Chapter 58: False Peace

Classes resumed like nothing had happened.

Like there hadn't been screaming in the halls. Like the walls hadn't tasted blood.

Ilvermorny, ever committed to its curated illusion of control, wore a mask of calm. The tapestries had been re-stitched, the shattered windows replaced with panes that sparkled a little too brightly. Professors smiled a little too widely. House elves scrubbed the stone corridors until they gleamed like polished bone.

The school breathed again.

But not Arthur.

He moved through the hallways like a ghost freshly denied death—present, but untouchable. He drifted between classes, eyes low, limbs stiff, as if every step cost him something.

The magic-dampening bangles on his wrists shimmered faintly whenever he passed through a warded arch or crossed an enchantment line. They didn't burn. Not exactly. But they buzzed—a low, rhythmic warning like a predator growling in its sleep. Each whisper of containment magic was both a leash and a lullaby.

To the school, they were chains.

To Arthur?

They were freedom.

Nobody expected him to speak. Nobody wanted him to. Professors, usually so strict on engagement, barely called his name. Students pretended they didn't see him, like silence would ward off whatever they thought he had become.

It suited him fine.

He didn't have to fake smiles or explain himself or hold back anymore. The bangles did that for him.

Micah stopped inviting him to spellball. Vivienne passed in the halls like he was fog—noticed, but never acknowledged. Even Dorian, the cousin who's always around, had taken to muttering commentary around Arthur, never to him.

At lunch, Arthur took his tray and left the great hall entirely. He walked until the noise faded, past the charmed statues and mumbling portraits, until he reached the greenhouse courtyard. There, beneath the massive ironwood tree whose roots curled like ancient fingers, he sat.

The wind moved like it had secrets to tell. The greenhouse behind him ticked with the warmth of flora and potions and quiet bubbling life. And Arthur could breathe.

Almost.

Halfway through a sandwich he didn't particularly want, he heard footsteps behind him.

Soft.

Measured.

Not hostile.

Not afraid.

Just... careful.

He didn't turn until the voice spoke.

"You always eat alone?"

Arthur tilted his head, slow and deliberate.

A girl stood just beyond the tree's shadow.

Uniform standard. Horned Serpent crest catching flecks of sunlight. Her glasses were too big, round enough to make her look slightly owl-like, but the intelligence in her eyes was sharp. Calculated. Curious. Her hair—dark and coiled—was tied back with the kind of careless efficiency that screamed she had better things to do than style it.

He blinked once. "Are you lost?"

"No." Her tone was calm. "I came to find you."

Arthur chewed slowly, eyes narrowing. "And you are?"

"Leah," she said simply.

He raised an eyebrow. "Am I supposed to know you?"

"Not unless you pay attention to people who aren't screaming or casting hexes."

He gave a dry snort, brushing crumbs off his lap. "Then you must be very easy to miss."

She ignored the jab, stepping forward, but not too close.

"Actually… I wanted you to teach me something."

Arthur stared. "Oh. Is it how to explode your social life in a single semester?"

She smiled. "Tempting. But no."

"Then perhaps a masterclass in being publicly restrained in front of your entire house?"

"Again, no."

He sighed theatrically. "Well then I'm all out of talents."

She folded her arms. "Magical philosophy. I wanted to talk about it. You made an argument in Professor Lucent's class. About the Second Paradox of Magical Philosophy and whether power depends on knowledge or the other way around. That stuck with me."

"That was… weeks ago. And I recall the class didn't end well."

"I remember," she said, adjusting her glasses. "But you were the only one who didn't sound like a textbook."

Arthur squinted. "You were there?"

Leah didn't answer. Instead, she reached up and tapped her badge. It gleamed emerald green.

"IBPS?" he muttered. "That only goes up to gold... unless—"

"Fifty-five points," she said. "Extra credit. Essays. Duel theory. Independent spellcraft."

Arthur actually choked a little. His hair flared orange—a bright flash of confusion.

Leah laughed. Not mockingly. Just warm, like a kettle boiling in a quiet house.

"You look cute when you're confused."

His hair flared red now. He scowled. "Don't say things like that."

"Why not? It's true."

"Stop trying to understand me."

"I'm not trying," she said. "I already do. Or at least… more than most. Especially you."

