The Lost Heir

Diminished

The door shuts behind us with a dull thud, cutting off the noise of the corridor.

I do not speak.

I head straight for the bedroom, dragging the tattered remains of my polo shirt over my head more sharply than necessary before throwing it into the back of my open wardrobe.

"f**k’s sake," I mutter.

Owen watches me for a moment as he pulls off his own shirt far more carefully.

"Well," he says after a beat, "that was interesting."

I glance at him.

"Was it?"

His mouth twitches, like he is deciding exactly how attached he is to living.

"It went well," he says.

I reach for my school shirt.

"For her."

Amusement creeps into his voice on the last two words.

I let out a short breath through my nose and pull the shirt on.

The fabric catches against my split lip when I move too quickly, and irritation flares again.

Not at the pain.

At the fact that I had not stopped her.

At the fact that I could have.

At the fact that, this time, when she moved, I let her.

You are annoyed about what just happened, Calix notes.

No s**t.

"She overcommitted," I say.

It comes out flat, but there is an edge to it I do not bother hiding.

Owen tilts his head slightly as he steps into his trousers.

"Did she, though?"

I look at him properly.

"Oh, come on. You saw it."

"I saw her throw you."

"She launched me off the mat."

"Very effectively."

"There’s a difference." I drag a hand through my hair. "She’s precise. That was not an accident."

Owen gives a quiet huff of amusement.

"I’m sure you’ll survive."

"That is not the point."

"What is the point?"

I open my mouth.

Then close it again.

Because the point is not my lip. Or the shirt. Or even being thrown in front of half the room.

The point is that I told her she did not need to brace for me.

And she did anyway.

I lean back against the wardrobe, folding my arms.

"No one else was going to volunteer to get on that mat with her," I add. "They were all too busy worrying about hurting her. You included."

Owen does not argue.

"Yep," he says. "I was."

That annoys me more than if he denied it.

"Which is why you stepping in mattered," he continues. "Because you have hurt her before."

I shrug, like that can make the words land less heavily.

"Someone had to step up."

"And I’m guessing you didn’t exactly make it easy for her."

I look at him.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"I saw you." Owen pulls his school shirt on, watching me steadily. "You said something to her. Just before she threw you."

I hesitate.

Only for a second.

"I told her she didn’t need to brace for me."

Owen’s brows lift.

"And you thought that would help?"

Irritation flickers. "I meant it."

"I’m sure you did."

Somehow, that is worse than an argument.

"I wasn’t going to do anything," I say.

"You knew that," Owen replies. "She didn’t."

You were trying to reassure her, Calix says.

"Well," Owen says lightly, "she clearly didn’t take it that way."

"No," I mutter. "She didn’t."

The silence that follows sits heavier than it should.

"She didn’t need to go that hard," I add, quieter now.

Because she didn’t.

That was not just technique.

There had been something behind it.

Anger.

Owen studies me for a moment.

"You embarrassed her."

I frown. "How?"

"You pushed her in that meeting yesterday. In front of everyone."

"I asked questions. That was the point of the meeting."

"You were testing her."

"That’s not the same thing."

"It might be to her."

I push off the wardrobe and grab my bag.

"So what was I supposed to do?" I ask, sharper now. "Sit there and pretend the plan was flawless?"

"No," Owen says, unbothered. "But you knew what you were doing."

That lands badly.

Worse, it lands accurately.

"Everyone remembers what happened last year," he adds.

I pause.

My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag.

"Great," I mutter. "So I’m the problem again."

There is more bite in it than I intend.

Owen exhales, running a hand through his hair.

"I didn’t say that."

"You didn’t need to."

"Josh."

"What?"

"You are not the only problem in every room," he says carefully. "But sometimes you are part of one."

He pauses, choosing his words more carefully this time.

"I’m just saying... you and Grey aren’t exactly reading each other right."

"That’s not my fault."

"Isn’t that attitude the problem?"

I look at him sharply.

Owen holds my gaze for a moment, then shrugs.

"She doesn’t trust you," he says simply.

That lands harder than it should.

I look away first.

"Not my problem," I mutter.

It kind of is, Calix says.

I sling my bag over my shoulder.

"Come on," I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "I’m getting food before you decide to become even more insightful."

Owen does not move straight away. For a second, I think he is going to push it further.

Then he just nods, picking up his own things.

"All right."

We head for the door, but the moment stays lodged under my ribs.

The way Grey had tensed when she grabbed me. The flash in her eyes before she moved. The force behind the throw.

That had not been just technique.

It had been fear.

And now she is in two of my classes, leading combat, and running the patrol rota.

There is no space left to avoid her.

After classes end, I am more than ready to head out on patrol.

I will be eating late, scraping together whatever is left at the end of dinner service, but I do not mind.

I just want to run.

Owen is still in his last lesson, which leaves the suite quiet.

Thankfully quiet.

I try to use the time the way any seventeen year old might.

I fail.

Not at homework.

At something far more humiliating.

Something I have been avoiding testing properly since I came back and the hex lifted.

Nothing.

I stop, jaw tight, and stare at the ceiling.

