CHAPTER 12
1410 Words
Ariana’s POV
The alarm tore through the pack like a wound being ripped open.
It wasn’t the sharp bell that signaled class changes or the controlled call that marked the beginning of training drills. This sound was deeper, heavier, vibrating through stone and bone alike. It rolled across Silvercrest in a way that left no room for doubt or delay, forcing every wolf who heard it to stop whatever they were doing and listen.
I froze mid-step outside the school building, my bag slipping down my shoulder as the sound echoed again. Around me, conversations died instantly. Laughter vanished. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
A breach.
Warriors were already moving, their reactions swift and instinctive, boots pounding against the ground as they took up positions along the perimeter. Orders were shouted across the grounds, sharp and efficient, while teachers herded students back toward the school building with raised voices and urgent gestures.
“Inside, now!” someone yelled.
Leah’s hand closed tightly around my arm, her grip firm with fear. “Ari, move!”
We ran with the others, the crowd surging forward as panic threatened to overtake reason. Shoes scraped against stone, bodies pressed too close together, and the air filled with frantic breathing and shouted instructions. I could feel my wolf rise within me, alert and focused, not panicked but ready, her awareness stretching outward as if searching for the source of the danger.
Inside the building, the situation worsened quickly.
Students poured into the main corridor, voices overlapping as fear fed on itself. Teachers tried to impose order, their instructions drowned out by the sheer volume of noise and movement. Wolves pushed instinctively toward what they believed was safety, creating a bottleneck near the center of the hall.
I scanned the space automatically, my gaze moving faster than my thoughts. The corridor narrowed too sharply near the back. The side door there was unsecured, partially hidden behind a crowd of younger students who were already being shoved aside by the press of bodies behind them.
Someone tripped.
The sound of a body hitting the floor was swallowed by the noise, but the cry that followed cut through everything.
Panic surged.
The crowd pressed harder, momentum turning dangerous as fear stripped away awareness. I saw exactly what would happen if no one intervened. More students would fall. Someone would get hurt badly. Possibly worse.
Before I could second-guess myself, I stepped forward.
“Stop pushing,” I called out, my voice louder than I usually allowed it to be, steady despite the chaos. “You’re going to hurt someone.”
A few students glanced at me, startled, but the movement didn’t stop. Fear was louder than reason.
I moved again, this time placing myself directly between the fallen students and the advancing crowd. I raised my arms slightly, not in threat, but as a physical barrier, grounding myself firmly in place. My wolf pressed closer to the surface, not breaking free, but lending weight to my presence, a subtle force that carried through my posture and tone even with my power suppressed.
“Look at them,” I said, forcing calm into every word. “They’re on the ground. You don’t get safer by trampling each other.”
The shift was small but real.
The crowd hesitated.
I dropped into a crouch, helping the fallen students to their feet, guiding them toward the wall where they could brace themselves. One of them was shaking violently, eyes wide with terror, and I placed a steady hand on her shoulder.
“Breathe,” I told her quietly. “You’re not alone.”
When I turned back, several teachers had finally reached us, relief flashing across their faces as they took control of the area. One of them met my eyes, recognition dawning quickly.
“Help me redirect them,” she said without hesitation.
Together, we worked through the corridor, breaking the crowd into smaller groups, guiding students toward open classrooms and wider spaces where panic couldn’t build so easily. Gradually, the noise softened, frantic shouts fading into uneasy murmurs.
Minutes later, the alarm ceased.
A calm, authoritative announcement followed, echoing through the building and carrying reassurance with it. The situation had been contained. There was no immediate threat. Everyone was to remain where they were until further instructions were given.
The tension drained slowly from the hall, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
Only then did I realize my hands were trembling.
Leah stared at me, her expression caught somewhere between shock and awe. “You didn’t even think about it,” she said softly. “You just stepped in.”
“I didn’t have time to think,” I replied, my voice quiet as the adrenaline ebbed. “I just knew what would happen if no one did anything.”
Ethan let out a shaky breath. “You scared me more than the alarm did,” he admitted, though there was no accusation in his tone.
By the time we were dismissed, word had already begun to spread through the school. Not in exaggerated whispers or mocking tones, but in simple statements passed from one student to another.
“She kept people from getting hurt.”
“She didn’t panic.”
“She took control without yelling.”
No one laughed.
No one questioned why I had acted.
They accepted it as if it were natural, and that realization unsettled me far more than the chaos had.
The rest of the day passed in a strange, muted haze. Teachers watched me with open respect. Students stepped aside without being asked. Warriors I passed on the pack grounds acknowledged me with brief nods, their expressions thoughtful rather than dismissive.
I hadn’t intended to change anything.
Yet Silvercrest had shifted around me anyway.
When I finally returned home that evening, exhaustion settled deep into my bones. Clara took one look at my face and guided me gently toward the kitchen, placing a warm cup of tea in my hands before I could speak.
“You don’t need to explain,” she said softly. “The pack already is.”
I sank into a chair, wrapping my fingers around the cup as the warmth seeped into my skin. “I didn’t plan to do anything,” I admitted. “I just… reacted.”
Clara smiled, her eyes kind and knowing. “That’s usually when people reveal who they truly are.”
Later, alone in my room, I found the letters waiting on my desk.
One bore the mark of Riverline Pack.
The other carried a seal that made my heart tighten before I even touched it.
I opened Adrian’s letter first.
His words were measured and calm, written without urgency or expectation. He spoke of Riverline, of the comfort of familiar routines, and of his desire to communicate steadily rather than frequently, to build understanding without pressure. He didn’t mention fate or the bond directly, yet his respect for it was present in every careful line.
He wanted to know me.
Not the girl others talked about.
Not the role the bond suggested.
Just me.
When I finished reading, I realized my shoulders had relaxed, tension I hadn’t noticed slowly easing away.
Then I opened my father’s letter.
His words were firm and warm all at once, filled with the quiet assurance only he could give. He spoke of trust, of strength found in restraint, of leadership shaped through endurance rather than dominance. He told me he was proud, not because of what I might become, but because of who I already was.
The tears that burned behind my eyes did not fall, but they left their mark all the same.
I sat there for a long time, the echoes of the day replaying in my mind—the alarm, the panic, the moment I stepped forward without thinking.
I hadn’t acted like a princess.
I hadn’t acted like someone pretending to be ordinary.
I had simply acted as myself.
I pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward me and picked up my pen, my hand steady now.
This time, I didn’t hesitate.
I began to write back.
To Adrian.
To home.
To a future that was unfolding quietly, shaped not by revelation or revenge, but by moments where character spoke louder than truth ever could.
Silvercrest had tested me again.
And without meaning to, without revealing anything at all, I had answered.
- Writer
