silver, glassy with something that wasn't grief and wasn't rage. Something hollow and bright and very, very cold.

"Your power is loud, Mr. Reeves…" Kalden said quietly. "Maybe you should start listening to it."

Arthur turned his head slowly. His lips curled — not in a smile, not even in a sneer. Just... tired.

"Maybe if all of you stopped listening for an explosion, I wouldn't be one," Arthur hissed. "But I guess that's what people like watching now, right? See if the mad Reeves kid shatters the room or just himself first."

He left his basin steaming and cracked. Walked between the desks without meeting anyone's eye. No one stopped him. The frost parted for him.

He passed the door. Then the hallway.

And then—

He leaned back against a cold stone pillar, let out a breath that trembled.

Alpha wasn't around. Probably off sleeping in the forest quadrant or chewing something expensive.

Arthur wiped a hand over his face, feeling the sting behind his eyes. Not pain. Not grief. Just... noise.

"Why does everyone look like they expect me to explode?" he muttered to himself. "Although… I think I just did."

There was silence.

Then the voice again — soft, dark, amused:

You wanna know the good part, Damian. You liked it.

He said nothing 

But he didn't deny it.

He laughed once. Short. Hollow. Then pushed off the wall and walked on, jaw clenched like he could trap the storm in his teeth.

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

The rest of the day passed like sludge through his veins.

Arthur said little. Saw less. Heard only fragments of laughter, the dull scraping of chairs, the occasional voice calling his name that he didn't bother turning toward.

When the moon crested above Ilvermorny's sprawling silhouette, Arthur was already at the outer fringe of the school — where the grass grew more untamed, and the lake's skin shimmered like a shattered mirror. Fog whispered off its edges, curling around his boots like something alive.

Alpha padded beside him — limping slightly from an earlier spar. But loyal, silent. Ever-present.

Arthur didn't speak. Just stared into the water, hands buried in his robe pockets, shoulder stinging faintly from earlier in class. That dark voice hadn't returned, not out loud. But it loitered — like a cold breath just out of reach.

"I think I'm going mad," he muttered aloud.

Alpha didn't reply.

A breeze stirred the fog. Crisp. Thin.

And then—

Clink.

A sound like steel brushing steel. So soft it could've been imagined. But wasn't.

Alpha snapped his head toward the treeline.

Arthur turned just in time to see the fog split.

From its heart, a shape lunged — sleek, low to the ground, moving faster than instinct. A glint of silver streaked across the dark — not fur, armor. Not natural.

A hybrid. New. Sleeker. Smaller.

No sound came from it. Not even its breath. It moved in perfect silence, as if it had bypassed physics entirely.

Arthur's instincts screamed. He raised his hand, eyes flaring white-blue. A spell surged to his fingertips—

But it didn't come.

He couldn't think fast enough.

It was faster than thought.

By the time his reflex reached his magic, the thing was already on him.

Alpha lunged. Fangs caught flesh, tearing into the creature's flank. A streak of black blood sprayed the air. The hybrid twisted midair—spun—slammed into Alpha's ribs. The wolf yelped and skidded into the reeds.

Arthur gritted his teeth and grabbed his wand. This time, he cast.

"Stupe— what the heck am I doing?"

The beast moved like a whisper through a hurricane. Arthur barely tracked the afterimage.

Then—pinned.

Arthur hit the ground hard. The creature slammed into his chest, pinning him with two paws. One of them crushed his left shoulder. The other raked down his wand arm. Not deep — just enough to draw blood.

It didn't want him dead.

Its claws rested over his ribs. Pressing. Sensing. Like it was reading him. His pulse. His magic. His lineage.

Arthur struggled, but couldn't move.

He looked up — saw nothing but glinting fangs, cold black eyes, and the glimmer of something embedded in its spine. Like a rune. Burning softly.

Then—

A blinding burst of red light.

The creature screamed — or something close. The sound wasn't natural. Not mammalian. Like an alarm through bone.

Arthur blinked once before blacking out.

——————

When the world returned, it came in flickers. Cold grass against his back. Blood drying on his sleeve. And the sound of someone yelling:

"—bloody hell, that was a new wand!"

Arthur groaned.

A blurry face hovered above him, panting. Curls wild. Shirt half-untucked.

Dorian Reeves.

Wand still smoking. Snapped neatly in half.

Behind him, Derwin stood over the collapsed creature, wand pointed, voice low as he muttered a healing charm over Alpha. The wolf growled but allowed it.

