Chapter Text
Face Claims!!:
Conan Gray as Wilson ‘Wil” Alexander Silverstone (Human - werewolf) he/him
Corey Fogelmanis as Brando “Bran” Isaac Evergreen (Werewolf) he/him
Avril Lavigne (2000’s) as Magnolia ‘Maggie’ Grace Blythe (Vampire) she/her
Billie Eilish (Young blonde) as Devyn ‘Dev’ Jade Sylvaria (Werewolf-witch hybrid) she/her
Nina Dobrev (2000’s) as Evangeline “Eve’ Rose Elysian (Vampire) she/her
Olivia Rodrigo as Claire Solene Thorne (Witch) she/her
Meg Donnelly as Freya Brielle Crowley (Bunny shifter) she/her
Madison Bailey as Lilith ‘Lily’ Selene Sterling (Witch) she/they
Devon Bostick (2010’s) as Wyatt Theodore Lavigne (Werewolf) he/him
Miles Gutierrez-Riley as Kaleb Wayne Hart (Merman) he/him
Jack Haven as Raine Rapp Deveraux (Vampire - Witch hybrid) they/them
McKenna Grace as Elysia ‘El’ Faith Weatherly (Mermaid) she/her
Finn Wolfhard as Dakota Rhys Feywin (Bunny shifter) he/him
Piper Rubio as Eleanor ‘Ellie’ Lucy Evergreen (Bunny Shifter) she/her
Tom Felton as Bryce Evergreen (Werewolf) he/him
Julia Roberts as Lydia Silverstone (Witch) she/her
Adam Brody as Maxwell ‘Max’ Silverstone (Werewolf) he/him
Cole Preston as Augustus Valerius ‘Mr. Valerius’ (Dragon Shifter) he/him
Ian Somerhalder as Dalton Riverstone ‘Mr. Riverstone’ (Merman) he/him
Mary-Kate Olsen as Jordan Fablewood ‘Ms. Fablewood’ (Witch) she/her
Drew Barrymore as Kathryn Etherridge ‘Principal Etherridge’ (Bunny shifter) she/her
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Humans were never aware of the Barrier.
To them, there was no line, no shift, no sense of crossing from one world into another. There was only a stretch of ordinary forest—trees with peeling bark, overgrowth thick with ferns, a narrow creek that looked shallow and unremarkable. The kind of place that barely registered as noteworthy, let alone important. If it appeared on a map at all, it was just green space. Empty. Forgettable.
That was the point.
The Barrier did not announce itself. It did not repel or warn. It simply replaced what lay beyond it with something normal enough to be ignored. Where Mythic Creek’s iron gates stood, humans saw nothing but tangled roots and a fallen tree. Where spired buildings rose, they saw uninterrupted canopy. The academy and town had existed, solid and alive—but only to those whose nature allowed them to perceive it.
Human eyes slid over the truth without realizing anything was missing.
A person could stand exactly where a classroom window faced the forest and see only more trees, sunlight filtering through leaves, birds moving in predictable, mundane ways. Sound adjusted too. Bells became wind chimes. Voices dissolved into rustling branches. Even footprints failed to linger, the ground convincing itself that nothing unusual had passed through.
From the human perspective, nothing supernatural had been hidden—because nothing supernatural had been seen. The world remained intact, sensible, and complete. There was no reason to question it.
Behind the Barrier, the forest was anything but empty.
Werewolves moved through the trees with an ease that had nothing to do with stealth and everything to do with belonging. Some wore their human skins loosely, shoulders always a little too broad, senses always half-tuned to sound and scent. Others favored their wolf forms when they could, padding across paths humans would never see, lunar cycles marked carefully on academy calendars. The Barrier dampened their presence beyond its bounds, softening howls into nothing more than distant wind in human ears.
Bunny shifters were still quieter. Small, quick, and often underestimated, they darted between roots and stone with nervous energy, ears flicking even in human form. Their magic leaned toward luck and survival—narrow escapes, hidden burrows, sudden bursts of speed. Humans who walked the same ground never noticed how often they should have tripped, or how something unseen had brushed past their ankles.
Vampires walked openly on campus, daylight held at bay by charms woven into rings, necklaces, and stitched linings of coats. Their shadows behaved strangely behind the Barrier, stretching in directions the sun didn’t justify. They fed discreetly, ethically—animal blood, donors, or substitutes brewed by witches who understood the balance required to keep hunger from becoming violence. To the human world, their presence translated into nothing at all. Pale faces became tricksy light through leaves. Red eyes became a glow at dusk.
The creek itself belonged to the merfolk.
Where humans saw shallow, clear water barely worth a second glance, the Barrier concealed depth. Cool, dark channels twisted beneath the surface, leading to submerged halls and carved stone sanctuaries where mermaids and mermen studied currents, magic, and the fragile politics of water-bound borders. Their voices never crossed the Barrier as song—only as the gentle sound of moving water, soothing and forgettable.
Dragon shifters were the most carefully warded of all.
In human form, they looked unremarkable, eyes that caught light too well and body heat that ran just a little too high. Their true shapes were bound by ancient law and layered spells, revealed only in protected airspace far beyond human reach. The Barrier anchored them, grounding their fire into the earth, translating the presence of something massive and catastrophic into nothing more than warm stone and mineral-rich soil.
And woven through everything were the witches.