That stilled him.

He studied her. Her voice. Her cadence. The way she said things like she meant them. Something about her itched at the back of his mind.

Still—he covered it up with a scoff. "Alright, fine. You're persistent. I'll give you that."

He stood, stretching. The light filtered through the trees, catching the dull silver bangles on his wrists. He lifted them slightly toward her.

"Just so you're aware—these scream stay away. You sure you want to get mixed up in this mess?"

Leah's eyes didn't flinch. "Maybe I like mess."

Arthur blinked.

What the actual hell.

She meant it. He could tell. She wasn't posturing or performing. She wasn't scared of him.

He hated that it mattered.

"Don't get used to this," he muttered, turning away.

"Used to what?" she asked.

"This. Me. Whatever version of me you think you're talking to."

"Oh, I won't," she said, walking beside him now. "Because I'm not done yet."

He paused at the edge of the path, where the ivy curled low and the breeze caught the tips of his hair.

"I won't be around much," he said. "So if you're that desperate for a study buddy, you'll have to come find me."

Her brow arched. "Where are you going?"

He smiled.

But it didn't reach his eyes.

"To make some new friends."

Then he walked off.

The kind of walk that meant don't follow.

And Leah didn't.

But she watched.

And in the stillness beneath the ironwood tree, something ancient shifted.

The kind of shift that happens when two fates brush for the first time.

Not quite enemies.

Not quite allies.

At least... Not yet.

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

The room was too dim for afternoon.

Curtains half-drawn. Incense curling in the corner like ghost breath. Books stacked in towering, teetering spires, some floating just slightly off the shelves, like they were trying to escape. Headmistress Wren's office had always felt more like a divination den than an administrative chamber.

But today?

It felt like a trap.

The air held tension—taut and humming. Like a violin string pulled too tight.

Arthur sat with his hands folded, back straight, expression unreadable. Across from him, Dale Harrow looked like he belonged in a courtroom, not a school. Slick suit. Slick hair. Smile as polished as his brass cufflinks. His presence filled the room like a perfume no one asked for—powerful, cloying, and hard to ignore.

Wren sat slightly behind and to the side of him, fingers steepled under her chin like she was balancing something fragile.

"Mr. Reeves," Harrow began, tone buttery smooth, "how are you today?"

Arthur stared.

Not blinked. Not shifted.

Just stared.

Calmly. Blankly. As if Harrow was a particularly unremarkable part of the furniture.

The silence drew out until it had edges.

Harrow shifted in his seat, the fake smile stretching thinner.

"Alright then. I'm Dale Harrow, department head of MACUSA's Bureau of Magical Misuse & Unregistered Power." His voice dripped bureaucratic menace. "I'll be asking a few questions. I trust you'll cooperate."

Still nothing.

Not even a flicker of hair color.

Not even a twitch.

Wren finally exhaled. "Mr. Reeves," she said gently, "Arthur. Please answer his questions."

He turned to her. That softness in her voice again. The kind of calm people used when handling explosives or wild creatures.

Arthur gave a slow, deliberate nod. "As you wish, Headmistress."

Harrow leaned forward with a professional smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Good. First question—what were you doing on the Astronomy Tower the night of the incident?"

Arthur's response was perfectly measured. Like a chess move.

"Taking some air. You know—per your new 'start suffocating in your dorms after 8 PM' rule."

"Were you alone?" Harrow pressed.

Arthur hesitated, fingers twitching just slightly against the chair. He could feel the pressure behind his eyes—the way his magic pressed against the dampeners like steam trying to escape a sealed pot.

His hair threatened to betray him. A flicker of blue at the roots. He clenched his jaw.

"Not exactly," he said.

"What does that mean?" Harrow asked.

Arthur shrugged. "It was more of a daydream, really. I can't confirm anyone was actually there."

"Who was it?" Harrow narrowed his eyes.

Arthur suppressed a grin. Okay. Fine. Let's play the dumb teenage card.

"It was… a girl."

And just like that, his cheeks flushed pink. His hair followed suit.

Pink.

Harrow blinked, caught off guard. Wren's eyebrows arched, amused. Arthur let the false embarrassment simmer, letting it pulse through the dampeners like heat from a cracked spellcore.

It would earn him pain later—tightened restraints, a shock to the nerves—but for now?

