I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
spatréon/emperordragon
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Chapter Eighteen: Four Years Later
Ti works differently when you're a werewolf kid raised in the middle of nowhere.
Not in a "clock-ticks-backward" kind of way. But in that strange, stretchy, slippery way where the days blur and bend, folding into each other like the pages of a book left out in the rain. One mont, you're a frightened six-year-old crouched on the ground, your bones reshaping under the silver eye of the full moon. The next, you're ten years old, leaning against the rough wood railing of the porch, squinting through sunlit pine branches as a familiar junker of a station wagon bumps up the gravel road. And you're grinning so hard it almost hurts.
Four years. That's how long it's been since I started living with Emily.
It's 2005 now, which feels impossibly distant from the day when I first arrived at the cabin. I'm ten years old, though by most normal standards, I've already blown past high school. I've finished calculus, chemistry, and more history than I'll ever need. Emily says I could ace the GED in my sleep. But a ten-year-old showing up at a testing center and acing the exam would be like setting off a flare in the sky—exactly the kind of attention we don't want. So, officially, I'm just another "hoschooled mountain kid." Quiet. Ordinary. Easy to overlook.
But let's be honest: I'm not remotely ordinary.
My education has gone far beyond algebra equations and diagrams. In these four years, I've been imrsed in a world that doesn't show up in any textbook written by humans. I've studied the old histories—records of ancient werewolf clans that died out long before electricity lit the world. I've morized blood-bound rituals passed down through whispers and half-rembered songs. I know the hierarchy of supernatural politics, and what happens when those politics collapse. I've dissected the anatomy of corrupted creatures, the monstrous remains of once ordinary souls twisted into sothing unrecognizable—not quite beast, and certainly no longer "Normal," as Richard calls it.
But most importantly, I've learned what it truly ans to be one of us.
I've honed my instincts until I can tune out the unnecessary chaos. I can filter through the noise—the rustle of a rabbit fifty feet away, the sticky scent of pine sap, the reek of a decaying deer carcass half a mile downwind. I don't crush doorknobs anymore when I'm too excited. I don't break dishes just because soone made laugh. I don't race passing cars as a wolf down the road, even though I still could.
Self-control, Emily said once, is what separates us from the beasts.
I was still chewing on that thought, ntally replaying the phrase for the hundredth ti, when Richard's beat-up station wagon rattled up the drive and ca to a groaning stop in front of the cabin.
The driver's door creaked open with a squeal that probably scared off three birds and a squirrel. And there he was—Richard, in all his ridiculous glory. Sa buzz cut like he never stopped being a soldier. Sa battered leather jacket that slled faintly of motor oil and pine sap. Sa grin that looked like it had survived at least one fight too many.
"Hey, kid!" he called out, already waving like a lunatic as he stepped out, balancing a cardboard box under one arm.
I couldn't help but grin back. "Took you long enough. I figured the forest spirits finally got sick of your jokes and dragged you off."
He smirked, slamming the car door shut with a hip. "They tried. I gave 'em indigestion last ti."
He stomped up the steps to the porch, the box thudding down beside with a satisfying weight. "You're gonna lose your mind over this."
"Let guess—another throwing axe?" I was already tearing at the tape.
He shook his head with a wink. "Better."
Inside the box: a model trebuchet kit (complete with tiny wooden rocks), two brand-new remote-controlled helicopters, and a chess set carved from sothing pale and heavy.
I picked up one of the pawns, turning it over in my hand. "Is this... ivory?"
"Fake," he said. "I'm not a monster."
"Debatable," I shot back, smirking.
From inside the cabin, I heard the faint clink of mugs and the soft hiss of the kettle. Emily, of course. She had a sixth sense for Richard's arrival, always managing to start the tea just as his car rounded the final curve in the road.
A minute later, she erged, barefoot and elegant, sohow managing to make her comfortable clothes look regal. Her white hair was twisted into a ssy knot, and she carried a tray of steaming mugs like it was a silver platter at a royal banquet.
"Tea's ready," she said, voice dry as dust. "You two done being obnoxious yet?"
"Never," Richard replied imdiately.
"Probably not," I added, reaching for my mug. She always made mine with extra honey, just the way I liked it.
Emily lowered herself onto the porch swing, legs tucked beneath her, effortlessly composed even as the wind tugged at her hair. She didn't say much, but she didn't have to. Her presence said everything.
Richard clinked his mug against mine. "To old friends, new toys, and the smartest ten-year-old this world has ever seen."
I snorted. "I'm not that smart."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? Then who is?"
"I don't know. Probably so genius in a bunker in Norway who already preparing to work at NASA. They probably don't publish rankings on ten-year-olds."
I took a sip. The tea was hot and sweet, grounding.
Emily actually chuckled. That rare, amused breath of air she only let slip once every few weeks. That sound was a small win.
I leaned back against the porch railing, warm mug cradled in both hands, and looked out across the trees—towering, ancient, and green. This forest had beco more than a hiding place. It was my training ground. My classroom. My ho.
Four years.
In that ti, everything had changed.
My body. My instincts. My understanding of the world and my place in it.
Except one thing: I still had people who cared about . Protected . Challenged . Who taught not just how to survive—but how to belong.
And that?
That made dangerous.
In all the right ways.
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