The morning sun casts long, golden shadows across the newly paved cobblestones of the integration school courtyard. The air smells of fresh-cut timber, blooming jasmine, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone from the physical training grounds. It is a peaceful morning, a rare commodity in the life of the Blackthorn Pack.
But peace is a luxury, and luxuries are easily broken.
I stand on the balcony of the Administration Wing, a mug of hot tea warming my heavily bandaged hands. The nerve damage from the Mariana Trench frostbite still flares with a dull, rhythmic ache in the cold morning air, but I ignore it. My focus is entirely on the boy sitting beneath the newly planted oak tree.
Asher is twelve years old, but today, he looks fifty.
He is stripped to the waist, his skin slick with a t