Totally worth it.

Harrow coughed, eyes flicking down to his notes. "R-right. And have you experienced any magical outbursts lately?"

Arthur tilted his head. "Define lately. Because, technically, I've had one every day since I turned eleven. But your adorable silver bracelets have made that significantly more manageable."

Harrow's expression darkened. "We've observed signs of ice-related outbursts in particular. You should know there are concerns—especially regarding your bonded ani—"

Arthur's voice sliced clean through him.

"Stop right there, Mr. Harry."

Harrow blinked. "It's Harrow."

Arthur didn't even blink. His voice dropped, velvet and venomous.

"Why does everyone have such a damn problem with Alpha? Ignatius had one. Now you. He's not the danger in this school."

His eyes sharpened.

"I am."

A long pause.

The temperature dipped—not by much, but just enough that breath came out slightly visible.

Harrow leaned back, eyes now noticeably warier. "Arthur, everything we do is for your safety."

Arthur laughed. But there was no joy in it—just a dry, cracking edge.

"Don't insult me. Call it what it is—for the school's safety. You don't care if I implode, as long as no one else burns with me."

Harrow stood, adjusting his coat as if brushing off the tension. "As long as you understand the point."

Then, with the tone of someone tossing bait:

"Arthur, do you know anything about your bloodline? Where your powers really come from?"

Wren visibly tensed.

Too late.

Arthur's hair began to shift—black fading into smoke-gray, the kind of cold that didn't feel like snow but like the absence of warmth entirely.

His eyes dimmed, like stormclouds forming behind them.

Voice—changed. Lower. Older. Not his.

"Don't you dare," he said quietly.

Then louder, sharper:

"Keep your mouth shut about my family."

The incense in the corner snuffed out.

The air went still.

Too still.

Frost cracked along the edges of the desk. The bookshelves creaked. A thin sheen of ice spread across the base of Harrow's boots.

Arthur's eyes glowed faintly now—fog-lit, eerie. Like winter was peeking out from behind the curtain of his soul.

And then—gone.

Hair flicked back to black.

Eyes dimmed.

Arthur blinked, expression dazed. He looked up at the frozen desk.

"…What? Is there something on my face?"

Wren was already leaning forward, her voice calm. Too calm.

"Arthur… do you remember anything just now?"

Arthur frowned. "You asked me something about… family? I zoned out."

Wren gave a very small, tight nod. "Of course. Just a momentary lapse."

Harrow closed his file sharply. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Reeves. Headmistress." His voice was clipped now. His composure cracked just slightly.

He left with rigid, calculated strides.

The door shut behind him.

Arthur turned to Wren, brow furrowed.

"What just happened?"

Wren didn't meet his eyes. She was looking at the faint frost still creeping across the carpet.

"Hm? Oh, nothing. Just a hiccup in the wards, I suppose."

Arthur didn't buy it.

But he didn't push.

Not yet.

"Right…" he muttered. Standing slowly, he turned toward the door. "Well. I'll be going now."

Outside the office, the corridor stretched empty and cold.

Colder than it should've been.

Arthur took a step forward and stopped.

He looked down.

Frost.

Delicate, swirling patterns curling across his fingertips. Lacing up the inside of his sleeves. Whisper-thin. Almost beautiful.

But impossible.

He held up his hands. The magic-dampening bangles were still locked in place. Still whispering containment charms against his skin.

"They're supposed to stop outbursts…" he whispered.

The frost didn't vanish.

He flexed his fingers.

The cold remained.

"…Why do I feel like my other side is becoming more sentient?"

A long, quiet pause.

Then, almost under his breath:

"We've been out of sync lately… But now it feels like it's waking up without me."

∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆∆

The dormitory was dark—too dark.

Slivers of moonlight cut through the old cathedral glass like silver blades, sketching pale scars across the floor. The walls were bare. Silent. Watching. The beds across from Arthur's were perfectly made, untouched. They always had been.

He didn't mind the solitude anymore.

Arthur sat cross-legged on his mattress, knees drawn to his chest. The rest of the day had blurred past him—Vivienne's eyes, the scent of lemon tea and old paper still ghosting his sleeves.

Now, only silence remained.

But inside his mind?

A storm.

