Rise of the Underdogs: Jasper

The Crux and the Crucible

The next morning unfolded much as the previous one had, marked by a familiar sense of endurance. Despite whatever expectations may have lingered, we maintained our position with unwavering determination and refused to break under pressure. We hadn’t chosen to war with the woman who owned the house. That would defy the nature of our mother’s final order.

Protect and survive.

Instead, we deliberately held silence and space, never allowing ourselves to be swayed or distracted. This steadfastness created an atmosphere of quiet strength, a testament to our collective resolve.

We supported one another without yielding completely or overpowering each other. There was a careful balance within the family unit. No one truly submitted, and no one was overshadowed, but it was designed to happen that way. Proving beyond doubt that we remained united in our shared purpose.

This experience was not what the Witch and the Polar Bear shifters had anticipated. They had shown us Werewolves that they expected one of us to slip, one of us to expose a fracture that wasn’t actually there. Their expectations were met with something different, something they never saw coming. Rather than confrontation or surrender, they found a group determined to stand together in quiet solidarity.

As I moved through the house, the voices of my siblings echoed around me, each sharing tales of their findings with an enthusiastic respect for the connections they unearthed. Their conversations were animated, revealing a deep sense of reverence for both each other and the discoveries themselves. Surrounded by this energy, my thoughts drifted to the fate of others—specifically, whether anyone else had survived the fall of Arctic Shield. The question lingered quietly in my mind, weaving itself into the fabric of the moment.

Lost in contemplation, I soon realized I had wandered outside a door unlike any other in the house. Its surface was marked by intricate carvings, and as I stood before it, I sensed a pulsing power radiating from within—an energy unfamiliar to me, yet undeniably strong. The door seemed more than just an entryway. It was a threshold to something beyond my understanding, beckoning me to discover what lay hidden behind its enigmatic design.

As I approached the door, my gaze lingered on the intricate carvings etched into its surface. The symbols seemed to pulse with a quiet energy, drawing me in with a force both mysterious and compelling. Unable to resist, I raised my hand, reaching out to touch the unfamiliar markings. The instant my fingers neared the symbols, a sudden jolt—gentle yet unmistakable—rippled up my arm, as if I had been struck by lightning softened into light. I withdrew instinctively, startled by the sensation.

A wave of conflicting emotions surged within me—confusion and awe, each vying for space in my heart and mind. The confusion stemmed from the magic itself, a force I could not comprehend or name, yet which seemed to tap into a reservoir of knowledge just beyond my grasp. It felt as though I was brushing against memories that belonged to me, but only in fragments, their wholeness disrupted by some form of inner discord.

At the same time, awe took hold as I considered the reaction of the door before me. It was, by all appearances, an ordinary inanimate object, yet it responded as if it possessed its own will. The power that had surged unexpectedly through my veins was both exhilarating and fleeting, vanishing as quickly as it had come, leaving me with a heightened awareness of the mysteries yet to be uncovered.

“What is this?” I murmured, voicing the wonder that had taken hold. The space beyond the door felt charged, alive with a strength that was both foreign and magnetic. It was as though the very air vibrated with purpose, engaged and aware in a way that suggested more than mere architecture. In that moment, it seemed the threshold itself was not merely a boundary, but a living presence—one that awaited discovery and understanding.

Unable to stop myself, I raised my hand again. This time, despite the quaking jolts that spread through my body, I pressed my palm against the wood. Visions hit me one after another, making my mind swim with current possibilities and future probabilities that held neither rhyme nor reason.

Images of fires reaching into the night sky, a fierce call of survival amid the chaos. The truth of what I was seeing struck true, and I found myself calling on the lessons Mother taught me.

Her first lesson echoed in my mind, clear and unwavering: “Match the world, and the world matches you.” In every action, there existed a delicate equilibrium of giving and receiving, intertwined and inseparable. To receive was not a passive act as it required openness and humility. Likewise, to give meant offering without expectation, knowing that the gesture itself would be returned in ways both visible and unseen. The true path was discovered only when both sides were held in harmony.