They were the architects, the caretakers, the ones who understood the Barrier, not as a wall, but as a living system. Some were born to magic, others chosen by it, others cursed and educated anyway. Their classrooms doubled as ritual chambers, their homework capable of reinforcing ley lines or correcting subtle fractures in reality. Every spell cast at Mythic Creek echoed outward, tightening the weave that kept humans blissfully unaware.
Together, they existed in a world layered perfectly over another.
A world full of teeth, scales, fur, fins, and fire—hidden not by darkness or distance, but by normalcy.
Behind the Barrier, the supernatural thrived.
And the forest, to human eyes, remained nothing more than trees.
—---------
The population was even more varied than it first appeared.
Time behaved strangely around them—outside the Barrier, human time marched steadily, oblivious to the magic inside. A supernatural lingering near its edge might step back into the human world and find that only minutes had passed, even if hours had been spent learning, transforming, or practicing spells. Conversely, someone entering the academy from the human world could feel as though an entire day had slipped by in what humans would perceive as a few fleeting moments. The Barrier bent not just space, but perception itself, ensuring that the hidden world’s rhythms went unnoticed by ordinary eyes.
There were hybrids who didn’t fit neatly into any category—part witch, part shifter; vampire-born with human blood; creatures whose ancestry had been blurred by centuries of secrecy and intermarriage. Mythic Creek was one of the few places where they were not anomalies, but students, given language for what they were instead of shame.
Hybrids moved through the academy with a careful awareness of both worlds. Some were part witch, part shifter—drawing strength from transformation and spellcraft in equal measure. Others were vampire-born with human blood, balancing the hunger that surged in their veins with the subtle discipline taught in Mythic Creek’s classrooms. A few carried fragments of older, stranger lineages: dragon-blooded witches, bunny-born shifters, or children of merfolk and humans, whose magic ran through their veins like water. None of this was unusual within the Barrier; here, ancestry defined ability, not limitation.
They studied side by side with werewolves tracking their first full moon, learning restraint as well as strength. Bunny shifters practiced disappearing into the undergrowth, teaching speed and luck to anyone willing to follow their lead. Vampire students sat in sunlit classrooms with charms protecting their skin, discussing ethics and history alongside humans-who turned supernatural, blending centuries of memory with lessons that could last mere months.
Merfolk moved silently through the creek that twisted through the campus, their tails shimmering beneath the surface. In classrooms designed to accommodate water and land alike, they practiced controlling currents, manipulating water magic, and navigating the complex social hierarchies of their kind. Dragon shifters—kept under the tightest wards—lurked on higher ledges, testing control over heat and fire, their true forms glimpsed only in protected chambers far above human sight.
Witches wove all of this together. They reinforced the Barrier with careful spellwork, tutoring hybrids in magic that could stabilize their unusual forms, and teaching the nuances of the hidden world to those who might not fit neatly anywhere else. Children moved around them like living mischief, folding light, bending probabilities, leaving subtle enchantments on classrooms and corridors.
Students mingled between classes. A werewolf might share notes with a dragon-blooded witch about fire manipulation; a bunny shifter could help a vampire-born student navigate an obstacle course of agility and stealth. Merfolk occasionally ventured out of the creek to observe lessons in land magic, their tails hidden under long items of clothing, while dragon shifters coached younger students in restraint and focus. Even in free moments, the campus hummed with life—fire sparks dancing from dragon shifters’ tails, water swirling around merfolk hands, small protective wards blinking like faint stars across the courtyards.
Every hallway, every classroom, every hidden corner of Mythic Creek thrummed with energy humans could never perceive. Some of it was dangerous—claws, teeth, or raw magic that could tear the wrong structure apart—but every action, every heartbeat, contributed to the delicate balance that held the Barrier in place.
Behind the trees, that humans had saw was ordinary, Mythic Creek was not just a town. It was a thriving, layered world—a living ecosystem of hybrids, predators, shapeshifters, and magic, all coexisting in harmony. And in that secret space, time bent, rules shifted, and the supernatural flourished—always hidden, always alive.
—------------------
Mythic Creek, September 12th, 2005
“A human? At the Academy?”
Principal Etherridge’s voice was sharp, laced with disbelief. Her eyes scanned the ornate wards on the walls, the faint hum of magic in the air, as if the Barrier itself had stiffened at her words.
“Yes,” Lydia stated, unwavering. “That’s all I ask. For my son to be enrolled.”
From the seat beside her, a boy stirred. He rose smoothly, shoulders straight, eyes calm but alert. No hesitation. He was human—every line of him ordinary, yet somehow, in that space thick with magic, he seemed perfectly at home. His gaze met Etherridge’s for a heartbeat, quiet but unflinching, as if daring anyone to question his place here.
The boy’s hands remained at his sides, but faint sparks of magic shimmered along the edge of the table, reacting to his calm certainty. A low hum pulsed through the air, subtle yet undeniable—a ripple of recognition from the wards themselves.
“Your son understands what this means,” Etherridge said carefully, her voice measured now, testing. “The rules here are not for humans. One mistake could—”
“He knows,” Lydia interrupted softly, but firmly. “He is ready. I’ve made sure of it.”
The boy stepped forward, small but deliberate. His gaze met Etherridge’s again, steady and unyielding. Even the faintest flicker of magic in the room seemed to bend slightly toward him, as if curious.
For a long moment, the principal said nothing, weighing the impossibility before her. Then she exhaled slowly, the wards pulsing once more, as if deciding whether to accept this unprecedented claim.
