NOTE: don't forget to join my Patreon.com/Argonaut007 to get access up to 10+ Advance chapters.
------
(AN: Thank you for the power stone, this is the 5 extra chapters for today)
The road back to the forest stretched long and narrow, a thin ribbon of cracked asphalt cutting through the quiet outskirts of Beacon Hills. It looked almost forgotten, like a path that had once mattered but was now only used by those who had no other reason to pass through.
Morning light filtered through scattered clouds, pale and distant, casting long, stretched shadows across the ground. The sunlight lacked warmth, as if the world itself hadn't fully recovered from the events of the previous night. On either side of the road, tall grass swayed gently in the breeze, brushing against itself with a soft, whispering sound that almost resembled hushed voices sharing secrets no one else was meant to hear.
Beyond that—
The forest.
It loomed ahead like a silent sentinel.
Dense.
Ancient.
Unforgiving.
Towering oaks and evergreens rose high into the sky, their branches weaving together into a thick canopy that blocked out most of the light. The deeper sections were darker, shadowed, untouched by the morning sun—as if the woods themselves were alive, guarding something old… something watchful… something that did not welcome intruders lightly.
Arthur Corvinus walked beside Alan Deaton, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. His posture was relaxed—almost deceptively so—but his eyes betrayed him. They moved constantly, scanning their surroundings, taking in every detail, every shift in movement, every unnatural silence.
He looked like someone trying to appear casual.
But he wasn't.
Not really.
Deaton, in contrast, moved with quiet purpose.
There was no wasted motion in his steps. No hesitation. No unnecessary awareness outwardly displayed. He walked like someone who already understood the world around him—and knew exactly where he was going within it.
In one hand, he carried a worn leather satchel. Time had left its mark on it; the edges were frayed, the surface softened by years of use. With every step, faint metallic clinks echoed from within—subtle, controlled, but unmistakable.
Inside were tools.
Important ones.
Glass vials filled with crushed herbs shifted gently against one another. Bundles of dried plants tied neatly with twine released faint, earthy scents into the air. A small mortar and pestle, wrapped carefully in cloth, knocked softly against the inner lining.
And something else.
Something heavier.
Wrapped tighter.
Protected more carefully than the rest.
Arthur had noticed it earlier.
He just hadn't asked.
Yet.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Only the rhythm of their footsteps filled the space between them.
The quiet rustle of leaves.
The distant cawing of crows somewhere far off.
Then—
"So," Deaton said at last, his voice calm but cutting cleanly through the silence, "what's the tale?"
Arthur glanced at him, one brow lifting slightly in mild amusement.
"I told you," he replied lightly, "I'm just a human child."
Deaton didn't even turn his head.
"Yet you live among werewolves."
Arthur exhaled slowly, dragging the tip of his shoe against the asphalt as if buying himself time to decide how much to say.
"Yeah…" he admitted. "That part needs a bit more explanation."
They continued walking, the forest drawing closer with each step. The shadows seemed to stretch outward, as though reaching for them.
Arthur kicked a small stone forward, watching it bounce unevenly along the road.
"The Hale family wasn't just a pack," he began. "They were… something more."
Deaton's gaze shifted slightly toward him.
"More?"
Arthur nodded.
"They took people in," he said. "Kids, mostly. Orphans. Strays. The ones nobody else wanted or couldn't protect."
He shrugged casually.
"Some of them were human. Some of them weren't."
His lips curved faintly.
"The Hale house was kind of like a refuge. Not perfect… but safe."
Deaton nodded slowly.
"That sounds like Talia," he said.
Arthur's faint smile lingered.
"Yeah," he replied. "That's her."
There was a brief silence before Deaton spoke again.
"And your parents?"
Arthur didn't answer immediately.
His gaze stayed forward, fixed on the path ahead as if the question hadn't quite reached him yet.
Then, eventually—
He shrugged.
"Dead," he said simply. "Long time ago."
Deaton studied him now—not just listening, but observing carefully.
"You don't sound affected," he noted.
Arthur let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
"Oh, I was devastated," he said dryly. "Cried for weeks. Very dramatic. Honestly, award-worthy performance."
Deaton stopped walking.
