[POV Ethan]
That night, I walked back to school with my new jacket slung over my shoulder, Lizzie's words still echoing in my head.
Hope Marshall.
I don't know why, but just thinking about going up to her and asking a direct question made something tighten uncomfortably in my chest. I couldn't explain what it was.
Whatever. Tomorrow, after classes, I'm going to ask her about this imprint story. It makes no sense to overthink it tonight.
When I reached my room, I tossed the shopping bag onto the desk chair and collapsed onto the bed without even bothering to change out of my clothes. My body was exhausted, even for a half-werewolf; I had my limits.
Middle of the night—
I was standing in the middle of a forest I didn't recognize. A thick fog rolled low along the ground between the tree trunks, and the air was cold enough to cut through skin, though I couldn't feel my own breath. Everything was silent.
Then, a white wolf appeared, standing completely still between two trees, watching me. Its fur was almost luminous against the dark forest, and its eyes—pale, sharp, and far too intelligent for an animal—were locked directly onto mine. It didn't growl. It didn't move. It just stood there, staring, as if waiting for me to understand something I didn't yet have the words for.
I took a step forward. The wolf tilted its head slightly, and for an absurd second, I felt like I recognized something in that gaze. Something familiar. But I couldn't place it.
"What are you?" I asked, my own voice sounding distant, swallowed by the fog.
The wolf didn't answer. Of course it didn't. It held my gaze for just one more second before turning slowly and vanishing into the trees, leaving behind only silence and the cold.
I woke up with a start, heart hammering against my ribs, staring at the bedroom ceiling. Sunlight was already bleeding through the curtains.
"...what the hell was that," I grumbled, dragging a hand down my face.
I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to shake off that strange weight the dream had left behind. It wasn't like a normal dream—it felt almost like a premonition. Or I don't know what the hell it was.
I told myself it was nothing. Stress, probably. New school, new world, too much information overload in three days. That was all.
But a small part of me didn't really buy it.
Classes dragged on slower than usual that day. I spent werewolf training barely absorbing a word of what Ms. Lucy was saying, my head constantly drifting back to white fur and pale eyes. By the time I finally reached the witches' wing to attend their part of the classes, I had almost convinced myself to forget the whole thing.
Almost.
I sat in my usual spot next to Hope, murmured a quiet "hey," and got the same quiet "hey" in return. She didn't even look at me, focused on copying what Ms. Emilia was writing on the board. I spent the entire class rehearsing in my head how I was going to bring it up, and when the bell rang, I still didn't have a good opening line.
Whatever. I'll wing it.
Students streamed out of the classroom in noisy groups, backpacks slung over shoulders, voices overlapping in the hallway. I lingered at my desk, stalling for time, waiting for the room to clear out a bit more.
"Hope," I called out before she could leave with the rest of the class. "You got a minute? I wanted to talk to you about something."
She stopped mid-step, looking back with that same indecipherable, distrustful expression as always. For a second, something flickered behind her eyes—surprise, maybe, or something closer to alarm.
"...Sure," she said carefully. "What is it?"
"Not here. Somewhere more private," I said. "There's a spot outside I like. Won't take long."
Something in her posture went rigid.
[POV Hope]
Somewhere more private.
The words spun in my head the moment they left his mouth, and I hated how loud they suddenly sounded.
What does he want? I thought, following him out of the room at a careful distance. He isn't going to—no. No way. We've barely spoken. It's been what, three days?
And yet my mind kept racing, cycling through every ridiculous possibility, landing—infuriatingly—on the one I refused to admit even to myself.
Is he going to confess to me?
I almost laughed out loud at myself. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. I barely knew the guy. And yet, my pulse was doing something very inconvenient, speeding up with every step as I walked behind him down the hallway.
"Hope!"
I turned around at the sound of my name and saw Henry jogging to catch up with me, slightly out of breath. I blinked, caught off guard.
"Henry?" I said, genuinely confused. We weren't close. I knew his face, knew his name, had maybe exchanged a few words with him over the past year. "What's up?"
"Can I talk to you for a second? It's kind of important," he said, darting a quick glance toward Ethan, who had stopped a few paces ahead, waiting.