"You're welcome, ice cube," Dorian muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "You owe me a new wand. Number twenty-seven. Do you know how hard it is to charm wood that's resistant to being snapped in rage? Because I don't."

Arthur groaned, sitting up.

"Why... are you always breaking your wands?" he muttered.

"Because none of them can handle my magical output," Dorian said flatly. "This is wand number twenty-seven. That's more than I've had girlfriends."

"That... explains so much," Arthur winced, groaning. " By the way, you always talk this much after saving lives?"

"No," Dorian said brightly. "Usually, I have an audience. But you were unconscious most of the time."

Derwin looked up from Alpha. "He'll heal. Superficial damage. But that beast wasn't trying to kill either of them."

Arthur sat up slowly, the pain in his shoulder screaming. "Then what was it doing?"

Derwin's brows knotted. "Marking. Testing. Like it wanted to see something."

"It definitely saw something," Dorian said, nudging the broken wand with his boot. "Like my heroic demise in the making."

Dorian crossed his arms. "Or it was just being a right pain in the ass."

They looked out across the lake. The fog had returned. But something unseen still lingered. Watching. Waiting.

Arthur shivered—not from cold, but from something he couldn't name.

They're sending newer breeds now, he thought.

Faster. Smarter. Quieter.

And the worst part was—

They weren't trying to end him.

They were preparing him.

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

The walls of Cassian's magically-reinforced cell pulsed with quiet rune-light. Not enough to read by. Just enough to remind him they were always watching.

He'd long since stopped sleeping.

Paper rustled on the floor. Charts. Notes. Sketches. Breach patterns. Rune impressions. All mapped out into a jagged spiral that formed across the floor like a ritual circle of logic.

A low hum came from the far corridor.

The runes in his walls dimmed slightly.

Elaine.

She entered quietly, just like every other time since his arrest. No smugness. No judgment. Just fatigue in her coat seams and a steaming thermos of terrible coffee in her hand.

Cassian didn't look up.

"Twice in one week. You'll spoil me."

Elaine knelt just outside the wardline, reaching into her satchel and pulling out a folded sheet. A graph.

"I think you'll want to see this."

Cassian took it carefully, fingers brushing the paper like it might burn him. The moment his eyes tracked the lines, he went still.

A curve.

Not random attacks.

A pattern. A spiral. Tightening.

He blinked.

Each hybrid attack and sightings had landed in a different arc of different places—but when mapped by magical intensity and target proximity to Arthur, they formed a symmetric curve.

 "This isn't about chaos," he murmured. "This is placement."

Elaine sat back, frowning. "Like tagging chess pieces. Conditioning him."

Cassian was already whispering under his breath, eyes darting between the chart and his notes.

He stood. Papers scattered around him like wind-torn leaves.

"They're trying to awaken something."

Elaine's voice was quiet.

"According to the files, Silverfang claimed he never wanted death. He wanted control."

"And what better way to gain control," Cassian muttered, "than to force your subject to become what you need most?"

Elaine leaned forward. "You think they're trying to make Arthur—what? A weapon?"

Cassian looked over his shoulder. His eyes were colder than she remembered them ever being.

"Not a weapon. A partner. Something that won't resist their vision."

Elaine's mouth was dry. "But… Arthur isn't like that. Right?"

Cassian was silent.

"Last year, in the Chamber," he said at last, "something else woke up in him. When he manifested his cryomancy… he didn't just get stronger. He got colder. Same thing nearly happened to Micah."

Elaine stiffened. "You mean—"

"No emotions. No attachment. No regret. For a moment… he was something else. Like a second mind behind the eyes. I thought it was over after the awakening faded, but…"

He looked down at the file again.

"Now I think it's been waiting. Beneath the surface. Like an alter ego."

Elaine exhaled slowly. "You think these attacks are trying to bring it back."

"I think," Cassian said softly, "they're coaxing it. Piece by piece. Pushing him toward the edge. So when he falls, he'll fall into something they've already designed."

Elaine looked shaken. "Then what can we do?"

Cassian's gaze narrowed.

"We find the next move before they make it."

"And if we're too late?"

He looked at the rune ward glowing faintly at the edge of the floor.

"Then I pray… the boy Remus raised is still in there."

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

The next morning smelled like burnt wards and over-polished tile. Whatever hadn't cracked from last night's breach was being patched by hands too tired to care about neatness. The sky was dull steel—no rain, just mood.

