The school morning moved like it always did—too loud, too crowded, too meaningless.
Lockers slammed. Shoes scraped against tiled floors. Voices overlapped in pointless arguments about tests, teachers, and rumors that would die by lunch.
To Iris, it all felt distant.
Her body was present.
Her mind wasn't.
Iris felt her before she saw her.
That familiar pressure.
The one that told her she was being measured—and found wanting.
Elena stood on the upper balcony overlooking the central hall, speaking quietly with the principal. She wasn't watching the students.
She was watching patterns.
Mark felt it too.
His conversation with Simon stalled mid-sentence, words losing shape as instinct took over. He didn't look up immediately.
He knew better.
Elena's gaze found him anyway.
A nod.
Not a command.
An expectation.
Mark excused himself without being told.
That was the difference between authority and dominance.
As he approached the stairs, Elena descended—not hurried, not slow. The hallway subtly cleared. No one stepped into her path. No one realized they had moved.
"I trust you slept well," she said, voice level.
"Yes," Mark replied.
"Good. Discipline begins with rest."
Her hand came to rest briefly on his shoulder. Public enough to be seen. Controlled enough to be misunderstood.
Iris watched from below.
Her mother didn't look at her.
That was worse.
"You're improving," Elena continued. "But potential rots when surrounded by weakness."
Mark's jaw tightened.
"I choose my company," he said carefully.
Elena stopped walking.
Not abruptly.
Deliberately.
She turned—not toward Iris, but enough that Iris was no longer invisible.
"Choice," Elena said, tasting the word. "Is a luxury earned by those who can bear its consequences."
Their eyes met.
For the first time in years, Iris didn't lower her gaze.
Something flickered.
Elena smiled.
Not warmth.
Approval—or warning.
The bell rang.
Life resumed.
But Iris's hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From the realization that her mother had been watching her all along.
And Mark, as he walked away, felt a strange weight settle in his chest.
Later that day
Clara didn't make it far.
She was halfway down the corridor when footsteps caught up with her—three sets, uneven, familiar.
"Hey," Simon called. "Astral-traveler."
Clara stopped.
Slowly.
She turned, already knowing who it was.
Mark stood a little ahead of the others, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed but eyes locked on her. Iris hovered just behind him, arms folded, expression guarded. Simon looked like he was one bad answer away from saying something stupid.
"You planning on doing your… astral projection today?" Mark asked.
Clara raised an eyebrow. "You say that like it's a party trick."
"It kind of is," Simon muttered.
"Answer the question," Iris said.
Clara studied them for a moment. Not their faces—again, their energy. The way Mark's presence pressed outward. The way Iris's was coiled, unstable, like something half-awake. The way Simon's… flickered.
"Not today," Clara said. "I told you that already."
Mark frowned. "Then when?"
"Tonight," she replied. "Late. After the city quiets down."
Simon snorted. "Great. Very comforting."
Clara turned to walk away again.
Mark stepped in her path.
"Where?"
Then Clara sighed.
"My house," she said. "Same place you trespassed yesterday."
Simon opened his mouth.
"No," Clara cut in. "You don't get to come inside tonight."
Mark's jaw tightened. "We're not asking for permission."
Clara's eyes hardened. "Then you'll get in the way."
A beat.
Then, quieter—more serious:
"Astral projection leaves my body defenseless. If those robed idiots are watching me—and they are—then tonight is dangerous."
Iris hesitated. "So what, you want us to just… wait?"
Clara shook her head. "I want you to protect me without interference."
Later that day after school
"Why didn't you tell the other wolves about Clara?"
Iris asked it flat, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Mark like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear him say it.
They were standing a block away from Clara Ashcroft's house. Evening had settled in—not dark yet, just that uncomfortable hour where shadows started stretching longer than they should.
Mark didn't answer immediately.
"We're not completely sure what she's doing," he said finally. "Or what's really happening. And I don't trust them."
Simon blinked. "All of them?"
"All of them," Mark replied. "Except the Windsors. And even that's conditional."
Iris frowned. "My mother would—"
"—turn this into a political hunt," Mark cut in. Not harsh. Just honest. "Meetings. Votes. Power plays. Whatever's happening won't wait for that."
He looked at Clara's house.
A small place. Too quiet. No lights on except one dim glow upstairs.
"We keep this to ourselves," Mark continued. "Until we know what we're dealing with."
Simon let out a dry laugh. "You're right. They hid themselves pretty damn well for centuries… until some crazy psychopath witches decided human sacrifice was a personality trait."
Iris shot him a look. "Not funny."
"I didn't say it was."
Silence settled again.
Mark tilted his head slightly.
"…Something's wrong."
Simon stiffened. "You hear something?"
"No," Mark said. That was the problem. "I hear nothing."
The world around Clara's house felt muted. Not quiet—filtered. Like sound itself was being strained through fabric.
Iris swallowed. "That spell she mentioned?"
"Yeah," Mark said. "And it's active."
A chill crawled up Iris's spine. "So she's astral projecting. That means her body is—"
"—unguarded," Mark finished.
That was when the air shifted.
Not footsteps. Not sound.
Pressure.
Like someone stepping into the world without fully belonging to it.
Simon felt it too this time. "Mark…"
Across the street, space folded inward for a split second—like heat distortion without heat.
Then it happened.
A figure appeared.
No flash. No smoke.
One moment the porch was empty.
The next, a robed silhouette stood before Clara's door.
Tall. Thin. Face hidden beneath layers of dark cloth etched with faint, moving symbols—symbols that made Mark's skin crawl just looking at them.
The robed figure raised a hand.
The door unlocked itself.
Iris's breath caught. "Mark—"
"I know."
The figure stepped inside.
Mark was already moving.
"Stay behind me," he said, voice low, controlled. "Both of you."
They crossed the street fast, quiet, instincts screaming.
The front door was slightly ajar.
Then—
The robed figure paused.
Its head tilted.
Slowly… it turned.
And for the first time, Mark felt it noticed him.
The pressure spiked.
Symbols flared.
Mark stepped forward anyway.
That's when the figure vanished—like it had never been there at all.
No sound. No trace.
Just absence.
Inside the house, upstairs—
A sharp gasp.
Clara's body jolted upright.
Her eyes snapped open.
The front door burst open as Mark, Simon, and Iris rushed in—
And Clara Ashcroft stared at them, breathless, disoriented, alive.
The robed figure didn't flee far.
Mark felt it the moment it re-entered the world.
A ripple—like a stone dropped into still water—somewhere behind the house.
"There," Mark said.
Iris grabbed his sleeve. "Don't be stupid."
He met her eyes. Calm. Focused.
"I won't be."
That scared her more than rage ever could.
"Stay here," he added. "Both of you. If I say run—run."
Simon opened his mouth to argue.
Mark was already gone.