I hesitated, caught between curiosity and the strange urgency radiating from Ethan's silence.
"Can it wait?" I asked. "I have to take care of something first."
Henry blinked, then gave a slow nod. "Oh—yeah, sure. Later is fine."
He turned to leave, but not before looking over at Ethan.
"Hey, man. Thanks again. For yesterday," he said, giving a small nod of gratitude toward Ethan before disappearing down the hallway.
I frowned, watching him walk away.
"What was he talking about?" I asked, stepping up to walk alongside Ethan as we headed outside.
"I'll explain on the way," he said simply, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, leading the way across the courtyard.
[POV Ethan]
We walked in silence to the tree I had adopted as my usual spot—the same one where I had nearly started a forest fire two days ago. The sky was starting to darken again. Hmph... This place is really prone to rain.
I stopped beneath the tree and turned to face her. Hope stayed a few paces back, arms still crossed, observing me with that same careful, analytical look as always—like she was trying to solve a puzzle before it had even finished taking shape.
"So," she said, breaking the silence first. "What did you want to talk about?"
"First—that thing with Henry," I said, leaning my back against the trunk. "Yesterday, I ran into some vampires messing with him. Four on one, not exactly a fair fight. I stepped in."
Her eyebrows raised slightly.
"Four vampires," she repeated, a note of genuine surprise slipping into her voice. "And you're standing here without a scratch on you?"
"Healed fast," I said, giving a light shrug. "Wasn't a big deal."
"Wow," she said, tilting her head, studying me with newfound interest now. "So you must be pretty strong. Taking on four vampires at once—even fledglings—that's no small feat."
I gave a faint, dismissive smirk, scratching the back of my neck.
"It was nothing. I just... don't like seeing people get bullied. Never have." I paused, glancing toward the treeline. "Maybe it's genetic or something. Who knows."
Hope watched me for another moment, something indecipherable shifting behind her eyes—as if she were filing that information away for later, cataloging me piece by piece.
"...Genetic," she muttered almost to herself, as if the word meant something more to her than I had intended.
I raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Nothing," she answered quickly, straightening up as that protective wall slammed right back into place. "So was that what you wanted to talk about? Henry?"
No.
She crossed her arms tighter, her sharp gaze locking onto me.
"Then what is it?"
I took a deep breath. There wasn't really a graceful way to ask this, so I decided to rip the band-aid off.
"Have you ever heard of something called an 'imprint'?"
Her expression shifted instantly—not to alarm, but to genuine confusion, sincere enough to drop all that guard she had built up seconds earlier.
"Imprint?" she repeated, knitting her brows. "I've never heard that word in my life. Not in a book, not in class, not in a coven conversation. Nothing."
"Seriously?" I couldn't hide the disappointment in my voice. That was the second person to give me that answer.
"Seriously," she confirmed, still studying me intently. "Why did you think I'd know anything about it?"
I shrugged, feeling a bit awkward.
"Don't tell her this, but Lizzie said if anyone in this school knew anything about a weird topic like that, it'd be you. Said you're too smart for your own good."
An almost imperceptible flash of satisfaction crossed Hope's face before she managed to mask it.
"Well, she's not wrong," she said in a dry tone, though without her earlier hostility. She took a step closer, genuine curiosity replacing her suspicion. "But I really have never heard of it. What do you know about this 'imprint'? Tell me what you have so far."
I hesitated for a second, thinking about how to summarize it without sounding crazy.
"My mom told me. She said my dad talked to her about it a long time ago. That it was some kind of bond... that not just any werewolf feels it, that you can't force it or feel it for just anyone—only for someone destined. He told her he would live for her, that the two of them were tied by fate, that the universe had conspired for them to be together. Real soap opera stuff." I rolled my eyes just thinking about it. "My mom swears he wasn't lying. But apparently, nobody here at school has ever heard of anything like it, so I don't know what to think."
[POV Hope]
As he spoke, I felt a strange pang in my chest. Quick, sharp, almost imperceptible—but it was there.
What was that...?
I frowned internally, trying to make sense of the sensation. And then I realized: it wasn't the first time.