"Arthur Reeves. Age thirteen. Orphan. The Boy Who Lived...

And maybe the boy who shouldn't have."

The words escaped as a whisper, like he was afraid they'd wake something in the walls. Maybe they would.

He stared into the dark, breathing steady.

Thinking of the things he couldn't say.

The truths that twisted and screamed beneath his skin.

Cryomancy that cracked and bloomed like frost with no warning.

A second self—cold, quiet, coiled—waiting.

Lurking. Watching.

The Beast Tongue had gone dormant since the last episode. The cryomancy interfered. The magic was too volatile—too unstable. His had almost frozen an entire corridor. That had been with restraint.

Now, it slept behind locked doors of instinct and rage.

"Where does it come from?"

"This... thing inside me. This power. This burden."

"Not just the ice. All of it."

His hand reached without thinking for the hilt that wasn't there.

But the name came anyway.

"Silas Reeves," he whispered.

The name tasted old. Like ash and iron. It was engraved into the hilt of the sword his wand became once—a blade far too heavy for a boy. Yet every time it appeared in his grip, it felt... familiar.

Fated.

"What did that guy do?"

No answer.

Just the ancient groan of the castle walls.

Arthur lay down. The thought stuck in his mind like a shard of ice.

Sleep pulled him under.

He woke in a field.

Wide. Rolling. Alive with whispering grass that brushed his ankles and sang in a language the world had forgotten. The air smelled of morning—dew, iron, and memory.

He blinked. Looked down.

Bare feet. Green earth. Wind in his hair.

A dream.

But not a dream.

The wind felt real. The heartbeat in his chest felt loud. The colors were too sharp. Too clean. There was no dream fuzziness here—no static between perception and presence.

Then he saw it.

A castle. Far off. Elegant and terrible in its stillness, perched on a hill like a crown placed atop time itself. Its towers reached toward the sky, carved in shadow and stone.

"What is that?" he whispered.

And the answer came.

Not in his mind.

Beside him.

"That, young one... is the Reeves family home. Glenhaven."

Arthur turned.

An old man stood beside him, cloak rippling in the wind like it had a will of its own. His beard was silver and meticulously trimmed. His posture held the weight of command. His eyes—

Arthur's eyes.

"And who might you be, old timer?" Arthur asked, suspicious.

The man chuckled, low and thunderous, like laughter echoing through a mountain.

"Still the wit. Good. But I expect better manners."

Arthur narrowed his gaze. "Don't tell me—"

"I am Silas Reeves," the man said, cutting across him with ease. "The first of Glenhaven. Your great-grandfather."

Arthur groaned theatrically. "Of course you are. Damn it. I knew thinking about you was a bad idea."

Silas grinned, showing perfect, pearly teeth. "It's a good thing you did. Otherwise, you might die before you even start to live."

Arthur snorted. "I've had thirteen years of this. Death wouldn't be so bad."

Silas's smile faded.

"You don't know what you are yet. That ignorance will kill you."

The wind around them changed—sharpened.

Arthur's eyes flicked to the castle.

"So you're going to help me control it? This... power?"

Silas folded his arms behind his back, gaze steady.

"I will. But first, you must ask the right question."

Arthur frowned. "Fine. What the hell am I?"

Silas just smiled.

"Not yet, Beta."

The name struck like thunder.

Arthur felt it ripple through him—a pulse in his chest, a spike in his veins. The ground beneath him hummed. His magic responded. His hair flickered bright orange, a burst of surprise and energy he couldn't stop.

"Hey—wait. My magic still works here?"

Silas nodded, almost proudly. "Of course. This is your mind, Arthur. Or... a piece of it. A place shaped by your bloodline and memory. Here, you are free."

Arthur's gaze darkened. "Beta, huh?"

Silas turned toward the wind, his coat billowing like the cape of a war general from long ago.

"If I am the Alpha—the first of the blood to enter Britain—

You are the Beta. The heir. The echo. The flame. My legacy… and possibly, the hope."

Arthur made a face. "No pressure, huh?"

He looked back toward Glenhaven.

It loomed in the distance. Beautiful. Haunted. Home.

"This is not creepy at all. Definitely going to wake up and find it was an extremely long dream."

Then—quietly, almost sheepishly—

"Alright, old timer. Let's get on with it."