He opened his mouth, hesitant, slow. “I’m not completely human, you know.”
Etherridge’s eyes widened slightly, the faint glow of the wards flickering in response, as if startled. Magic always reacted to truth, and some part of the Barrier seemed to lean in, curious.
Lydia gave him a small, reassuring nod. “He inherited his father’s genetics—the werewolf. Yet he has not been able to shift… yet.”
Etherridge’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes scanning him anew, noting the calm confidence that didn’t belong to an ordinary human boy. The wards flickered again, as if whispering to one another, testing him.
“And you,” Etherridge said slowly, her voice steady but cautious, “Understand what that means? That the lessons, the rules… every mistake could have consequences far beyond what a normal student would face?”
“I understand,” the boy replied evenly. His gaze didn’t waver, and the faint shimmer of magic around him pulsed once, a subtle acknowledgment of his untapped potential.
Lydia’s hand brushed briefly against his shoulder. “He is ready, even if he cannot shift yet. He learns differently, yes—but he will learn. And he would eventually shift.”
The principal studied him for a long moment. Finally, she exhaled, the wards settling into their soft, steady glow. “Very well. Welcome to Mythic Creek Supernatural Academy.”
“Wilson Silverstone.”
—-------------
Wilson’s feet touched the polished stone floor of the Academy, and the faint hum of magic grew stronger, like a chorus of whispered curiosity.
Students turned. A werewolf paused mid-step, eyes flicking toward the boy. A bunny shifter darted behind a locker, peeking out with wide, suspicious eyes. Vampires lounging in the sunlit courtyard straightened, shadows lengthening unnaturally, tracing him as if marking territory. Dragon shifters perched on ledges above shifted slightly, wings tensing, sensing the latent energy beneath his ordinary form. Even the merfolk in the creek paused, tails flicking just beneath the surface, curious eyes breaking the water’s sheen.
His mom walked beside him, hand lightly brushing his shoulder. “Ignore them for now,” she murmured. “Just… walk.”
Wilson’s gaze swept over the courtyard, calm and observant. He noted the subtle flickers of magic—the faint heat radiating from dragon shifters, the almost imperceptible shimmer of protective wards around the vampires, the restless twitching of the werewolves’ tails and ears. Every detail mattered. He breathed slowly, feeling the low pull of the Barrier, sensing how the hidden world bent and balanced itself around him.
A hush seemed to fall as he walked further in, his ordinary form belying the currents of power swirling quietly beneath the surface. The wards along the walls dimmed in soft recognition, easing their tension. Magic always noticed, always remembered, and now it had a new story to observe.
A werewolf finally stepped forward, sniffing the air subtly, ears flattened in curiosity rather than aggression. “You’re… human?” he asked, voice low, cautious.
“Werewolf. Just haven’t shifted yet.” he confessed, flinching as he awaits for the reaction of the boy.
The werewolf’s eyes widened slightly, mouth twitching. “You… you haven’t shifted yet?” His voice was a mix of disbelief and fascination.
Wilson felt a slight flush of embarrassment along his cheeks, “No.”
The werewolf blinked, ears appearing and flicking back nervously. “Never seen anyone like… like you before.”
“Well I—” Wilson didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence, before his mom dragged him away by the shoulder.
Wilson stumbled slightly but kept his balance, glancing back at the werewolf, whose ears twitched in confusion and curiosity.
“We’re going to find your dorm, come on Wil.”
—-----------
The main hall of Mythic Creek stretched before him—arches of carved stone, faintly glowing wards etched into every surface, and hallways that seemed to pulse with quiet energy. Lydia’s hand slipped from his shoulder at the dormitory entrance, letting him step forward alone.
“This will be your room,” she said softly, nodding toward the door with polished brass handles. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll come back soon with more boxes.”
Wilson nodded, gripping the edge of a box a little tighter as he pushed the door open. Inside, the dorm was spacious but lived-in, shelves lined with books, small charms dangling from hooks, and faint magical sigils glowing softly above the bedposts. The air hummed with subtle enchantments—protective wards, comfort charms, and the faint scent of someone else’s presence.
A boy sat cross-legged on the far bed, leaning back against the wall. He had dark blonde hair that fell into his eyes, freckles along his face, and a posture that suggested both ease and confidence. He looked up as Wilson entered.
“New blood, huh?” the boy said, voice smooth, teasing. “Name’s Brando Evergreen.”
Wilson swallowed, a little uncertain. “Wilson. Wilson Silverstone.”
Brando grinned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Silverstone… wait—are you that human-born werewolf everyone’s whispering about?”
Wilson stiffened slightly, surprised that word had already spread. “I—yes. But I haven’t shifted yet.”
Brando’s grin widened, showing just a hint of sharp teeth. “Good. Means I get to see the show first. Don’t worry, though—I’m not here to judge. Mostly.”
The boy stood, extending a hand. His energy was easy, confident, but just faintly electric—an unspoken warning that he wasn’t entirely ordinary either. “You’ll need someone to show you the ropes around here. Classes, wards, surviving dorm life… that kind of thing. Lucky for you, that’s my specialty.”
Wilson hesitated, then shook his hand. “Thanks. I could use that.”
Brando smirked, leaning back against his bed again. “Good. You’re going to need it. Mythic Creek isn’t exactly a friendly place for someone who hasn’t shifted yet. But don’t worry—by the time you do, you’ll either love it… or hate it.”
