Farrah

“So, are you excited as I am for our first day of practical magics?”

The question, delivered with enough effervescence to power a small city, snapped me out of my half-eaten oatmeal. Farrah didn't just sit; she plopped down in the seat opposite me, practically vibrating with suppressed energy. Her strawberry blonde hair, usually a wild halo, seemed to literally bounce around her face, framing those wide, baby blue eyes that were practically shining with all the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning.

I just shrugged, nudging a stray oat flake with my spoon. “Meh.”

Her bouncing stopped abruptly, as if I’d hit a secret off-switch. Her eyes rounded, going full anime-disbelief. "Meh? Meh?! How could you be so cavalier about doing something so monumental? I mean, today we get to practice magic, Genesis! Not just read about it in dusty old textbooks or memorize endless lists of spells and potions. This is the real deal!"

She had a point, I guess. We were finally about to start practicing actual magic. For everyone else, it was a huge deal, a chance to show off, to let the teachers and other students know just how strong their magic was. It would also play a big role in class placements when we eventually shipped off to the Academies. It’s all anyone in our year could talk about, a constant buzz in the corridors and at meal times. But there was just one tiny detail she forgot.

“It won’t be the first time I’m doing magic, Farr,” I said, swirling my spoon idly. “My mom had been teaching me the basics since I was like five.”

Her face crumpled a little, the boundless energy briefly deflating. “Oh, that’s right. I keep forgetting you had an entire life before the Institute.”

And that was the difference between us, really. While I knew what life was like on the outside, a whole vibrant world beyond these sterile walls, Farrah grew up in here. Her mother passed away during childbirth, and her father was never known. With no other relatives, her early years were spent in a different kind of institution, a human orphanage, before she eventually made her way here, to Solus, two months before I did. It sucks, but honestly, most kids here had some version of the same heartbreaking story. We met on my very first day; they assigned us to the same room. She was quick to take me under her wing, or rather, to launch into a rapid-fire d******d of how things worked, what I should and shouldn’t do, every unspoken rule and hidden shortcut. Her mouth moved a mile a minute, a non-stop chatterbox, and it was an entire four hours before she stopped long enough for me to even introduce myself. But it was also what I liked about her, that unfiltered, relentless energy that left no room for awkward silences or lonely thoughts.

A soft, almost melodic tinkle of the bell cut through the dining hall’s murmur, signaling ten minutes before classes started. Farrah, ever the creature of habit when it came to food, jolted. She practically inhaled the remainder of her breakfast, cramming a piece of toast into her mouth before grabbing her books with a flurry of motion. I finished my last spoonful of oatmeal, watching her with a fond, exasperated smile. She fell into step beside me as we exited the dining hall, heading towards our first class of the day in a companionable silence. The nervous energy was almost palpable, buzzing off of her like an invisible force field, a testament to what has come to be not only my best friend, but almost a sister.

Our first class was Lycan History, a subject I found myself drawn to for reasons I couldn't share. I took a seat right up front, much to Farrah’s visible dismay. She always made fun of me for taking this particular class seriously, scribbling away in my notebook, filling pages with tons of notes. And I got why it seemed weird to her. There aren’t that many wolves at the Institute. The few who are here tend to be quiet, keeping to themselves, radiating a self-contained intensity. Wolves are notorious for having huge, sprawling families, living in large, tightly-knit groups. So even if a kid lost both parents, there was almost always an aunt, an uncle, a grandparent, or even a distant pack-mate willing to take that kid in. The idea of a lone wolf here at Solus felt like a contradiction in terms.

I paid close attention in this class for one simple, terrifying reason: in a few short months, I’ll be experiencing my first change, my first full shift into a wolf. I needed to know everything I could about that part of myself, the instincts, the physical transformations, the mental challenges. It’s not something I could very well tell Farrah, so I just ignored her occasional jabs and pointed looks when I pulled out my notebook.

I was so utterly focused on the current chapter—all about what to expect leading up to the first turn, the subtle signs, the internal struggle—that I didn’t even hear my name being called. Not until Ms. Bailey, our Lycan History teacher, tapped her slender fingers sharply against my desk. The sound was like a tiny drumbeat, cutting through the fog of my concentration. I reluctantly dragged my eyes from the pages of the ancient, leather-bound book, the faint scent of old paper and something earthy clinging to its worn edges. Finally, I met her steely gaze, a no-nonsense stare that could cut through concrete.

