Arthur blinked.
Once. Then again.
This wasn't his bed. Not the floor either. No grey sheets. No creaky wooden beams above his head. The air was too sharp, the lighting too sterile.
He was in… a classroom?
What the hell—?
One moment, he'd been drifting in the hazy reverie of sleep—trudging through Glenhaven's fields, watching his ancestor Silas Reeves talk and the next… he was upright, seated at a desk, surrounded by parchment spells, glowing marks on walls, the faint scratch of quills, and a chalkboard etched with words.
Magic. And more disturbingly—school.
His eyes scanned the room in slow, uncertain movements. Unfamiliar faces. An unfamiliar ceiling. The strange lull of voices that didn't register. Something about this place felt fabricated. As if his mind had hastily constructed it, and the details hadn't fully loaded yet.
Beside him sat a girl.
Not anyone he recognized. Not from his year. Not from his house. She had sharp cheekbones, ink-black curls tucked behind her ear, and a piercing kind of stare—like someone used to seeing more than she was supposed to.
She was watching him with a mixture of concern and curiosity.
"You were saying something," she said, slow and careful, "then you just… sort of changed."
Arthur's brows drew together. "Changed how?"
"You sounded… gentler. Kinder, even. Your words were poetic. Empathetic." She hesitated. "And your hair was grey. Not old grey—beautiful grey. Like silver silk."
(The other side… again?)
Arthur glanced down at his clothes. His usual black theme was gone. No storm-colored layers. No shadow stitched into the seams. Instead, he wore something softer. Loose-fitting. Pale ivory and twilight blue. There was an openness to it that made his skin crawl.
Why do I look like someone who writes sonnets for breakfast?
His voice stayed cool. "What exactly was I talking about? Was it related to the class?"
The girl's cheeks flushed. She looked away for a heartbeat, then back. "You don't remember?"
Arthur shook his head.
"You were flirting," she said, trying to sound casual. "And… it was working."
For half a second, Arthur's face twitched.
"I see," he murmured, expression falling back into its default unreadable calm. He didn't even bother to ask her name.
Just then, a bell rang.
It wasn't the usual crystal-chime. It was duller. Mechanical. Like the clang of old iron in a hollow hallway.
Arthur turned to the window.
Afternoon light spilled in, warm and orange-tinted.
Wait. Afternoon?
Had he… time-skipped? Slept through four hours of class while inside a dream?
Or worse…
Was he still dreaming?
∆∆∆∆∆∆
The hallway was buzzing—chatter echoing off marble arches, enchanted parchment fluttering through the air, and the occasional magical burst as some first-year accidentally triggered a glyph-locker. Arthur walked amidst it all, but in silence.
His wrists still bore the dull glint of the containment bracelets—runes etched faintly into their polished surface, pulsing like a heartbeat. His wand hadn't been returned either. Not that he needed it to feel incomplete. The restrictions were enough.
He trudged toward the dining hall, boots dragging, his thoughts a tangled mess of memory, confusion, and that lingering voice—the other side of him, the one that had flirted with a stranger like it was second nature.
Then he felt it.
An arm flung around his shoulders, familiar and annoyingly confident.
"Been a while," a voice said, all smug grin and playful accusation. "You're avoiding me, aren't you?"
Arthur didn't look up right away. He already knew who it was.
"Micah," he said flatly, "I'm not avoiding you. I'm just busy losing my mind."
Micah laughed, a sound as bright as his frost-blue eyes. "Well, you were avoiding me at first. But then I thought, hey… who wouldn't want to be related to the most infamous Reeves?"
Arthur shot him a side glance. "You're an idiot."
"A charming idiot," Micah corrected. "Besides, you could stand to enjoy the fame a little. That whole 'silent-and-brooding' thing is doing wonders for your reputation."
Arthur snorted. "Smooth talker, aren't you?"
"Not as smooth as you apparently," Micah grinned. "At least, not according to them."
He nodded casually toward a cluster of girls nearby, some giggling, others trying far too hard to look uninterested. A few of them waved when they caught Arthur's eye.
Arthur blinked, slow and confused. "What...?"
Then it hit him. The other side. Whatever version of him had surfaced earlier—he'd been the one they remembered. He, not Arthur, had charmed them.
His stomach dropped.
Without warning, he grabbed Micah by both arms, dragging him close. "I think I'm losing it, man. Seriously. Do you ever get the feeling… that your body's not entirely yours?"
Micah looked at him sideways. "Huh? First off—get your hands off me. That's weird."
Arthur hadn't even realized he'd grabbed Micah by both arms. He let go, startled.
"Second," Micah continued, "no. Can't say I have. But that's a dramatic thing to say out of nowhere."