Three nights ago. I had felt the exact same thing—a sharp jab in my chest, as if something were trying to push its way inside and, for some reason, couldn't. It had startled me so much I thought it was an insect bite. I had pulled up my shirt right then and there in my room, looking for any mark on my skin. Nothing. No redness, no wound, no bite mark whatsoever. Just that ghost pain that vanished as quickly as it came.
That night, I had even pondered if it was the Hollow trying to manifest inside me again—it wouldn't be the first time that entity decided to remind me it was still in there, dormant, waiting. But the sensation had never returned after that night. No sign, no echo. I ended up brushing it off, attributing it to some random remnant, a dumb muscle ache.
Until now.
Why was it coming back right as he talked about this "imprint"?
[POV Ethan]
Hope froze for a moment, her eyes locked on me, something shifting behind that analytical gaze—like a puzzle piece had just snapped into place somewhere she hadn't expected.
"Your father..." she said slowly, choosing her words with a care that wasn't there seconds ago. "Who is your father, Ethan?"
My jaw clenched automatically. Tsk. I looked off to the side, my expression souring.
"His name is Clark," I answered, the word tasting bitter in my mouth. "Never met him. Not once in my life. But that doesn't stop me from hating the bastard with everything I've got."
[POV Hope]
Clark.
The name struck a chord somewhere deep inside me, but I couldn't place where. I just knew my heart had sped up, and it wasn't just because of the weird pang from a few minutes ago.
Wait. If the imprint is real... and if his father really felt it... that means Ethan could also be a wolf capable of feeling the same thing.
And what if it's me?
The thought hit me like a punch to the gut. He didn't even know—he had no idea I was a werewolf too, on top of being a witch. I had never mentioned it to him, and apparently nobody else had brought it up either. There he was, right in front of me, talking about destiny, bonds, and a father he never knew, completely unaware that all of it might be pointing straight at me.
My mind raced back to my call with Aunt Freya. "Nature might have tried to create your balance counterpart. Someone like you..." Her words echoed, along with the mention of my twin brother—the one who was never born.
No. That's impossible.
I pushed the thought away fiercely, almost physically, as if I could simply throw it out of my head.
I can't be controlled by something I don't even properly understand. I barely know Ethan. We've exchanged what, maybe ten sentences since he got here?
And besides all that, I already like someone.
Roman.
His face surfaced in my mind unbidden—his easy smile, the way he always found a silly excuse to strike up a conversation with me in the hallway. That made sense. That was real. It was my choice, not some cosmic whim decided before I was even born.
I squared my shoulders, forcing my face back into that neutral, analytical mask I knew how to wear so well.
"Clark," I repeated aloud, testing the name, trying to sound merely curious rather than like someone whose entire world had just tilted beneath her feet. "I've never heard that name before."
It was what Ethan needed to hear at that moment, but the name wasn't unfamiliar to me; I felt like I had heard it somewhere a long time ago.
[POV Ethan]
"It's fine," I said with a shrug. "If you don't know anything, that's fine too. Thanks for listening, anyway."
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and turned, ready to leave.
"Wait."
I stopped and turned back around, looking at her. "What's up?"
"I'll ask my aunt about it," Hope said, her tone growing firm and almost professional again. "If there's anyone in this world who understands this kind of stuff, it's her."
I cracked a smile, feeling a small but genuine sense of relief.
"Thanks, Hope. Seriously."
She just nodded without smiling back, and I headed back toward the main building, leaving her standing alone beneath the tree.
[POV Hope]
I stood there, watching his back recede until he disappeared into the school hallways.
This can't be a coincidence.
I crossed my arms tightly, my mind running faster than I could process.
If something like this existed in this world—a bond, an imprint, whatever it was—I would know about it. I know everything about werewolves. I grew up hearing every story, every legend, every rule from my father, my mother, my aunt's spellbooks. How could something like this exist without me ever hearing a whisper of it?
And there was something else.
If anyone in the world could give me those answers... it was his father. Clark.
Where was he now? Was he even still alive?
The thought kept spinning, heavy and persistent, as I continued to process everything he had told me. I needed to know everything there was to know about this Clark.