“Ms. Adams,” she said, her voice crisp and clear, "while I commend your enthusiasm to learn, you must also be aware of what goes on around you. You’re being called to the Headmaster’s office. Take your things with you.”

A summons to the Headmaster’s office? That was never good news. I slowly, carefully closed the textbook, handing it back to her with a silent sigh. My eyes flicked to Farrah, a silent question in my gaze. She shrugged, her face a blank canvas of bewilderment, then shook her head, letting me know she also had no clue what this was about. Just when I’d gotten to the good part, the really juicy details about shifting, I had to give up my reading material. Figures.

I quickly gathered my meager belongings and made my way to the administration building, my mind racing. All the while, I was trying to figure out the reason for being summoned. I couldn't recall doing anything wrong, not since my first couple of weeks here, when I was still trying to navigate the complex social landscape of Solus. I’ve always kept a low profile, kept my head down, and stayed out of trouble, ensuring no unwanted attention was ever brought to me. It was my survival strategy.

I entered the hushed offices, the air thick with the scent of Lemon Pledge and old paper, and stood patiently until the secretary at the large, dark wood desk noticed me. She was a stern-looking woman with a perpetually pursed mouth and a severe bob haircut.

“Headmaster Winthrop sent for me? Genesis Adams,” I said, keeping my voice low, a soft murmur in the quiet space. I watched as she picked up the receiver of the old-fashioned phone, the kind with the curly cord, and murmured softly into it, her words too hushed for me to make out.

After a brief pause, she placed the phone down with a soft click and turned to me, her expression unreadable. “You may go in, Ms. Adams.” I nodded, a quick, almost imperceptible dip of my head, and walked over to the heavy oak door that probably cost more than everything I owned combined. I knocked twice, a firm but polite rap, and heard a muffled "Come in" from inside. I turned the brass handle slowly, the metal cool beneath my fingertips, and pushed the door open.

Inside, the Headmaster, a man perpetually encased in tweed, was seated behind his impossibly large mahogany desk, his hands clasped together on its gleaming surface. My eyes, ever drawn to the details, darted to the paintings and framed pictures that covered the wall behind him. They were mostly academic portraits of stern-looking figures, some with ancient-looking scrolls, others with what looked like complicated magical diagrams. It took me a full minute, my focus caught by a particularly grumpy-looking wizard, to realize there was someone else in the room.

Seated across from him, in a plush armchair that looked far too comfortable for a school office, was an older woman. Her dark hair was swept into a neat, elegant bun, its intricate twists secured with what looked like a silver pin. As she slowly turned her head towards me, her long, dark bangs, a striking, almost ethereal charcoal grey, shifted across her brow. Her eyes, a vibrant, sparkling blue, widened slightly. And then, a brilliant, warm smile erupted on her face, making the fine lines around her eyes crinkle with genuine warmth. It was a smile that reached her eyes, making them glisten with an emotion I couldn't quite place. I looked from her to the Headmaster, then back to her again, confusion swirling in my gut.

“Ms. Adams, please have a seat,” Headmaster Winthrop intoned, his voice cutting through the sudden silence. I did as he said, pulling out the chair he gestured to and sitting down carefully, making sure to keep my eyes firmly in his direction. Despite my best efforts, I could feel her stare, a warm, steady gaze, penetrating the side of my face. The silence among us stretched around the room, growing thicker and heavier, like a pervasive fog. It took about a full minute more, an eternity in the quiet tension of the office, before my impatience, a core part of my personality I often tried to suppress, won out. I blurted out, the words tumbling without thought, “Did I do something wrong? Why am I here?”

The Headmaster looked genuinely taken aback at my abrupt outburst, his brow rising slightly. But he composed himself quickly, a practiced ease in his movements, before he replied, his voice carefully modulated. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Genesis. I’ve called you in because I have some, umm, news to share with you.”

He fidgeted in his seat a bit, a subtle shift in his tweed jacket, before pushing on, as if bracing himself for my reaction. “This is Ms. Tilly St’Clair. Your grandmother.”