Wilson glanced around the room, absorbing the faint glow of the wards, the aura of magic in the air, and the quiet confidence of his new roommate.
He had set his box down with a soft thud, dust catching the faint glow of the storage overhead. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of the day pressing in—meeting a new roommate, walking along the halls of the academy, even getting accepted into the academy despite his disadvantages.
Brando leaned against the foot of his bed, arms crossed, eyes scanning him with mild amusement. “Alright, newbie. First rule—don’t touch anything that’s glowing without asking. Seriously. Even a harmless-looking charm can… well, you’ll figure it out.”
Wilson nodded slowly, eyes flicking toward the small charms dangling from hooks and the faintly shimmering sigils above the bedposts. “Got it. Don’t touch glowing things.”
“And second,” Brando continued, hopping onto his bed with ease, “don’t let the other students scare you off. You’ll see—werewolves, vampires, dragon shifters, merfolk… they all think they’re scarier than they are. Most of the time.” He grinned, showing the faint glint of teeth again. “Except me. I am scary. Kidding. Mostly.”
Wilson managed a small smile, feeling a little of the tension ease. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Brando nudged one of Wilson’s boxes with his foot. “Here, start unpacking. It’s your space now. Make it yours.”
As he unpacked, Brando settled onto his own bed, feet dangling lazily. “By the way, on the first night, you might hear noises—furry feet, wings, tails, or just vampire chatting. Don’t freak out. It’s normal.”
Wilson nodded, setting a book on a shelf. “I’ll… try not to?”
Brando smirked. “Good. Oh, and one last thing—don’t underestimate anyone here. Even humans can surprise you. Especially ones like you.”
Wilson huffed a laugh.
Brando swung his backpack over one shoulder and waved Wilson to follow. “Alright, Silverstone. Time for the grand tour.”
Wilson adjusted his box under his other arm before placing it down on the bed . “Great, how ‘fun’.”
Brando shot him a look, “Okay then, if you don’t want a—” Wilson interrupted him before he could finish, arms shooting up in despair. “Argh, okay, okay! I don’t get to sit quietly in my room for the rest of the day sulking like a loser!” Wilson groaned, waving his hands like a surrendering flag.
Brando laughed, clearly amused by the reaction. “Relax, I was just about to say ‘fun tour,’ not a death sentence. But hey, you’re new—you’ve gotta see what you’re dealing with before you accidentally offend a dragon shifter or spill a potion on a vampire.”
Wilson groaned again but followed as Brando slung his bag over his shoulder. “Fine, fine. Let’s get this over with.”
“That’s the spirit,” Brando said, grinning.
They stepped out of the dorm and into a corridor lined with floating lanterns that shifted color depending on who walked past. The walls were etched with moving sigils that flickered in recognition, occasionally whispering faintly as if gossiping about the students.
“First stop,” Brando said, gesturing grandly, “Is the main hall. You already saw it, but here’s the full experience.” He paused at the massive stained-glass windows, which depicted dragons in mid-flight, merfolk swirling through currents, and wolves under full moons. “Everything here has… let’s call it ‘a pulse.’ Magic reacts to us, to the stories, to the students. And yes, humans see nothing. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly normal.”
Wilson’s eyes widened at the windows, the colors shifting subtly as he moved. “It’s… alive.”
“Exactly.” Bran smirked. “Alive and judging you. So don’t stare too long—it gets sassy.”
They passed the classrooms, doors engraved with symbols that glowed softly when students were inside. In one, a group of vampire students sat around a sunlit table, practicing subtle charms to bend light without scorching anyone’s skin. In another, werewolves crouched low in a sparring circle, tails twitching, eyes focused on their instructor. Bunny shifters darted between obstacles with effortless speed, leaving faint streaks of afterimages.
Wilson looked around, taking in the strange, thrilling chaos. “And the merfolk?” he asked, peering into a long, shallow canal that ran alongside the hall. Tiny currents rippled as shimmering tails flicked under the water. “They stay here all the time?”
“For the most part. They don’t like land much, but classes require them to mingle. Don’t worry—they’re not going to drag you in. Usually.” Brando grinned.
They rounded a corner, and Brando stopped abruptly. “Ah, the library. Biggest collection of magical tomes this side of the Barrier. And yes, some books bite. Or argue with you. Or rearrange themselves when you’re not looking. Treat them politely.”
Wilson blinked. “Books… argue?”
Brando shrugged. “It’s complicated. Trust me, you’ll get used to it. Or not.”
They continued past the kitchens, where enchanted stoves stirred themselves and silverware occasionally leapt to plates midair. “Food’s mostly human-friendly,” Bran explained. “But there’s magic in every meal. Watch the stew. Don’t ask why—it just is.”
Both had reached a balcony overlooking the central courtyard. Students milled about, magical auras visible only to those who could see beyond the ordinary. Dragon shifters flexed their wings, merfolk tails shimmered beneath the creek’s surface, and a small group of bunny shifters zipped across the grass in a blur.
“This,” Brando said, spreading his arms, “is Mythic Creek in a nutshell. Looks calm from a distance, but up close? Chaos, magic, teeth, fins, claws… and that’s just the first week.”
Wilson exhaled slowly, awe and apprehension mixing. “It’s… incredible.”