"It's like—when my mind slips, something else takes control. Not possession, exactly, but… like another version of me. Someone gentler. Smarter. More confident. Even his hair changes."
Micah scratched his jaw. "Okay, that's either horrifying… or really impressive."
Arthur gave him a look.
"No seriously," Micah continued, shrugging, "I mean, look at me. You think I was always this calm and charming?"
"You're not," Arthur muttered.
Micah ignored him. "But no, I wasn't. Before my Cryomancy awakened, I was angry all the time. Cold—pun absolutely intended. And now? I don't even recognize that kid. So maybe it's not just you."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "So… what are you saying?"
"I'm saying maybe your powers awakened something deeper. A split consciousness, sure. Or… maybe a past life.
"Anyway," Micah said with a cheeky grin, "you think you could call that other version back? I'd love to get a few flirting tips."
Arthur glared. "Micah."
"What? I'm being serious."
"You never are."
Micah patted him on the back, still chuckling. "Well, when you figure out how to share a brain with your alter ego, let me know. I'll bring snacks. For now…"
He motioned over his shoulder. A pack of girls—his usual crowd—had gathered near the courtyard arch.
"…I've got my own demons to flirt with."
Arthur shook his head as Micah jogged off, arms open like a fool about to receive worship.
"Hopeless," Arthur muttered.
The hallway quieted again. Or maybe it was just his thoughts slowing. The laughter faded. The weight returned.
Arthur paused at the next corridor. His stomach growled—lunch was waiting—but his mind wasn't in the right place. Not today.
He turned toward the library instead.
"I need a quill," he murmured.
But what he really needed… was answers.
∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur sat at a quiet corner of the library—far back, beyond the main arch of shelves where dust slept heavy on untouched tomes and forgotten scrolls. He had deliberately stacked books high on either side of the table to form a private enclosure, a wall of paper and parchment to shut the world out.
In front of him, a blank sheet. Or rather, what used to be blank.
The words he had already scribbled stared back at him, chaotic but honest:
---
Problems that seem to have me involved in:
1. Project Silverfang (whatever the hell that is?)
2. The girl from nowhere
Problems I have:
1. Tom Marvolo Riddle
2. Cryomancy
3. My other half
4. Ignatius
5.
---
His quill hovered, paused over the fifth. Ink pooled at the nib, bleeding slowly into the parchment like a wound refusing to clot.
"I don't even know anymore," he muttered under his breath. "But I know I've got problems."
"Hiya, Arthur."
He flinched at the sudden voice, female—close.
Too close.
He turned and found a face inches from his own. Big brown eyes blinked through crooked spectacles. Her presence wasn't frightening... but the proximity? Unsettling. Without thinking, he placed a palm square on her face and pushed her back, gently but firmly.
A laugh followed the push. She stumbled back a step, cleaning the lenses with the hem of her shirt.
"Thought that'd scare you," the girl said, adjusting her glasses. "Guess not."
It took Arthur a second to place her.
The girl from yesterday.
What was her name again?
He picked up his quill and murmured as he scribbled, "Remind me your name again?"
"It's Leah," she said. "You literally said it yesterday."
"L…e…a…h," he said as he wrote her name under his problem list—item number five. He boxed it in twice for emphasis. "Yep. Definitely a problem."
She leaned over his shoulder to read, feigning offense. "Wow. I am literally the least of your problems. That's just hurtful."
"What do you want?" Arthur asked dryly, straightening in his seat.
"You said," she shifted her voice to mock his own, "'I won't be around much. So if you're that desperate for a study buddy, you'll have to come find me.'" She gave him a smug smile. "Well. I found you."
"I don't sound like that."
"You sound exactly like that."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Even so, why would I study with you?"
She shrugged, folding her arms. "Because you're skipping class. So am I. And we're already in the library."
"That's not a strong case," Arthur said. "And Leah is not exactly a full identity. Who are you, really?"
Leah grinned, as if she'd been waiting for that question. "Got that covered." She reached into her satchel and handed him a slim, worn book with a leather cover.
Arthur hesitated, looking at it. Embossed in faded silver letters: Diary.
He shrugged. He's has his fair share of diaries. "Your diary? Are you mad? No one just hands those out. That's like... bleeding on purpose."
"Not unless it's someone I trust." She met his eyes. "So what do you think? Trade accepted?"
Arthur stared at her for a long moment. Her hair was tied in a messy bun now, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, but shirt still tucked with stubborn pride. No cloak, no pretenses. Just curiosity, defiance, and something else... understanding?
Maybe, just maybe, she knew a thing or two about secrets—real ones.
He closed his eyes. She might know something about illegal hybrids, Cryomancy cases... whatever "Project Silverfang" is. And maybe even about whatever I am.
He opened them again.
"Fine," he said at last. "Probably tomorrow then."
