Chapter 9: A Quiet Rebellion

The bell rang, sharp and final—cutting through the halls like the crack of a whip. Around her, the sea of students surged, their voices high with chatter, complaints, laughter, and lingering magic. The air shimmered with residual illusion threads from class, and footsteps echoed like raindrops in a marble corridor.

But Angel didn’t follow them.

She turned the other way, away from the illusion halls, away from Professor Zephyros’s cold stare and harsher words, away from Lioren’s unreadable silver gaze that had pinned her with too much knowing.

She moved swiftly through the side corridors, down the east passage where vines crept between stone cracks, and past a half-hidden hedge gate nearly forgotten by most. Beyond it, a path curved toward the Academy’s secluded jewel: the mini forest.

An enchanted patch of woodland, nestled like a secret between towers and wards. It was meant for druidic lessons, elemental meditation, and occasional fae ritual classes. According to the handbook, it was "for guided magical practice only."

But Angel didn’t care.

To her, this place was more than a magical classroom, it was a sanctuary.

The moment she stepped beneath the thick green canopy, the world behind her dimmed. The noise of the school faded like a closed book. The wind carried whispers instead of warnings. Birdsong danced lightly between branches, and the scent of moss and old bark wrapped around her like a balm.

Magic pulsed here, not in sharp flares, but in a slow, ancient rhythm. Breathing. Gentle. Undemanding.

Angel made her way past the weeping willows and fairy-lit vines until she reached it, her tree.

She’d seen it before on countless walks. A towering elder of the woods, bark dark as charcoal, with golden moss spiraling up its roots like a crown. She’d never dared to stop before.

Today, she did.

She collapsed against its broad trunk with a sigh that shuddered through her ribs. Her body gave out all at once—like she’d been holding herself up with sheer willpower and nothing else.

The wood was rough against the back of her head. Real. Grounding.

Her eyes closed slowly.

“I’m not a fae,” she whispered to no one. “Not a witch. Not a vampire. Not a werewolf. Not anything they are…”

Her voice cracked, barely audible beneath the rustle of leaves. She tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders and curled her knees up toward her chest.

“I’m just… a human pretending not to break.”

The confession floated up into the branches and disappeared.

---

Sleep took her quietly.

There was no drop into darkness, no sudden fall, just a gentle drift.

In that liminal place between dream and memory, she saw flickers of something once hers. A boy’s laugh. A hand tousling her hair. The scent of cinnamon and something burning. Warmth. A presence that made her feel safe, small, loved.

“You’re going to be just fine, Angel,” the voice said.

But when she turned toward it—there was nothing. No face. No name. Just a blur of golden light and the crushing ache of something stolen.

Her subconscious fought to reclaim it, clawing at the memory like fingers through mist.

But the cost wouldn’t let her.

The spell wouldn’t let her.

The warmth faded.

She whimpered softly in her sleep, curling tighter beneath the roots of the great tree like a child hiding from the storm.

---

The forest kept her secret.

Time passed, minutes or hours, she couldn’t say. The sun filtered through the leaves in golden rays. Magical insects blinked lazily in the distance. A soft breeze rustled the canopy like a lullaby.

But not all eyes had turned away.

From beyond the trees, partially veiled by shadow and leaflight, someone stood watching.

Lioren.

He hadn’t followed immediately. He didn’t need to.

But he'd known where she would go.

He didn’t approach, not yet. His eyes traced her sleeping form beneath the tree, the way her fingers twitched in dream, the faint crease in her brow like she was bracing even in rest.

He didn't speak.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t move.

Just… watched.

And for the first time since meeting her, his silver gaze held no amusement, only quiet, restrained gravity.

He turned, cloak whispering against bark, and left as silently as he came.

But the forest noticed.

And the roots remembered.

Sunlight filtered through the leafy canopy above, broken into soft golden beams that danced across Angel’s face. They shifted with the breeze, kissing her skin with warmth as she slept curled at the base of the old tree.

The hush of the forest held steady, gentle wind, rustling leaves, birdsong distant and sweet.

She didn’t stir.

Didn’t hear the approach.

But someone was coming.

The footsteps were light but deliberate, pacing in confident strides that made no effort to hide in the underbrush. Whoever it was walked like they belonged to the wild, like it bent around them rather than resisted.

He emerged from between the tangled vines and mushroom-patched roots, a tall figure, broad-shouldered, with tousled ash-brown hair and golden eyes that gleamed unnaturally in the dappled light.

A werewolf.

One of the pack assigned to the Academy perimeter patrols, half-enrolled and half-wild, never far from trouble and never quite tamed. He smelled of cedar, blood, and mountain air. A primal energy rolled off him in waves.

He stopped short when he saw her.

A girl, slumped against the base of the golden-mossed tree. Fast asleep. Chest rising and falling in shallow, even breaths. Hood loose, lashes dark against pale cheeks. Alone.

The werewolf’s brows pulled together.

“This is the ghouls territory…” he muttered under his breath. “What’s she doing out here?”

He stepped forward slowly, curious. Instinct rising.

Then he sniffed.

Once. Twice. Deeper.

And froze.

The scent was there, clear and close, but not what he expected.

No fear. No confusion. No human thread, even in trace.

What he smelled was magic. Woven, quiet, buried deep in old blood. A witch’s scent, clean and cloaked, wrapped in burnt herbs, faint sigils, and ashwood charms. Nothing alarming. Nothing strange.

Except for how completely familiar she smell now.

His golden eyes narrowed as he crouched beside her, tilting his head in that animal way, ears practically twitching with attention.

“Thought she smelled off before,” he muttered, low and gruff. “Guess I imagined it. Weird like the rest of 'em.”

He let out a soft huff of air, not quite a laugh but close. Amused, not hostile.

Then, without ceremony, he shrugged off his jacket. A thick, dark thing that hung heavy with the scent of pine, fur, and moonlight.

Carefully, he draped it over her shoulders.

“Forest’s cold,” he said, not expecting a reply. “Don’t freeze, witch-girl.”

And just like that, he stood, gave her one last curious glance, sniffed again to confirm nothing dangerous lingered…

…and melted back into the forest like he’d never been there at all.

---

Angel didn’t wake.

Not yet.

Her body stayed curled in the crook of tree roots, face tilted to the sun. The warmth from the jacket mingled with the breeze, and her breath slowed deeper.

This time, her dreams didn’t come. No illusions. No memories clawing through the veil of sacrifice.

Only sleep.

Deep. Dreamless. Sheltered.

She didn’t know about the jacket. Didn’t feel the lingering warmth from a creature who should’ve passed by without stopping.

But it stayed with her.

Cradling her like a wordless pact.

—To be Continued—