Brando clapped him on the shoulder. “Stick with me, and you might survive it. Mostly. Don’t worry—you’ll fit in. Even if you’re a human-born werewolf who hasn’t shifted yet.”
“Very funny.” he snickered.
“Better get used to it, we live together now, Silverstone.”
Wilson shifted his gaze towards Brando, “You know you can call me by my first name?”
Brando just shrugged him off, “Silverstone sounds better, or Wil. Actually, I prefer Wil.”
Wil dragged a palm along his face. This was going to be a long year.
Brando grinned, clearly enjoying Wilson’s discomfort. “See? Already making friends. Or enemies. Hard to tell which yet.”
Wilson groaned, dragging a hand down his face again. “I’m pretty sure it’s enemies.”
“Eh,” Brando said, swinging his backpack higher on his shoulder, “Depends on whether you survive dorm life, classes, and the cafeteria food. By the time you shift, you’ll either be a legend—or traumatized for life.”
Wilson muttered under his breath, “Great…”
Brando clapped him again on the shoulder, this time with a little more force. “Relax, Wil. I’ve got your back. Mostly. Now, let’s get moving before the next batch of chaos finds us.”
Wil sighed, adjusting his box one last time. “Lead the way, Bran.”
Bran smirked, spinning on his heel and striding down the hall back to the tour.
Wil followed, each step echoing softly on the polished stone floors of the dormitory. The faint glow of wards along the walls pulsed rhythmically, like the heartbeat of the Academy itself. Brando led without ceremony, swinging open a nearby door into a wide hallway that smelled faintly of old books, pine polish, and a hint of magic—an aroma that Wilson found oddly grounding.
“Next stop,” Brando announced, waving a hand toward a spiral staircase that led upward, “is the common area. That's usually where I hang in my spare time, with friends of course. Actually, you should totally meet them. They’d love you.”
Wilson ran a hand throughout his dark curls, “Maybe, after the tour.” he suggested.
Bran smiled at him, “Of course.”
They reached the common area, a vast room with vaulted ceilings, sunlight streaming in through enchanted windows that showed shifting glimpses of the forest outside. Students lounged across chairs and tables, some flicking tiny sparks of magic, others practicing shifts in small, controlled forms. A group of werewolves ran quietly past, their fur shimmering under the light in patterns that shouldn’t exist.
Brando nudged Wilson. “See? Nothing to panic about. Mostly.”
Wilson blinked, absorbing the scene. “Mostly?”
Bran smirked. “Don’t worry. You’ll learn. Just keep your eyes open, your head down when necessary, and your instincts ready. And Wil—don’t try anything fancy yet. You’ve got time till you shift.”
Wilson nodded, letting the energy of the room wash over him. He could feel it: the power, the tension, the hidden potential in every corner of Mythic Creek. Somehow, despite everything, he already felt a strange sense of belonging.
Brando clapped him on the shoulder once more. “Come on. Dining hall next.”
Wil barely had time to respond before Brando was already moving, weaving through the halls with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly which corners creaked and which wards were temperamental. The corridors widened as they walked, ceilings rising higher, enchanted lanterns drifting lazily overhead like fireflies trapped in glass.
The smell hit Wil first.
Warm bread. Spices he couldn’t name. Something smoky and rich that made his stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.
The dining hall opened up before them—long wooden tables carved with old sigils, benches already crowded with students. Conversation buzzed through the space, layered with laughter, growls, splashes of water from a merfolk section built directly into one side of the hall, and the occasional flare of heat from dragon shifters seated far from anything flammable.
Wil slowed without meaning to, taking it all in.
“Overwhelming?” Brando asked, glancing back with a grin.
“A little,” Wil admitted.
Brando jerked his chin toward the far end of the hall. “Rule number three: sit where you won’t get accidentally set on fire, drowned, or challenged to a dominance contest. We aim for mostly safe.” He started toward a table tucked between a group of witches and a cluster of bunny shifters already arguing over dessert.
Wil followed, shoulders loosening just a bit.
As they sat, plates slid into place on their own, food appearing in soft bursts of magic. Wil stared as his plate filled—roasted vegetables, bread still steaming, something that smelled unmistakably like home.
Brando smirked at his expression. “Yeah. You’ll get used to that too.”
‘God, I hope so,” Wil laughed.
Brando barely gave Wil time to take a bite.
“Oh no you don’t,” he said suddenly, gripping Wil’s wrist and yanking him upright. “You don’t get to hide behind bread your first day.”
“Bran—wait—” Wil protested, nearly dropping his fork as his chair scraped loudly against the floor.
“Relax,” Brando shot back, already dragging him through the rows of tables. “If they bite, I’ll bite back harder. Probably.”
Wil stumbled after him, heat creeping up his neck as conversations faltered and a few heads turned. The dining hall felt louder now, closer. Too many eyes.
Brando stopped at a long table near the center of the hall—prime territory. A mixed group sat there, sprawled in comfortable chaos: a vampire with silver rings tapping idly against her glass, a bunny shifter perched sideways on a bench with her knees tucked up, a witch absently stirring her drink until it changed color, and a broad-shouldered werewolf leaning back with his arms crossed, tail flicking lazily behind him.
Brando dropped Wilson right beside him and threw an arm around his shoulders.
“Everyone,” Brando announced brightly, “this is Wil. My new roommate.”
Wilson opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again. “Hi.”
The bunny shifter tilted her head, nose twitching. “He smells… normal.”
