But this?
This ain’t that, not even close. Most days, the only thing I feel is guilt and shame. A heavy, suffocating weight I’ve just learned to carry. After what happened to Sammy, I figured I’d forfeited the right to anything good. When you’re the reason your little brother is dead, you quickly learn that actions have consequences.
Joy?
That’s for other people.
But then there’s her,Avilyna.
She walks into a room, and suddenly the weight I’m carrying feels lighter. Not gone, just…different. Like maybe I’m not completely broken? Maybe there's still something in me worth saving?
When she is around, it’s like standing in the sun after years in the cold, a mirage, sure, but one I’ll be happy to get lost in.And the worst part, it’s not like we’ve been intimate or passed second base; I know it’s not about that. Sure, she’s hot, but it’s deeper when it comes to her. The way she pushes back, stands tall. Doesn't let me hide behind the usual crap I pull. She’srealin a world full of liars and masks. Doesn’t care about rules or reputations, least of all mine, and I can get drunk on it, fuck, I crave it—craveher.
I’d play the villain if it means Avilyna will find her voice, even if it’s for yelling at me. But that’s what messes me up. Because deep down, it tugs at something I swore was dead. Something I buried with every deal, every death, every damn choice I had to make since Sammy.
And I hate that she’s waking it.
Because I don’t know if I can survive that again, the need to get over it gnaws at me like it always does.
Loud. Unrelenting—Stop. Caring—Follow. Orders.
And I do what I’ve always done when the weight gets too damn heavy. I reach for my favourite poison. My sanctuary will be a healthier choice, but it takes effort that I don't currently have. So I pour a glass of fire whiskey, straight from Arvendal. The kind blessed, or cursed, by gryphons, depending on how you look at it. All I know is it burns going down, leaving a trail of fire that hurts just enough tofeelsomething. First sip lights up my throat, settles in my chest as a storm, and I welcome it, savour it.
Drinking liquor like it’s water?
That’s my hidden talent. Forget the strength, forget the shifting, forget the magic. The real miracle here is that my liver’s still hanging on after nine years of this crap. Thank Kvirr for my lycans genes, because one year under my father’s wrath was enough to teach me that pain doesn’t just go away; it slowly settles into the marrow of your bones. Deep in your gut, festering until you can’t tell where it ends or begins.
The tip of my pencil snaps, leaving a streak of graphite across the paper. Reaching for the small knife to sharpen it, I’m pulled back to a time when reaching for my favourite escape wasn’t as easy. I don’t mean to remember, I never do. But it always comes back uninvited, relentless.
And I'm thirteen again.
Kneelingon the rug in my room, I rifle through drawers and corners, hoping to find some hidden art supplies. My father made good on his promise to get rid of them all, no distractions, no weakness.The door slams, and the room holds its breath. Then comes his voice,calm,controlled. And that’s always worse than yelling.
“You disobeyed a direct order,” he says, standing behind me, a shadow capable of crushing bones. “I gave you one job. One. Watch your brother. Stay put. But no… You had to go play hero.”I turn slowly, already shrinking.
His violence isn’t a surprise, but it used to be a hidden truth. One that lives in the dark corners of our house, coming alive only at night, when wandering eyes are gone.His uniform is still half on, medals catching the lamplight as sharp teeth. Even drunk, he stands like he’s in formation. My father, the General, the man who issues commands as scripture. And to him, I haven’t just broken a rule, I’ve broken the faith he had in me, and that’s unacceptable.
“He counted on you,” his voice tightens inch by inch. “I counted on you.” I try to speak.
I always try, but the words aren’t fast enough, or never the right ones.
“I told Sammy not to move… I thought I could reach him before—” The blow comes out of nowhere, stronger than ever.
My head hits the bedframe, hard. Dizzy, warm liquid slides down my temple, trickling down to my chin. My thoughts blur and narrow to that sensation—the soft, snaking warmth of blood.
“You,” he spits, “you take more after me. But your brother? He was like your mother. Soft. Naïve. Weak.” He spits those last words as if they’re sins. “And you failed the only mission you weren’t allowed to fail.” He takes another pull from his Frostkal Gin.
That’s when I swore to never touch Kallahan’s specialty. I can’t stand the sight of that label, always bringing back bad memories. Like the reflection in his eyes when he looks at me, as if I’m already broken beyond repair, a disappointment.
Still, I try, like a fool, again.
“I know, Dad. I’m sorry—” His hand is faster than my words. It grabs the back of my head and slams it forward. My forehead hits the edge of my desk, sharp and hard. Not enough blood to call a healer, but enough to throb until my wolf numbs the pain.
“You left an eight-year-old alone,” he hisses. “While we were under attack from Netherworld! You left him to DIE.”
I don’t cry.
I want to, but tears are ammo in his world, my world. If I show pain, he gives it back double.Dad doesn’t hit me again. He just stares, long and cold. Disgust bleeding from every line in his face, carved there as stone. He spits before walking away.
