Chapter 28: The First Lesson

Astrid

A horn woke me instead of the academy bell, low and unfamiliar enough that for a second I had no idea where I was, my whole body braced for the sound of scrubbing and creaking floorboards before the memory of the forest caught up with me.

Then I saw the canvas walls of the tent, heard students grumbling somewhere outside, and remembered.

Ivy was wrapped entirely in her blanket beside me. "Tell me that’s not the morning call."

Another horn sounded. "I think it is."

She groaned. "I hate nature."

I laughed quietly and dragged myself upright anyway.

Outside, the camp looked different in the early light, mist curling low between the trees, damp grass soaking through my boots, students everywhere rubbing sleep from their eyes and complaining about the cold, breath fogging in front of their faces with every grumbled word.

The professors gathered us shortly after for the first lesson. Tracking.

The instructor explained that wolves relied on far more than sight when hunting, scent, sound, footprints, broken branches, disturbed earth, subtle changes most people never bothered to notice. Groups formed quickly, students already comparing notes on wolf senses I simply didn’t have.

Someone nearby whispered, "How is she supposed to track anything?"

Another voice answered, "Maybe they forgot she can’t shift."

I pretended not to hear.

Professor Lyra noticed anyway, though she didn’t excuse me from anything. "Everyone tracks," she said, flat and unbothered.

I nodded, and got to work.

Xander ended up near my group, crouching beside a set of footprints pressed into the mud. "See those?"

"Obviously," I said.

He raised an eyebrow. "I was going to explain."

"I don’t need explaining."

"Right. Forgot you’re terrifying."

I gave him a look. He grinned, unbothered, and pointed toward the direction the prints led without making a production out of it.

I followed the trail, and something caught my eye that the others near me had missed entirely, a broken twig several feet off the main path, snapped in a direction that suggested the animal had changed course.

"It went that way," I said.

Xander looked at me. "How do you know?"

"The branch."

He studied it for a moment, then smiled. "Okay. That’s actually impressive."

I tried not to look too pleased with myself. "I know."

Reed joined us not long after, examining the trail himself before saying anything.

"She’s right," he said finally.

"You believe me?" I asked.

"I checked."

Xander laughed. "That’s Reed’s version of saying you’re brilliant."

"I didn’t say that," Reed said.

I smiled despite myself. Xander’s encouragement was loud. Reed’s came quieter, but it felt like it carried more weight somehow, the kind of validation that came from actually being taken seriously.

The exercise turned competitive quickly, groups racing to identify trails and reach checkpoints scattered through the woods, professors calling out rankings as students crashed past each other through the undergrowth. Xander threw himself into it with far more intensity than the situation probably called for.

"You’re taking this very seriously," I said.

"I’m always serious."

I glanced at Reed. He looked at his brother. "He’s lying."

I laughed. Xander insisted, entirely unconvincingly, that he was simply protecting the Ashwood family reputation.

Somewhere in the chaos of the competition, I followed what I thought was the correct trail while the others moved ahead without me. By the time I realized my mistake, I was alone.

No phone. No academy walls. Just trees stretching endlessly in every direction.

My confidence faltered.

Something moved nearby. I froze.

A branch snapped. Then another.

I turned slowly, scanning the trees.

Nothing.

I told myself not to panic, forcing my breathing steady, and studied the trail more carefully instead of bolting blindly through the underbrush. Something about it looked wrong the longer I looked.

The tracks I’d been following weren’t animal tracks at all.

They were human.

Someone had deliberately disturbed the trail, laying false prints meant to lead a tracker astray.

That realization sent a fresh chill through me, sharper than the fear of simply being lost.

Reed appeared through the trees a moment later, his expression unusually serious.

"Astrid."

I exhaled in relief. "I’m fine."

"I didn’t ask."

I realized then he was checking whether I was hurt, not whether I had an excuse ready. "I followed the wrong trail," I said.

He looked down at the tracks, then back at me. "No."

"What?"

He crouched beside the prints. "These were made deliberately."

That got my full attention. I explained what I’d noticed, and he listened carefully instead of dismissing it.

"You noticed all that without a wolf?" he asked.

I stiffened slightly. "I don’t need a wolf to notice things."

His expression softened. "I know."

That landed somewhere deep, because it was the first time anyone had said those words without a trace of pity attached to them.

Xander crashed through the trees a moment later, breathless. "There you two are! I was starting to think the forest ate you."

He caught our expressions immediately. "What happened?"

Reed explained. Xander looked down at the false trail, his usual grin fading entirely.

"That’s not part of the exercise," he said.

No. It wasn’t. A professor called for us from somewhere farther off before we could dig deeper into it.

"We’ll tell Lyra," Reed said.

I nodded, though the unease didn’t fully leave me.

The groups regathered back at camp, instructors praising everyone’s tracking skills. I received no special treatment, exactly as promised, but Lyra paused beside me on her way past.

"You didn’t need a wolf today," she said.

"Was that supposed to be a compliment?"

Her mouth barely moved. "Don’t get used to them."

Then she walked off, and I found myself smiling despite the exhaustion settling into my legs.

That evening, I sat beside the campfire with Ivy, the warmth a welcome relief after a long day of aching legs and dirt-caked boots, who launched into an animated retelling of how badly she’d performed during the exercise. Xander interrupted constantly with exaggerated corrections, and Reed sat quietly nearby, listening more than talking.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt like I actually belonged somewhere.

Then my gaze drifted toward the dark treeline beyond the firelight, and the unease crept back in.

Someone had been out there. Someone had deliberately laid a false trail, careful enough to fool a tracker who wasn’t paying close attention.

And suddenly, the wilderness didn’t feel quite as harmless as it had that morning, the dark spaces between the trees seeming to stretch a little wider, a little less friendly, than they had just hours before.