He gathered the paper, folded it once, and stood up. He gave her a final look, expression unreadable.
"Bye then," he said. A pause. A slight grin. "Urchin."
Behind him, a shocked gasp.
He smirked to himself as he walked away.
Micah's rubbing off on me.
∆∆∆∆∆
Arthur left the library with his hood up and his heart echoing louder than his footsteps.
He didn't go for the rest of the day's classes.
He didn't check the bulletin board..
Straight to his dorm. Straight to silence.
It felt too easy, too quiet. The school was never this still—not even during storm curfews or surprise inspections. But today, not a professor lurked in the hallways, not even the nosy groundskeeper with the crooked nose and suspicious glare.
Everyone must be busy, he thought. Or maybe… elsewhere. Gb hi
When he reached his room, it was just the same as he had left it: stale air, sheets rumpled like forgotten thoughts, books stacked in distracted patterns across his desk, a sock peeking out from under the bed like a quiet observer.
But one thing wasn't the same.
There was a piece of parchment on the desk.
Cream-colored. Crisp.
Folded with precision and a flourish.
Addressed, simply:
"To Me"
Arthur stared at it. His heart beat slower, then faster. He walked to the desk with an almost curious calm and picked up the letter.
"Did I… write this?" he murmured.
His fingers trembled as he unfolded it, even though the room was warm. The parchment smelled faintly of ice.
---
Dear Arthur,
Or should I say, me.
Let's not waste time pretending this is a hallucination or a product of lack of sleep. You're not that dull. I'm real. I've always been real.
My name's Auren. That's what I like, at least. Feels elegant. Icy. A name with teeth.
You don't know me—yet—but I know you. I am you.
The colder half. The side you've shoved away every time your magic felt wrong or too sharp.
The echo that drips frost down your spine when you lie.
The part that remembers, even when you don't want to.
I'm the version of us that doesn't flinch.
I show up when I want to. When you're weak. When you hesitate. When things need to be done and you're too busy not caring or feeling.
I exist because your power outgrew your control. You broke the shell, Arthur, and I slithered out. You might hate that, but that's magic. Raw. Real. Relentless.
You don't have to fear me.
Yet.
I'll be honest—there's no grand plan. I'm not here to take over the world or monologue in front of thunderclaps.
I just want to live. To stretch. To be. And maybe…
To ruin that dark little streak of yours.
Yes, you. The broody, repressed "protector" who scowls at friendships and pities himself in candlelight.
You think you're the darker one?
Please.
I might be cold—but at least I smile.
So beware, Other Me. I'm here. I'll be around.
And you might find that some of your classmates start liking me more than they like you.
Especially the ladies.
Sincerely,
Auren Reeves
(The Better Half)
---
Arthur exhaled long and low, like someone letting go of a scream.
"So my hunch was right," he said aloud, pacing. "My Cryomancy… it grew teeth."
He sat down slowly, the bracelet around his wrist suddenly heavier. Its etched runes seemed dimmer than before, like they, too, were thinking.
The theory clicked into place—his powers were so out of sync that they had formed a separate identity. Or rather, it created a space where something like Auren could bloom.
An echo given ego.
A ghost of frost made flesh.
And it was magic-related. He held up his wrists, eyeing the suppression bands clamped around them.
"These are supposed to block my abilities. All traces of them. So how is he still here?"
Unless... "My magic is too strong to be fully sealed by just these."
His pulse quickened at the thought.
If that's true… then I could break out of them.
He looked back down at the letter. The handwriting was eerily identical to his—neater, perhaps—but unmistakably his own.
But no… he shook his head, gripping the desk.
As long as these bracelets keep Auren Reeves at bay… I'll hold on to them like lifelines.
He placed the letter back on the desk and pulled a book from the pile beside it. The cover was faded, almost brittle, but the title still shimmered:
A Study of Genetically Modified Creature Hybrids.
He flipped through the pages, frowning as sketches of strange creatures and annotated notes passed him by. Griffelions. Fog Stalkers. Chimergators.
But no Varnhounds.
Everyone knew of them.
Everyone feared them.
Yet, there was no record. No mention.
Illegal.
That was the only conclusion. The Varnhounds weren't science—they were secrecy.
This book only talked about bred hybrids—legal, biological experiments like the Serpent-Hawk. But not engineered predators.
Which meant… somewhere in the school, or maybe outside it, there had to be another book.
One that discussed illegal hybrids. Forbidden breeding.
Monsters made from shadows and needles.
"Restricted section," Arthur muttered. "The part of the library that needs a professor's signed order…"
He let a slow, rare smile crawl onto his lips. A smile that felt too sharp to be his.
Maybe Auren had his uses after all.
He just had to find a way to control him.
Before he got too comfortable.
And before the frost took over the flame.