Arthur sat outside the greenhouse, arm in a sling, elbow balancing a ceramic mug of lemonroot tea that Vivienne had practically shoved into his hand.

He hadn't spoken yet.

She had. Once. About the weather.

Now she just sat on the stone ledge across from him, her booted feet tapping a rhythm against the moss. Her robe was rumpled, and her usual crown of braids was only half-done. That meant she hadn't slept much either.

"Did you know," she finally said, voice low, "that when I was seven, a beast tried to crawl through my bedroom window?"

Arthur blinked. That woke him up.

"It was pale, like chalk. Huge. Eyes the wrong shape. No fur, no claws, just skin like cold bread dough. It didn't growl. Just… stared at me."

He didn't reply, but she went on anyway, like the words had waited years.

"Dad broke down the door when I screamed. He didn't even hesitate. Just—" Vivienne mimicked a slicing motion "—sent it flying. I don't even know what spell he used. Didn't ask. But the next morning, he handed me a bell charm and said if I ever saw it again, ring twice."

Arthur blinked. "Did you?"

"No. But I still have the bell."

He chuckled faintly, then flinched at the dull ache in his arm. "So… you giving me tea is how the Reeves family deals with trauma?"

Vivienne grinned. "What, you expected a therapy owl and a licensed Healer?"

"Honestly? I'd have settled for biscuits but Elira usually has that part covered"

They both laughed, and for the first time since the attack, the chill in Arthur's ribs loosened a little.

Then he stopped laughing.

A thought slid out from behind his memory.

"Vi," he said slowly. "The day we got here. First day. You said something. As we were climbing the hill."

Vivienne stiffened.

"You said… 'I'm sorry. For everything that you will experience.' I thought you were being weird. But now…"

Her eyes dropped to the tea leaves floating in her cup.

He turned slightly, facing her. "I need to ask you something. And don't lie."

"Okay…"

"What's your Gift?"

She blinked. "Huh?"

"You heard me. Daniel has Beasttongue. Micah's got cryomancy. Liam and Dorian have... something. What's yours?"

Vivienne hesitated.

Then—quietly:

"It's called Sighted Soul."

Arthur frowned. "Sounds dramatic."

"It means I see… things. Not like seeing-through-walls kind of thing. More like—glimpses. Echoes. Threads that don't belong. I can see a version of what might be. What has. And what is. But only in fragments. Like dreams after waking."

"So," Arthur said slowly, "the future."

"I said maybe." Her voice tightened. "It's never clean. It shifts. Slips. But yeah… sometimes I see what's coming."

He let that hang.

Then: "The thing you saw. The thing that made you say that on the hill. That made you... cry. It was about me, wasn't it?"

Vivienne's hands tightened around her mug. The warm ceramic suddenly looked like a lifeline.

"I can't tell you what it was," she said. "You know that. If I do—it could change everything."

Arthur tilted his head. His hair was longer now, nearly brushing his collar. The wind tugged at it.

"I'm not asking for everything. Just… anything. Some kind of breadcrumb."

Vivienne didn't speak for a long time. Then, voice quiet:

"Don't lose yourself. No matter what happens. Don't fall too far into the pit. Don't forget who you are."

Arthur gave a short laugh.

"Bit ominous, don't you think?"

"That's the best I can offer. So keep it tight, Ice Cube."

He stood slowly, glancing up at the cloud-heavy sky. His uniform collar fluttered in the breeze. His eyes shadowed beneath the strands of hair falling across his face.

"I really should get a haircut," he muttered.

Vivienne rolled her eyes. "Please. That's the most Reeves thing you've said all day."

Arthur turned slightly, still watching the sky. "One more thing, Vi."

"What?"

"When does it all start?"

Vivienne hesitated. A real pause. Not uncertainty, but reluctance.

Then softly:

"It's already begun. But It starts tomorrow."

Arthur didn't flinch.

"I see." He turned, one foot already lifting into motion. "Guess I'd better tell Dorian to get wand number twenty-eight ready."

Vivienne called after him, her voice gentle:

"Are you okay?"

Arthur gave a crooked half-smile. Not at her—past her.

"Am I?" He paused. " Or have I ever been?"

Then he disappeared down the garden path.

Behind him, the wind caught the tea cup and made the leaves swirl. The bell charm in Vivienne's pocket chimed once.