The morning after the courtyard incident, the Blackthorn Academy feels like a held breath.
The golden leaf on the surface tether has stopped glowing, but the air still smells faintly of ozone and crushed pine, a lingering reminder of the sheer, unadulterated genesis energy that briefly flooded the physical world. The integration school is closed. The pack is on high alert. Not because of an external threat—the Formless is locked away on the Moon—but because of the internal one.
My son is a biological generator. And he is terrified of his own hands.
I find Asher sitting on the edge of the central fountain in the courtyard. He is stripped to the waist, his small hands submerged in the cool water, staring at his palms. His mismatched eyes are dull, the vibrant light of the geometric lattic
