Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
The summons came during breakfast.
I was in Stone's room, working through the oatmeal Neal had brought me, when a staff member appeared at the door. Young. Nervous. The kind of nervous that meant she'd been sent by someone important.
"Miss Orlav?" She clutched a tablet to her chest like a shield. "Headmaster Twilson has requested a meeting. At your earliest convenience."
The words were polite. The tone was not.
Stone's head lifted from his paws.
I set down my spoon. "When?"
"Now, if possible. His office."
Not a request, then. A summons dressed up in courtesy.
"Tell him I'll be there in ten minutes."
The staff member nodded and fled. I watched her go, then turned back to Stone.
"I'll be back," I said.
Twilson's office was on the administrative side of campus—far from the Healing Center. The walls were lined with diplomas and certificates. The furniture was expensive and uncomfortable. Everything about the space said authority.
Twilson himself stood behind his desk when I entered. He didn't sit. Didn't invite me to sit either.
"Miss Orlav." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Thank you for coming so quickly."
"Your messenger made it sound urgent."
He gestured vaguely. "I apologize if there was any... pressure implied. I simply wanted to speak with you. Privately. Before the council session this afternoon."
I stayed standing. Kept my expression neutral. "About what?"
"About your wellbeing, of course." Twilson sat behind his desk.
"You've been spending a great deal of time at the Healing Center.
Missing classes. Missing meals." His eyes swept over me—cataloging, I realized.
Noting the shadows under my eyes, the weight I'd lost, the pallor of my skin.
"Several faculty members have expressed concern. "
"I appreciate their concern. But I'm fine."
"Are you?" He tilted his head. "Because from where I'm standing, you look exhausted. You look like a young woman who has taken on far more than she should. Far more than anyone should ask of a student."
I didn't respond. Waited.
Twilson's smile flickered. He wasn't used to silence. Wasn't used to people who didn't rush to fill the gaps he left in conversation.
"The situation with the ferals," he continued, "is complicated. I understand that. And I understand that you feel... connected to them. To one of them in particular."
"His name is Stone."
"The feral you call Stone." Twilson's correction was gentle. Deliberate. "Has shown no meaningful progress despite weeks of intervention. His violent episodes continue. His threat level remains high. And you—" He paused. "You continue to place yourself in proximity to that threat, day after day."
"I'm not in danger. The barriers—"
"The barriers are designed to contain wolves, not to protect the people who insist on sitting inches away from them.
" Twilson's voice hardened. Just slightly.
Just enough to show the steel beneath the concern.
"What happens if those barriers fail? What happens if your.
.. bond... with this creature overwhelms your judgment at a critical moment? "
Creature.
The word landed like a slap.
"Stone is a person," I said. "A person who was damaged. A person who is fighting to recover."
"Stone is a feral wolf who has shown consistent aggression toward every staff member who approaches him.
A wolf who attacked his containment barrier so violently two days ago that he fractured his own ribs.
" Twilson spread his hands. "I'm not unsympathetic.
I understand that you believe he can be saved.
But belief isn't evidence. And the safety of this institution—the safety of our students—cannot be sacrificed for one person's hope. "
There it was.
Not concern. Not care.
Control.
Twilson wasn't arguing facts. He wasn't presenting evidence that Stone couldn't recover. He was framing the situation in terms of liability, of institutional risk, of the threat that my involvement posed to his carefully managed world.
He was afraid. I could see it now—the tightness around his eyes, the way his hands kept moving, adjusting his cuffs, touching his desk, never quite still.
He was afraid of what the ferals represented.
Afraid of what their recovery might reveal.
Afraid of losing control of a situation that had already spiraled beyond his ability to manage.
"The council is meeting this afternoon," I said. "To review the ferals' progress."
"Yes." Twilson's expression flickered. Surprise that I knew, maybe. Or annoyance. "The thirty-day review, as agreed. Rae Whitaker will present the findings. The council will make a determination about whether to continue the current protocols or..." He paused. "Explore other options."
"Other options meaning what?"
"That will be for the council to decide."
