Elizabeth Howlett moved through the manor like a ghost draped in silk. The grand rooms, once a testament to her husband's ambition, now felt like a gilded cage whose bars were made of her own guilt. The expulsion of Thomas Logan had not brought her peace; it had shattered the fragile equilibrium that had allowed her to breathe for over a decade.
Her mind was a frantic, caged bird. Thomas. My God, Thomas. She saw his face in her dreams, not the angry, brutish man he had become, but the younger, rougher man whose intense, stolen attentions had been a dangerous antidote to John's cold, pragmatic world. That sin had borne a son. A son who was now the very image of a Howlett, but whose true lineage had just driven his biological father to ruin.
And Victor… her other son. The one she could never acknowledge, the wild creature who wore Thomas's fury like a second skin. She had heard the whispers of the confrontation in the woods, of Victor being thrown back by some unseen force. Fear for him curdled in her stomach, a mother's instinct warring with a terrified wife's need for secrecy.
She watched James. He was her solace and her greatest terror. He was so quiet, so composed. Too composed. Since the incident with Thomas, he had shown no lingering fear, no trauma. He would sit with her in the parlor, reading aloud from poetry books, his voice calm and mellifluous. But sometimes, when he thought she wasn't looking, she would catch a glimpse of his eyes. They were not a child's eyes. They were the still, deep eyes of a judge. And in those moments, a terrifying certainty would grip her: He knows. He knows everything.
One afternoon, she broke. As James sat sketching at a table, she knelt beside his chair, her hands trembling as she clutched his arm.
"James, my darling," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "You must… you must be careful. Of Victor. He's… he's not like you. He's dangerous."
James set down his pencil and turned his gaze upon her. It was not a son's gaze. It was analytical. "Why is he like that, Mother?" he asked, his voice soft but devoid of childish curiosity. It was a probe. "Why is he so full of rage? It's as if the world has wronged him from the moment he was born."
Elizabeth flinched as if struck. The question was a key turning in the lock of her deepest secret. "His… his father," she stammered, looking away. "Thomas… he filled the boy with such bitterness."
"But why?" James persisted, his voice a gentle, relentless tide. "What could create such a profound, shared bitterness between a father and a son? It must be a powerful thing. A secret, perhaps."
His words were not accusations. They were worse. They were observations, delivered with a pity that felt like a verdict. He was not asking for answers; he was showing her he already had them. He was making her complicit in her own exposure. A sob escaped her. She was not comforting her son; she was confessing to her inquisitor.
"Just… please be careful," she repeated, her spirit breaking under the weight of his calm understanding. She fled the room, leaving James alone. He had not threatened her. He had not raised his voice. He had simply held up a mirror to her guilt, and the reflection had shattered her.
The tool was now perfectly prepared. It was time to leash the hound.
James found Victor two days later, skulking near the edge of the property, a feral shadow nursing his humiliation and rage. The Logan cottage stood empty, a monument to their disgrace.
Victor snarled as James approached. "Come to gloat? To use your… your tricks on me again?"
"No," James said, his hands in his pockets. "I came to offer you a truth. Everyone else lies to you. John lies by treating you as a servant. Our mother lies by pretending you are nothing to her. I am the only one who will not lie."
Victor's eyes narrowed, suspicious but intrigued. "What truth?"
"The truth of what we are," James said, gesturing to the space between them. "We are not men. We are something more. Something better. The world fears what it does not understand. It will try to cage us, to break us. John would see you in a workhouse or an asylum. I see your potential."
He was speaking Victor's language—not of books, but of strength, of belonging, of being part of an elite. He was offering him a pack.
"What do you want?" Victor growled, but the aggression was fading, replaced by a desperate, lonely need.
"I want us to survive," James said. "And to survive, we need to understand our power. Both of us." He held up his hand. With a thought, he didn't just extend his bone claws. He focused his Metallic Resonance Shield, shaping it. A shimmering, barely visible sheath of force coated each bone claw, extending their length and sharpness, making them hum with a faint, lethal energy.
Victor stared, mesmerized.
"You feel the strength in you," James continued, his voice hypnotic. "The speed. The rage. It's a gift. But untamed, it's a weapon that will turn on its owner. I can help you tame it. I can show you how to be more than just a wild animal they hunt. I can show you how to be the hunter."
He retracted the energy-sheathed claws. "But loyalty must be absolute. You will do as I say. Not because I am your better, but because my mind and your strength, together, make us invincible. You will be my right hand. The fang to my will."
It was a masterstroke. He was not asking for submission; he was offering a partnership that fed Victor's ego while demanding his obedience. He was giving the feral boy a purpose, a leader, a pack he desperately craved.
Victor was silent for a long time, the conflict clear on his face. The offer appealed to every one of his base instincts: power, belonging, and a target for his rage—the world that rejected them.
"Alright," Victor said finally, his voice a low rumble of assent. "I'm in."
The leash was slipped. The hound was his.
In the weeks that followed, James began more creative experiments with his ability. The Metallic Resonance Shield was not just for defense. In the forge behind the manor, surrounded by raw metal, he discovered its offensive potential.
He could now shape the shield into simple forms. He practiced creating a razor-edged, discus of force and hurling it at a tree. It sliced clean through a thick branch twenty feet away before dissipating. He learned to create a protective, metallic-skinned gauntlet over his fist, allowing him to punch straight through a brick without his knuckles feeling a thing.
His most elegant innovation was subtle. He would sit with John Howlett, discussing steel production, and while his father marveled at his son's intellect, James would practice micro-manipulations. He would use the shield not as a barrier, but as a fine tool, invisibly stirring the sugar in his tea from across the room, or turning the page of a book on the shelf without moving from his chair. It was practice in precision, in the absolute, unseen control of his environment.
He was no longer just a boy with claws and a shield. He was a sculptor of force, a puppeteer of invisible strings. He had a mother broken by guilt, a father building an empire for him, and a feral brother leashed to his will.
The monster in the boy's skin was no longer just playing a part. He was the director, the playwright, and the lead actor in a tragedy of his own exquisite design. And the stage was being set for a much grander, more terrible performance.
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