“Wow,” Wil muttered. “Thanks.”
She blinked, then seemed to realize how that sounded. “Sorry—Freya,” she added quickly, offering a small, crooked smile. “Bunny shifter. I don’t mean that in a bad way.”
The vampire leaned forward, eyes glinting. “That’s the human-born werewolf, right? The one who hasn’t shifted?”
Wil felt his ears burn. “Word travels fast.”
“Dining hall gossip travels instantly,” the witch said, offering him a sympathetic smile. “I’m Evangeline, Eve for short. And don’t worry—we’ve all been the weird one at some point.”
The werewolf finally leaned in, studying Wil with open curiosity. “Wyatt,” he said, nodding once. “And yeah—you’re either brave or stupid.”
Brando grinned. “A bit of both, probably. He’ll fit right in.”
Wil shot him a look. “You didn’t have to announce me.”
Brando squeezed his shoulder. “Yeah, I did. First impressions matter.”
For a moment, Wil stood there stiffly, unsure where to put his hands, his gaze flicking between unfamiliar faces. Then the bunny shifter scooted over, making space.
“Sit,” they said. “If you’re gonna be awkward, you might as well do it comfortably.”
Wil hesitated—then sat.
Conversation resumed, folding him into it like he’d been there the whole time. Questions were asked, jokes thrown, food stolen from his plate without warning. And somewhere between Brando stealing his bread and Evangeline explaining why the drinks sometimes screamed, Wil had realized that maybe—just maybe, he’d have a chance of truly being able to fit in.
The noise of the dining hall faded into something softer as Wilson leaned back on the bench, half-listening to Freya argue with Brando over the ethics of stealing food off other people’s plates.
“You took mine first,” Brando said around a mouthful of bread.
“That was borrowing,” Freya shot back. “You never specified a return date.”
Wyatt snorted, shaking his head. “You’re all feral.”
Wil huffed a quiet laugh before he could stop himself. The sound surprised him. A few minutes ago, his shoulders had been locked tight, every muscle braced for judgment. Now, without realizing when it happened, he’d loosened—just a little.
Evangeline noticed.
She slid her glass closer to him, the liquid inside shifting from deep violet to a warm amber. “Drink. It’s grounding. No side effects. Probably.”
Wilson eyed it. “Probably?”
She smiled sweetly. “Ninety-eight percent sure.”
Bran nudged his knee under the table. “Relax. If you sprout extra limbs, we’ll name them.”
“That’s not comforting,” Wil muttered—but he drank anyway.
Warmth spread through his chest, steadying, like the echo of a deep breath he hadn’t known he was holding. The low hum of the hall seemed to recede, sounds organizing themselves instead of crashing all at once. Even the constant awareness of eyes on him dulled.
“See?” Brando said smugly. “Told you.”
Wyatt leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. “So,” he said, blunt as a snapped twig, “you really haven’t shifted at all?”
Wil stiffened—but only briefly. “No. Not even close.”
Wyatt studied him for a long second, nose twitching as if scenting something just out of reach. Then he leaned back. “Huh.”
That was it. No judgment. No laughter.
Freya tilted her head, ears flicking faintly into view before she caught herself and shoved them back. “Does it hurt?” she asked, softer now.
Wil blinked. “What?”
“Being… stuck,” she said, searching for the word. “Between.”
The question landed deeper than he expected.
He thought of full moons that came and went with nothing but restless sleep. Of instincts that flared and vanished before he could grab hold. Of knowing something lived under his skin and never answered when he called.
“Sometimes,” he admitted.
Brando didn’t joke this time. His hand settled briefly at the back of Wil’s shoulder—steady, grounding. “You won’t be the first late shifter,” he said. “And you won’t be the last.”
“And if he is?” Wyatt added. “Then that’s just another kind of dangerous.”
Wil snorted. “That’s… reassuring. I think.”
Before anyone could respond, a sharp bell tone rippled through the hall—not loud, but powerful enough that conversations stilled mid-sentence. The sound vibrated through the wards, crawling along stone and bone alike.
Evangeline straightened. “That’s the summons.”
Freya groaned. “Already? I just sat down.”
Brando stood, stretching. “Welcome to Mythic Creek. Eat fast or starve heroically.”
Wil pushed up from the bench with them, heart thudding—not with fear this time, but anticipation. As they filed out with the rest of the students, the corridors filling with movement and magic, he felt it again—that subtle pull beneath his ribs. The same hum he’d felt when he first stepped onto campus. Stronger now. Curious.
Watching.
Wyatt glanced back, brow furrowing. “Did you feel that?”
Brando followed his gaze to Wil, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I did.”
Wil swallowed. “Feel what?”
Neither of them answered right away.
Freya bounced ahead, oblivious. “Race you to class!” she called, shifting her form into a bunny and already vanishing down the hall in a blur.
Wyatt shook his head, lips quirking despite himself. “Show-off,” he muttered, but there was sarcasm under it.
He himself had shifted as well, into his wolf form of course. Chasing behind Freya.
Brando clapped Wilson on the shoulder again. “Enough sightseeing for now. Come on—I’m taking you somewhere important.”
Wil raised an eyebrow. “Important how? Another chance to nearly get eaten by a dragon shifter?”
“Better,” Brando said, smirking. “Reception. You need your schedule before you accidentally wander into a spell you’re not ready for.”