"Transfer? Elimination?" I kept my voice steady. "Is that what you're hoping for?"
Twilson's jaw tightened. "I'm hoping for a resolution that protects this institution and everyone in it.
Including you." He stepped closer. Not threatening—not quite.
But close enough to make his point. "You're young.
Talented. You have your whole life ahead of you.
And you're throwing it away on creatures who may never be capable of recovering.
Who may never be anything other than what they are now. "
"And what are they now?"
"Dangerous." The word was flat. Final. "Unstable. A liability that this institution cannot afford."
I looked at him. At his expensive suit and his careful hair and his eyes that saw Stone as a problem to be solved rather than a person to be saved.
"Is that all?" I asked.
Twilson blinked. Whatever response he'd expected, it wasn't that.
"I... yes. I simply wanted you to understand the situation. The pressures we're facing. The decisions that may need to be made." He stood. "I hope you'll consider what I've said. For your own sake."
"I'll consider it," I said.
The council chamber seemed filled with tension.
I slid into the seat beside Neal.
"How bad?" I murmured.
"Depends on who's talking." He didn't look at me. His eyes were fixed on the council table, on the faces of the men and women who would decide Stone's fate. "Rae's presenting first. Then they'll open the floor for questions."
The chamber was filling up.
I could feel worry in the bonds They were all waiting to see what would be decided.
"Welcome." Dr. Werrow, the acting head of the council, rapped a gavel against the table. "This session will review the status of the five feral wolves currently housed at the Healing Center, in accordance with the thirty-day probationary period established at our previous meeting."
Thirty days. Had it really been thirty days?
It felt like a lifetime. It felt like yesterday.
"Ms. Whitaker." Werrow gestured toward the display screen. "Please present your findings."
Rae stepped forward. Her expression was calm, professional—but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the careful way she was choosing her words.
"Thank you, Dr. Werrow. Council members." She touched her tablet, and the screen behind her lit up with data. Charts. Graphs. The clinical language of recovery. "Over the past thirty days, we have observed significant changes in the condition of the five feral wolves under our care."
She began with the gray one.
The partial shift. The brief return to human form. The recognition in his eyes when he'd looked at Cal. She presented it clinically—documented, measured, quantified—but underneath the data was something extraordinary.
Proof.
Proof that recovery was possible. That the feral state wasn't permanent. That somewhere underneath the wolf, the human mind still existed.
"This represents proof of the partial recovery we’ve seen in one of the feral wolves," Rae said.
"The subject maintained human form for approximately four seconds before reverting.
However, during that time, he demonstrated clear signs of recognition, awareness, and intentional movement. He was, briefly, present."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. I saw council members exchanging glances—some skeptical, some surprised, some carefully neutral.
"And the others?" Werrow asked.
"The remaining four subjects have shown varying degrees of stabilization.
" Rae changed the display. More charts. More data.
"Three of the wolves have demonstrated decreased aggression, increased responsiveness to environmental stimuli, and improved vital statistics overall.
Their prognosis is cautiously optimistic. "
"And the fifth?"
Rae hesitated. Just for a moment.
"The fifth subject—designated Stone—has shown the least improvement.
His violent episodes continue, though their frequency has decreased.
His response to the bonded individual—" She glanced at me.
"—has shifted from hostile to tolerant, and occasionally to something approaching receptive.
However, his overall condition remains unstable. "
Unstable. The word hung in the air.
One of the council members leaned forward—an older man with silver hair and cold eyes. "Are you suggesting that one out of five is an acceptable success rate?"
"I'm suggesting that any recovery rate is significant.
" Rae's voice didn't waver. "These wolves were considered by many to be beyond help.
The official position of this institution—and previous councils—has been that for the vast majority, feral wolves cannot recover.
That they are, essentially, lost. What we've observed in the past thirty days contradicts that assumption. "
"What you've observed is one wolf who briefly appeared human before collapsing back into his feral state." The silver-haired man's tone was dismissive. "That's not recovery. That's a spasm."
"It's a start."
"Is it enough to justify the continued risk? The continued resources?"