Arthur took a few more steps before noticing and turning back.
"…What?" he asked.
Deaton's eyes were sharp.
"You deflect with humor," he said. "Often when the truth is near."
Arthur tilted his head, a faint grin forming again.
"Or maybe I just have a great personality," he replied.
Silence.
Then Deaton resumed walking.
Arthur followed.
After a few more steps, Deaton spoke again.
"And before the Hales found you?"
Arthur stretched his arms behind his head, walking backward for a few steps before turning around again.
"Oh, you know," he said casually. "The usual. Wandering the streets. Fighting crime. Occasionally stealing bread like a tragic novel protagonist."
Deaton's tone remained even.
"You were surviving."
Arthur's grin stayed, but something behind his eyes shifted—subtle, but real.
"Something like that," he admitted.
By now, the forest stood directly before them.
The transition was immediate.
The air changed the moment they stepped closer.
Cooler.
Heavier.
Damp with the scent of earth, moss, and something older that lingered beneath the surface.
Arthur's gaze drifted toward Deaton's satchel again.
"So," he said, nodding toward it, "what's in the magic bag?"
Deaton didn't look down.
"Tools," he replied.
Arthur snorted softly.
"Very descriptive."
"Medicinal herbs," Deaton clarified. "Mountain ash. Prepared tinctures."
Arthur leaned slightly closer, curiosity getting the better of him.
"And the heavy one?"
Deaton paused.
Just for a fraction of a second.
But Arthur noticed.
"Something I hope I will not need," Deaton said.
Arthur's grin widened.
"Oh, now that sounds promising."
Deaton stopped walking again.
Arthur nearly walked into him this time.
"If Talia Hale's condition worsens," Deaton said quietly, "there may be difficult decisions to make."
Arthur's smile faded, just slightly.
"Yeah," he said. "Let's… not go down that route."
Deaton watched him carefully.
"You care for her."
Arthur scoffed lightly.
"She fed me, gave me a place to stay, didn't let me die," he said. "Basic hospitality, really."
Deaton didn't respond.
Arthur looked away first.
They stepped fully into the forest.
And the world shifted.
The ground softened beneath their feet, layered with fallen leaves that muffled their footsteps. The trees towered above them, their trunks thick and roots twisting through the earth like veins. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the dense canopy, breaking through only in thin, scattered beams that barely reached the forest floor.
The deeper they walked, the quieter everything became.
No wind.
No birds.
Just the steady rhythm of their movement.
Deaton spoke again.
"You said you are human."
Arthur nodded.
"Last time I checked."
"And yet," Deaton continued, "you move like something else."
Arthur smirked faintly.
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You observe like a predator."
"Or a very attentive tourist."
"You do not smell entirely human."
Arthur's steps slowed.
Just slightly.
Then resumed.
"Maybe I forgot to shower," he said casually.
Deaton's voice hardened just a fraction.
"And your eyes."
Arthur glanced at him.
"What about them?"
"They change."
Silence followed.
A long one.
Then Arthur chuckled softly.
"Lighting," he said. "Very tricky thing. You'd be surprised."
Deaton stopped walking again.
This time, Arthur didn't pretend not to notice.
They stood there, surrounded by towering trees and creeping shadows.
"You are hiding something," Deaton said.
Arthur met his gaze.
"Everyone is," he replied.
"That is not an answer."
Arthur's smile softened.
"Then maybe you're asking the wrong questions."
Deaton held his gaze for a moment longer.
Then—
He nodded.
Not in agreement.
But in acknowledgment.
"Very well," he said.
Arthur let out a quiet breath, his shoulders relaxing just a little.
They continued walking.
The scent reached them first.
Faint.
Lingering.
Unmistakable.
Smoke.
Burned wood.
Burned memories.
Arthur's expression shifted immediately.
The humor was gone.
The deflection.
The sarcasm.
All of it faded.
What remained was something quieter.
He lifted his hand and pointed ahead.
"We're close," he said.
Through the trees, the remains of the Hale territory began to appear—darkened soil, broken structures, and the hollow remains of what had once been a home filled with life.
Deaton adjusted the strap of his satchel, his expression hardening with quiet resolve.
"Then," he said, "let us return to your pack."