Brando grabbed his arm and steered him down a narrow corridor, taking turns Wil didn’t even notice. The hallways stretched and twisted in ways that made no sense to anyone who hadn’t been here before. Light shimmered from floating lanterns, wards pulsed softly along the walls, and the faint scent of herbs and parchment filled the air.
“Do you ever get lost?” Wil asked cautiously.
“Only the first week,” Brando replied. “After that, the building starts feeling like home. Or a trap. Sometimes both.”
They arrived at a large curved desk tucked beneath a vaulted ceiling, etched with constellations that rotated slowly above them. Behind it hovered stacks of parchment, quills writing on their own, and a witch with steel-grey hair and glasses that caught the light in sharp angles.
“Name?” she asked crisply, without looking up from the ledger.
“Wilson Silverstone,” Bran said before Wil could speak.
Wil groaned. “I can say it myself.”
Brando waved a hand. “Relax. I’m faster. You’d just get nervous and butcher it.”
The witch’s eyes flicked up to Wilson, sharp and calculating. “Ah. The late-shifting human-born werewolf. Expected.”
Wil stiffened. Brando nudged him with a grin. “See? You’re already famous.”
The witch tapped the ledger once, runes flaring and pages flipping before settling neatly. She slid a folded sheet of parchment toward Wil. “Provisional schedule. Some classes may change based on magical aptitude. Report here at the end of the week for any… irregularities.”
Wil unfolded it and scanned the lines:
Combat Training
Magic & Abilities
Practical Skills
Study of Religion and Myths
History of Supernatural beings
Human World Studies
Physical Conditioning (Non-Shifter Track)
Math & English
Wilson blinked. “Combat… Training?”
Bran leaned over, smirking. “Yep. Helmets provided. Don’t worry, you’ll love it. Or hate it. Depends on your definition of fun.”
Brando grinned. “Doomed? Nah. Interesting. Big difference.”
The receptionist interrupted them, “You’ll start classes tomorrow morning,” she said matter-of-factly. “Eight sharp. Don’t be late—first impressions matter more than you think here.”
Wil stiffened. “Tomorrow?”
Brando leaned an elbow on the desk, grinning. “See? Plenty of time to panic.”
The woman gave him a flat look. “Orientation day doesn’t count as free time, Mr. Evergreen.”
Brando straightened just a little. “Right. Of course. Educational panic only.”
She turned back to Wilson. “Your first day will be lighter than most. Foundations, conditioning, and introductions. No assessments yet.” A pause. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be prepared.”
Wil nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Dorm curfew is listed on the back,” she added, tapping the paper. “If you have questions, you come here. Not to upperclassmen who think they know better.”
Brando scoffed. “Wow, even I could've even given him that info! He’s my dorm mate.”
She didn’t even look at him. “You’ll survive.”
Wil folded the schedule carefully and tucked it into his bag, the weight of tomorrow settling in his chest—real now, unavoidable.
“Tomorrow,” he muttered under his breath, once again.
Brando clapped him on the shoulder as they stepped away from the desk. “Hey. One more sleep and you’re officially part of the chaos. Could be worse.”
Wil glanced at him. “How?”
Brando flashed a grin. “You could be starting today.”
Wil exhaled slowly, slightly laughing. “Yeah. I’ll take tomorrow.”
They stepped back into the corridor, the noise of the Academy muted here—footsteps echoing softly, voices drifting past in fragments as students moved between wings.
Wil glanced down at the folded schedule in his bag, fingers brushing the edge like it might vanish if he didn’t check it again.
Brando walked backward for a few steps, hands hooked behind his head. “Tomorrow,” he echoed, cheerful. “Which means tonight is unofficial freedom. No classes, no drills, no professors breathing down your neck.”
Wil eyed him. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re about to suggest something illegal.”
“Illegal?” Bran scoffed. “No. Questionable? Absolutely.”
Wil snorted despite himself. “I just got here. I’m not trying to get expelled before my first class.”
Brando stopped, turning serious for half a second. “Relax. Orientation night doesn’t count. Nobody expects you to be impressive yet.” Then his grin returned. “Just alive.”
They turned another corner, passing a window that looked out over the darkening forest beyond campus. Fireflies—or something pretending to be—flickered between the trees.
“So,” Brando said casually, “How are you holding up? Be honest.”
Wil hesitated. He thought of the stares. The questions. The way everyone seemed to feel something around him that he couldn’t explain.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s a lot. But… not as bad as I thought.”
Brando bumped his shoulder lightly. “That’s Mythic Creek for you. Terrifying, confusing, occasionally unhinged—but it grows on you.”
They slowed near the dorm stairs.
“You’re gonna be fine, Wil,” Brando added, quieter now. “Late shifter or not. Human-born or not. You don’t feel like someone who breaks easily.”
Wil glanced at him, surprised. “You say that like you’ve seen people try.”
Brando’s smile tilted, just a little less joking. “Yeah. I have.”
The moment stretched—then Brando clapped his hands once, sharp and loud. “Anyway! Enough heavy stuff. We’ve got one job left tonight.”
Wil raised an eyebrow. “Please tell me it’s not combat training.”
“Nope.” Brando started up the stairs. “Unpacking. Claiming your bed. And teaching you which noises to ignore when you’re trying to sleep.”
Wil groaned, but followed. “You’re really selling this place.”
“Give it a week,” Brando called over his shoulder. “You’ll either be complaining like the rest of us—or defending it like it’s home.”
