The academy courtyard was unusually quiet that afternoon. A thin veil of clouds muted the sunlight, softening the stone paths and the sprawling gardens into shades of silver and pale gold. Aria preferred it that way—less noise, fewer eyes.
She had skipped lunch, choosing instead to take a book from the library and sit beneath the lone ash tree at the courtyard's edge. The words on the page blurred as her mind drifted, replaying fragments of the morning's training—Kieran's voice, his piercing gaze, the way he'd stood far too close.
She shook herself and focused back on the text. But the peace was short-lived.
A sharp whimper cut through the stillness.
Aria's head snapped up. The sound came again—high, pained. She closed the book and rose, moving toward the hedges bordering the courtyard.
There, tucked between the roots of a twisted yew, lay a small wolf pup. Its fur was as white as snow, matted and streaked with dirt. One paw was twisted at an unnatural angle, its sides heaving with shallow breaths.
She knelt slowly, murmuring soundlessly in her head, as if the words could still reach it. The pup's ears twitched, but it didn't shy away.
Carefully, she reached out. Her fingers brushed the soft fur—and the world seemed to tilt.
Warmth flared in her chest, racing down her arm and into her fingertips. It was a strange, pulsing sensation, like liquid sunlight spilling from her into the pup. The throbbing whimper faded; the tremble in its small body eased.
Aria's breath hitched. She hadn't done anything—at least, not intentionally. But under her palm, the twisted paw straightened, the swelling receded, and the shallow breathing steadied.
When the warmth faded, she sat back, staring. The pup blinked up at her, no longer in pain, and yipped softly.
Her heart pounded.
She glanced around. The courtyard was still empty. No one had seen.
Or so she thought.
A shadow stretched across the grass, falling over both her and the pup. Slowly, she looked up.
Kieran stood there, one hand in his pocket, the other resting at his side. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those sharp, silver eyes—were locked on her like a predator who had just scented something rare.
"How long have you been able to do that?"
Her fingers froze on the pup's fur. She shook her head, signing quickly: I don't know. I've never—
He stepped closer, his gaze never wavering. "Healing like that isn't common, Nightshade. Not even among the strongest."
She looked down at the pup, who had curled against her leg as if she were a safe haven. Her hands moved again: I didn't mean to. It just… happened.
Kieran crouched in front of her, the faint scent of pine and rain clinging to him. He studied her in silence for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as if turning over a puzzle piece in his mind.
"Accidental or not," he said quietly, "you just revealed a talent that people would kill to control."
The words chilled her.
"Do not," he added, his tone edged with steel, "let anyone see you do that again. Not until we understand what it means."
There was no room for argument in his voice.
She nodded, still reeling, as he rose to his full height.
He gave the pup a brief glance before looking at her again—long enough for her to feel the weight of something unspoken pressing between them. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.
Only when he was gone did she realize she'd been holding her breath.
Her fingers trembled as she gathered the pup into her lap. She didn't know what had just awakened inside her… but deep down, she knew it was only the beginning.
The pup shifted in her lap, pressing its small head into her palm as if memorizing her scent. Aria stroked its soft fur, her mind racing in a dozen directions.
Her abilities—or whatever this was—had always been an empty space in her life. She was mute, unshifted, powerless in the eyes of her kind. That was the truth she had lived with for as long as she could remember. But this? This was different.
Healing was rare. Healing without herbs, without training—it was unheard of.
The pup gave a tiny yawn, curling into a small ball of white warmth, and for a moment Aria felt something deep inside her stir, a strange ache in her chest. She wanted to protect it.
Her gaze flicked toward the shadowed archways leading back into the academy buildings. She couldn't risk being found here with the pup. Kieran's words had already left a sharp edge of warning in her mind: people would kill to control this.
She adjusted her hold on the pup and started toward the old, unused greenhouse at the far end of the courtyard—a place she'd discovered weeks ago. The door hung crooked, the glass panels were clouded, and most of the academy had forgotten it even existed. It was the perfect hiding place.
The air inside was warm and damp, smelling of earth and dust. Sunlight slanted through the cracked glass, painting the floor with fractured beams. She set the pup down gently on a pile of old cloth sacks. It immediately began sniffing around, its little tail flicking in cautious excitement.
Kneeling beside it, she brushed a stray leaf from its back and smiled faintly. No one could take it from her if they didn't know it existed.
The faint crunch of boots on gravel outside made her stiffen.
The pup stilled too, its ears pricking up.
The greenhouse door creaked open.
Kieran stepped inside, ducking slightly under the low frame. His eyes scanned the space until they landed on her—and the pup.
For a heartbeat, the air between them was utterly still. Then he shut the door behind him and walked forward.
Aria rose quickly, her hands moving in silent explanation: It's hurt. I didn't want anyone to—
His hand came up, stopping her mid-gesture.
"I told you not to let anyone see," he said, voice low but firm.
Her mouth tightened. She signed again: No one did. I checked.
Kieran's gaze shifted to the pup. It sat there, unafraid, almost smug in its safety. His expression softened for the briefest second—then hardened again.
"You think hiding it here will protect it?" he asked.
She frowned, unsure whether he meant the pup or her.
Before she could sign a reply, he stepped closer, close enough for the faint heat radiating from him to brush her skin. His silver eyes caught the fractured sunlight, making them look like molten metal.
"That warmth you felt when you touched it," he said slowly, "isn't something you can just ignore. It's power. And power draws attention—especially the wrong kind."
Aria swallowed. Her fingers twitched, forming the signs almost reluctantly: I didn't ask for it.
"No one ever does," he murmured.
The words hung in the air, heavy with something she couldn't quite name.
He crouched beside the pup, letting it sniff his hand before scratching behind its ear. "Keep it out of sight," he said finally. "And if you feel that warmth again—on anyone or anything—come to me. Immediately."
Her chest tightened at the command, at the way his voice left no room for refusal.
She gave a small nod.
He rose to his full height again, his gaze lingering on her for a fraction too long, as if trying to solve a riddle he didn't like the answer to. Then, without another word, he turned and left the greenhouse, the sound of his boots fading down the gravel path.
Aria let out a slow breath, realizing her shoulders were tense.
She sat back down beside the pup, tracing her fingers lightly over its fur. The memory of that strange heat lingered in her hands, like an ember waiting to ignite again.
For the first time since arriving at Mooncrest Academy, she wasn't sure if her silence was still her greatest secret.