Stress.

Exhaustion.

Perhaps lingering effects of Mum’s hex.

Any of those would make sense.

I choose stress.

With an irritated growl I get up and change for patrol with more force than necessary.

That is when I spot the polo Grey tore earlier, crumpled at the back of my wardrobe where I threw it only hours before.

White fabric.

Split collar.

A rip down the front.

Her grip in the material.

The flash in her eyes.

The force behind the throw.

May as well. It’s already destroyed, I mutter to Calix, dragging it back on.

I’m sure that’s the reason, he replies dryly.

I roll my eyes and pull on an old pair of joggers. They sit shorter at the ankles than my newer ones, looser on my thighs than they used to, the fabric no longer filling out properly.

Irritating.

I look diminished.

I feel it too.

Owen will help get you back on track, Calix says.

I do not answer.

I should not need my new roommate to do that.

But Calix is not wrong.

Outside, I head straight for one of the shifting cubicles scattered across the grounds.

They are doorless wooden huts, open to the air but sheltered enough to keep clothes dry. A relatively new addition, and a quiet acknowledgement that we no longer have to hide what we are.

Once, something like this would have been unthinkable. Back when humans studied here without knowing Lycans walked the same corridors.

I leave my clothes folded on the bench.

Calix does not hesitate.

The moment we shift, he surges forwards, tearing across the grounds towards our assigned sector.

The sectors are smaller than they used to be.

He does not mind.

This one comes with woodland.

The second we hit the trees, he accelerates, whipping through the undergrowth, senses sharp and high. A rabbit bolts ahead of us, but Calix does not even twitch towards it.

Not tonight.

Tonight, he wants the boundary.

This feels good, I admit, more than happy to let him take over.

We run the perimeter again and again, looping the same route until our lungs burn and my thoughts finally quiet.

Repetition helps.

No questions.

No meetings.

No torn shirts.

No Grey.

Just movement.

Just being Lycan.

By the time my patrol ends, dusk has settled across the grounds.

I shift back inside the cubicle and reach for my clothes, still breathing hard.

Then I catch a scent.

Not rogue.

Not wolf.

Perfume.

Sweet, floral, and far too close.

I pause with the ruined polo in my hands.

So much for overlap.

Whoever is taking over must be late.

"Hey there," the girl says easily.

I glance over, recognising her vaguely from photography.

Beta, judging by the feel of her. Tall and lean, with straight dark hair falling below her shoulders.

Gorgeous.

I register that easily enough.

Nothing else follows.

"Hi," I reply, pulling on my joggers and glancing back at her.

She watches me without much subtlety as she starts unbuttoning her school shirt.

"Oooh," she says, eyes brightening. "You’re an alpha. Which pack?"

She must be new, I mutter to Calix. Transfer, maybe.

Which is helpful, he replies. Last year means nothing to her.

I drag a hand through my hair and offer her a well-practised smile, extending my hand.

"Josh Landry."

I let my surname answer her question.

Recognition hits her almost instantly.

"Kirsten Delacroix," she says, brightening. "Wimpole pack. Near Cambridge."

I nod once.

Prestigious pack. Old money. Strong bloodlines.

The kind of introduction Dad would probably expect me to remember.

Her gaze lingers a second longer than necessary.

A year ago, I would have known exactly what to do with that.

"Enjoy your patrol, Kirsten."

She grins and sheds the rest of her clothes without hesitation, shifting into a large mid-brown wolf.

She looks exceptional, I admit.

Interesting, Calix says, amused. You’ll admit that about her.

I ignore him and step out into the evening air.

No other school had anything like it, because no other school had once been attended by my mother.

During her short time at Exton, Mum had started the botanical garden in an old dead greenhouse while learning to control her new magic. It had expanded significantly since then, helped along by Sen, one of the faeries who had crossed from the Fae realm into ours and somehow become part of our family in the process.

She still cared for the garden and taught several classes within it. It was normal for us to visit her while we were here.

Sometimes for advice.

Sometimes because she noticed things no one else did and gave no one the option of avoiding them.

"Sen?" I call, using my room key to access the entrance.

Warmth wraps around me immediately.

I step inside, and a large, vibrant green leaf skims the top of my head as though making its own greeting.

"Joshua," comes her slow, familiar voice, carrying easily through the space.

I turn to see her walking towards me, dressed in a flowing lilac gown, her hair loose over one shoulder and her expression already far too knowing.

"It’s good to see you, Sen," I tell her, stepping forward to embrace her.

She returns the hug warmly.

Then, naturally, she pushes me back to arm’s length and scrutinises me from head to toe.

My mother has the decency not to do this to family.

Sen, however, has never cared for such boundaries.

"Oh. You look smaller," she says."I thought alphas were meant to be bigger."

I sigh.

"Great. Lovely to see you too."

She grips my arms, holding me in place as her eyes narrow, her expression shifting rapidly as she takes me in.

"Looking at me like that won’t help the wrinkles you’re always complaining about," I tease.

She laughs, then lightly slaps my arm in mock reprimand.