Her second lesson was for us to truly connect with the world. To find a steady, rhythmic pulse within ourselves that mirrored the living heartbeat of the earth. This practice called for a conscious effort to align our breath and being with the cycles and patterns that govern all living things. By grounding ourselves in the unwavering rhythm of nature was to breathe in the vitality and resonance. To create a deeply harmonious connection that was both grounding and liberating.

When we pulse with life unfettered, we enter a state of communion where giving and receiving happen effortlessly. This resonance is not only a gift but a reminder: we are part of an intricate tapestry, woven together with the natural world and all its mysteries. In breathing with nature, we open ourselves to wisdom and balance, guided by the rhythms that sustain life itself.

Mother’s third lesson resonated with a quiet authority: to live in silent strength. True strength, she taught, is not found in the loud declarations or in seeking the attention of others. Instead, it reveals itself in the subtle balance between speaking and listening, stepping forward and stepping back. Power lies in discernment. In understanding when words are needed and when silence holds more meaning.

Silent strength is not about retreat or passivity. It’s about choosing gentleness as an act of courage. Sometimes, the greatest display of power is in the willingness to be gentle, to offer compassion rather than force. In this way, strength becomes a force for preservation and healing, reminding us that often, the quietest actions have the deepest impact.

“You’re not a Warrior,” I heard my sister say in that same eerie calm that held a hint of Mother’s tone. “You’re something more. Something stronger.”

“Oh?” I asked, my breath catching as I turned to look at her. Rather than the liquid amber I expected, her eyes were turning to honey. A deep, earthy tone flecked with bits of gold and silver. “You’re tapping your Alpha power?”

“I was worried after last night. I know she means well, but you are my Regent. The brother chosen by Mother to hold the line until I was strong enough to do it on my own.” She shot back, her tone edged with pain and the promise of a brighter tomorrow. “Maman once told me that one of my brothers was more than he appeared. That even he didn’t know his path was thorned with choices, and now I know that brother was you.”

“She” meaning the Witch, our hostess. “The brother” meaning me.

Taking a steady breath, I offered my sister a reassuring smile. “Calm, sister. You’re absolutely right. I am your brother and Regent. I am the leader who guides you all through the shadows, the one who stands firm and holds the line for each of you. I haven’t forgotten who we are—what we mean to the world and to each other. I’ve simply placed those responsibilities on the back burner for the time being, waiting until the moment calls for them.”

In response, she smiled, her eyes catching the light and sparkling in the depths of the shadows. “Yeah, but you did something not even Father would have done.”

Curious to what she’d understood since that night, I asked, “And what’s that?”

“You chose the protection of all over self-preservation, only to renounce selfishness. Chose the lives of many over self-importance, only to abandon ego. We all saw it, and that’s why we didn’t argue when you claimed the right of Regency. Jazzy, you’re not doing anything but guiding us the way Maman taught you to, and that’s why I don’t fight against your requests.” She answered, her twelve-year-old voice carrying truth inherited.

What she didn’t know was that her words struck the deepest part of me. Straight through to the past. I felt the prick of tears, of knowing that she saw me clearly, even when I didn’t.

“You don’t recall to contain,” she continued, her voice carrying a note of sisterly love. “You recall to reach out, to hold the hearts of others, and to teach.”

She was cryptic, just like Mother was when there was a lesson that needed to be learned.

I smiled wider, “You are Akita Stone, unshakably loyal protector of the Arctic Shield and eventual leader of the lost. The one whose eyes carry warmth and warning; whose truth is sweet and sour. You are what I protect, little sister.”

“And you could have chosen the reverse,” she countered. “You could have taken the easier path, the one based on preserving yourself rather than carrying the weight of my survival and that of our brothers. Why didn’t you?”

There it was. The crux and the crucible of it all.

The burning question. Why had I done what I did? Why did it matter? Why was I still holding the line?

A simple truth surfaced, one that was both untainted and unburdened.

“Because I could,” I said. “I chose this path because you and our brothers matter to me, and your lives do not deserve to be struck down without mercy or a second thought.”