—--------
Back in the dorm room, the door shut behind them with a soft click.
The space felt different now.
Earlier it had been unfamiliar—someone else’s territory, someone else’s life. Now it smelled faintly like Wil’s shampoo, Brando’s laundry soap, and the lingering warmth of shared space. Lived-in, already.
Wil set his bag down beside the bed he’d claimed earlier and sat, elbows on his knees. The day finally caught up to him all at once—the noise, the faces, the constant awareness of being noticed.
Brando dropped his backpack onto his own bed and flopped backward, hands laced behind his head. “Orientation day complete,” he declared. “You survived. No maulings, no accidental curses, no public humiliation. That’s a win.”
Wil snorted softly. “Low bar.”
“You’ll learn to appreciate it.” Brando rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. “So. First impressions?”
Wil thought for a moment. The dining hall laughter. Freya’s blunt curiosity. Wyatt’s steady presence. Evangeline’s careful kindness. The way no one had laughed when he said he hadn’t shifted.
“…Not what I expected,” he said finally.
Brando hummed. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Silence settled—not awkward, just quiet. Outside the window, the forest darkened as the sun dipped fully below the horizon, fireflies blinking into life like scattered stars.
Wil lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. “Do you ever get used to it?” he asked. “Living around people who can… do all that?”
Brando didn’t answer right away.
“Honestly?” he said eventually. “Not really. You just stop being surprised.” A pause. “But you don’t seem like the kind of guy who wants to disappear into the background forever.”
Wil turned his head. “What makes you say that?”
Brando shrugged. “You’re still here.”
Wil huffed a quiet laugh. “Guess I didn’t have much choice.”
He was quiet for a long moment, staring at the ceiling as if the answer might be written there.
“…I didn’t just transfer for no reason,” he said finally.
Brando glanced over, the grin fading into something more attentive. “Yeah? Figured there was a story.”
Wil exhaled through his nose. “Wishbone Falls isn’t exactly subtle about things like… expectations.” He hesitated, then went on. “Everyone there shifts by sixteen. Some earlier. It’s kind of a big deal.”
Brando stayed quiet.
“I didn’t,” Wil said. “Not once. No matter how hard I tried.”
His fingers curled into the blanket. “At first it was just jokes. Nicknames. ‘False wolf.’ ‘Human pup.’ Teachers pretending they didn’t hear it. Coaches telling me to ‘push harder’ like effort alone would fix it.”
Brando’s jaw tightened.
“Then it got worse,” Wil continued. “Lockers slammed shut in my face. Stuff going missing. People ‘accidentally’ bumping into me in the halls. One guy told me I should just admit I was human and stop embarrassing everyone.”
He swallowed.
“I started skipping classes. Eating lunch in the bathroom. Pretending I was sick just so I didn’t have to go in.” A beat. “My mom noticed.”
Brando shifted, sitting up fully now.
“She tried to talk to the school,” Wil said with a dry laugh. “They told her it was ‘pack dynamics’ and that I’d sort it out once I shifted.”
Silence hung heavy between them.
“So she pulled me out,” Wil finished. “Mythic Creek was the only place that would even consider taking me without a shift record. Fresh start. No history.”
Brando stared at him for a second longer, then scoffed softly. “Wishbone Falls sounds like a nightmare.”
Wil shrugged. “It wasn’t always. It just… stopped being home.”
Brando reached out, not clapping him this time—just a firm, grounding hand on his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, Wil? You don’t have to prove anything here.”
Wil let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“…Thanks.”
Brando smirked, the edge returning just enough to feel normal. “Besides, when you do shift someday, the look on everyone’s faces is going to be priceless.”
Wil huffed. “If it happens.”
Brando grinned. “When it happens, Wilson. When it happens—I want front row seats”
Wil snorted quietly, the sound rough but real. “You’re unbelievable.”
“True,” Brando said easily. “But I’m also right.”
He shifted closer, sitting on the edge of Wil’s bed now instead of hovering halfway across the room. The joking tone softened, just a notch. “And if it doesn’t happen tomorrow, or next month, or even this year?” he added. “That doesn’t make you less of anything.”
Wil stared at the ceiling again, but the tightness in his chest had eased. “You say that like it’s obvious.”
Bran shrugged. “Some things are. People just forget.”
Silence settled between them again—comfortable this time. Outside, the Academy hummed softly, footsteps passing in the hall, distant laughter echoing up through the stone. Life continued.
Wilson rolled onto his side, facing Brando. “Hey. Thanks. For today. For… not making it weird.”
Bran grinned, that familiar crooked smile back in place. “Oh, I’m absolutely making it weird. Just not in the way you’re used to.”
Wil laughed under his breath. “Figures.”
Brando stood, stretching his arms over his head. “Get some sleep, Silverstone. Tomorrow’s your first real day. You’re gonna want your strength.”
Wil raised an eyebrow. “Because of classes?”
“No,” Brando said, heading for his own bed. “Because Mythic Creek has a habit of throwing curveballs at people who don’t expect them.”
Wil lay back, staring up at the ceiling once more as the lights dimmed slightly, responding to the late hour. His schedule sat tucked safely in his bag. Tomorrow loomed—uncertain, unpredictable… but no longer like something he couldn’t handle.
As the room settled into quiet, Wil closed his eyes. Eventually drifting into an unguarded sleep.