"My wrinkles tell my story," she says haughtily.

In truth, she looks remarkably good for someone well over two thousand years old.

"Just like my aura tells you mine?" I ask.

Her smile softens at the edges.

She guides me down onto a nearby bench.

"It is less chaotic than last year," she says, studying me again. "But still unsettled."

I look away.

"What happened last year is still kicking my arse. The fallout from it, anyway."

"Understandable."

The word is gentle, but it does not make me feel better.

"I am sure She recognises the damage it caused you," Sen says, "even if it served a greater purpose."

My jaw tightens.

"A greater purpose," I echo.

Irritation slips in before I can stop it.

"That is always comforting."

"Yes. Your mate bonds are back, are they not?" she says lightly. "I once told your aunt Serena how lazy they made you all. But who could have predicted that, without them, love would not be enough? Not for many of you. Not when rank and power were left to fill the space."

Her gaze sharpens.

"It turned too many Lycans into power-hungry savages. The higher ranks most of all. And yes, the darker influence made it worse, feeding on the Goddess’s mistake until that mistake was finally corrected."

"I didn’t want power."

"Not overtly," she cuts in. "But you wanted what was going to come to Ophelia naturally."

The words land badly.

"Only because she had no wolf," I argue, the same frustration rising. I have said it too many times already.

Sen’s expression does not soften.

"Exactly."

I still.

"That is the problem, Joshua. You looked at what she lacked and decided it mattered more than everything she was."

"And your sordid behaviour here—"

"Was objectively no worse than any other alpha’s," I interrupt defensively. "Or beta’s, for that matter. I wasn’t hunting for power. I just wanted to have a good time."

The words sound weaker out loud.

There is nothing wrong with enjoying s*x.

I know that.

Still, Sen says nothing for a moment.

Which is somehow worse.

All I can hear is the soft trickle of a nearby water feature and the quiet movement of life within the dome.

It had been worse after Ophelia chose her mate. After she became something no one could ignore. After the future I had expected to shift towards me simply... did not.

By then, I had not recognised myself.

Not properly.

I think of the training floor earlier. Of Grey’s hand twisting in my shirt. The way she had looked at me, not angry exactly, but wary.

Like she thought I might actually hurt her again.

Like she did not trust me not to.

But then, it had not really been me.

The thought comes too quickly.

Too easily.

Sen says nothing.

I hate that she does not need to.

"Do I have any light back?" I ask quietly.

Because that is the question beneath all of it, really.

Not whether Grey overreacted. Not whether last year was my fault or the darkness or the Goddess’s mistake or Mum’s hex.

Whether anything good in me survived it.

Light.

Goodness, in its simplest form. The thing the fae guarded and kept in balance against the dark.

Sen’s expression softens.

"Of course you do," she says. "You are a good person, Joshua, and you are loved by us."

Relief moves through me.

Too soon.

"But..." She glances upwards, a faint smile touching her lips. "It is not yet enough for you to leave your car behind."

I follow her gaze.

A plume of wisteria is visible through the centre of the structure, my mother’s first creation.

Any wisteria grown by a faerie could act as a gateway between realms, and between others like it, as long as there was an abundance of good in the world.

We had one at home. At allied packs. At places of work. All over the world.

We used to step through them without thought.

Now, after last year, we drive.

"Too much was lost," Sen continues quietly. "From everywhere. Most noticeably... from wherever Ophelia had been."

My jaw clenches before I can stop it.

Because it had been her.

Not intentionally. Never intentionally.

But it had still happened.

"It wasn’t her fault," I say, low.

"No," Sen agrees. "She could not have known. Who could have guessed her wolf spirit had been trapped in another realm? That the bond between them would tear open a rift from which goodness would pour through, into the darkness beyond?"

I exhale slowly.

"Mum is still trying to explain it," I add. "To understand the science behind it. The way the rift drained everything."

Sen hums.

"Some things are not meant to be understood."

I glance at her, a faint smile tugging at my mouth.

"Amoya used to say that."

"A wise woman," Sen replies. "It is a shame she can no longer See. Her understudy lacks the same finesse."

A brief pause follows.

"Is the world healing?" I ask.

This time, her smile is warmer.

"I am glad you care to ask," she says, placing a hand lightly on my arm. "Slowly, but surely, yes. More light enters the world every day."

I nod, letting that settle.

More light.

Not enough for the trees yet.

But enough to matter.

"What can I do to help?"

She studies me for a moment, something almost maternal in her expression.

"Be the best version of yourself," she says simply. "I know you feel as though you have strayed from your path, but you have not wandered as far as you think."

My throat tightens slightly.

"You are not as lost as you believe yourself to be, Joshua. And being flawed does not make you unworthy. It makes you young. It makes you alive. It means you still have choices to make."

I let out a quiet breath.

Choices.

That, at least, I can work with.

I say goodbye not long after, heading out to find what is left of dinner.

The world is not healed.

The trees still do not work.

I am not my father’s heir.

Not yet.

But as I leave the warmth of the botanical garden behind, I feel, for the first time in a while, like there is still something in me worth holding onto.