Chapter 2 — The Brooding Professor
Derek
The lecture hall was cavernous, its high ceilings and arched windows casting jagged, shifting shadows in the golden light of the autumn morning. A faint hum of voices filled the space, underscored by the rustling of papers and the occasional scrape of chair legs. Derek Veiler stood at the head of the room, his tall, imposing figure framed by the worn chalkboard behind him. The dark fabric of his buttoned-up shirt absorbed the light, rendering him a sharp silhouette in the subdued glow of the room. His silver-gray eyes swept across the assembling students, his expression calm, his hands clasped behind his back in a stance of deliberate control.
He had perfected this role over countless years: the enigmatic professor, untouchable and inscrutable. Yet this morning, a subtle tension thrummed beneath his practiced exterior, an unease that set his heightened senses on edge. It wasn’t the usual background noise of student chatter or the faint draft stirring the air. It was something closer—something sharper.
The door creaked open, the sound slicing through the quiet like a blade. Instinctively, his gaze snapped toward it. Hendrix Dalton entered the room, her auburn hair catching the light, casting fleeting copper glints in the luminous streaks spilling through the windows. Her movements were hurried but purposeful, her head ducked low as she slid into a seat in the middle row. Derek’s jaw tightened imperceptibly as his gaze followed her.
She was late. Again.
It wasn’t the lateness that unsettled him. No, it was her presence—a ripple in the room’s energy that drew his focus against his will. There was something about her, something unnameable yet undeniable, that gnawed at his instincts. He hadn’t wanted to notice her so often, but she occupied corners of his thoughts, subtle and persistent, like a melody carried on the wind.
Hendrix fumbled with her notebook, her movements sharp with a nervous energy, as though she could feel the weight of his attention. Derek forced his gaze away, returning it to the room at large. His voice cut through the murmurs with quiet authority.
“Settle down,” he said, the deep timbre of his voice carrying effortlessly. The scattered conversations faded into silence, leaving only the faint creak of chairs as the students shifted in their seats.
He stepped toward the chalkboard, picking up a piece of chalk. The smooth weight of it grounded him as he scrawled a single word in precise, tilted letters: “Myths.”
“Today,” he began, his tone cool and deliberate, “we’re discussing the intersection of folklore and history. Myths are more than fanciful stories—they are the echoes of the fears, desires, and beliefs of those who created them. They have a way of revealing truths that history tends to obscure.”
He let his gaze sweep the room, his silver eyes pausing briefly on Hendrix. Her hazel eyes were fixed on him, bright but shadowed, her fingers tapping the edge of her desk in a restless rhythm. Derek felt a flicker of unease—not just the awareness of her gaze, but a deeper instinct, sharp and primal.
“The myths of this region,” he continued, pacing slowly, “are particularly fascinating. Wolves that walk as men. Cursed bloodlines. Transformations beneath the light of the moon. These stories have persisted for centuries, surviving the erosion of time and skepticism.”
A hand shot up near the front row—a boy with wiry glasses and a nervous grin. Derek gave a slight nod, prompting him to speak.
“Isn’t it just because people like to scare themselves?” the boy asked, glancing around for validation.
A faint smile pulled at the corner of Derek’s mouth, an expression devoid of warmth but not entirely unkind. “Fear is a powerful force,” he replied, his tone measured. “But fear alone doesn’t explain why these stories endure—why they’re passed down, even when their origins are long forgotten.”
He turned back to the chalkboard, sketching a crescent moon in swift, deliberate strokes. The rasp of chalk against the board echoed faintly, sharp against the stillness.
“Consider this,” he said, his voice dipping lower, commanding attention. “What if these myths aren’t entirely fabricated? What if they’re rooted in something real—something we’ve forgotten or refused to understand?”
The atmosphere in the room shifted, the air growing heavy with tension. Students exchanged wary glances, their unease palpable, but Derek’s gaze remained fixed on Hendrix. She had gone still, her fingers frozen on the desk, her posture rigid. A faint crease marred her brow, and her gaze darted briefly toward the window. Beyond the glass, the dark line of Moonveil Forest loomed, its ancient trees swaying gently in the autumn breeze.
He shouldn’t push further—not with her sitting there, not with her already uneasy reaction. But he couldn’t stop himself. The lecture wasn’t just for his students; it was for him, a way to test the boundaries of what he suspected, to see how much truth he could speak without breaking the fragile balance he’d constructed.
“Take Moonveil Forest, for example,” he said, his voice dipping into a quieter, more dangerous register. “Legends claim it’s a place where the veil between worlds thins. Under the full moon, it’s said to become a gathering place for creatures that defy explanation—wolves whose howls carry secrets meant to stay hidden.”
A ripple of discomfort passed through the students. Derek let the silence stretch, his words lingering in the air like smoke. His gaze flicked back to Hendrix. Her breathing had quickened, her shoulders tense as though bracing against an invisible weight.
“Of course,” he said, his tone shifting to something lighter, edged with faint irony, “these are only stories. And like all good stories, they’re meant to keep people out of places they don’t belong.”
A few nervous chuckles broke the tension, but Derek didn’t join them. He turned back to the chalkboard, erasing the crescent moon with quick, controlled movements. The rest of the lecture unfolded in a blur of slides and notes. His voice remained steady, his focus seemingly on the material, but the undercurrent of unease persisted, sharpening his awareness of every shift in the room’s energy.
As the students packed up their belongings, Derek caught movement at the edge of his vision. Hendrix lingered near the door, her bag slung over one shoulder, her expression guarded but curious. She hesitated, as though debating whether to speak.
“Miss Dalton,” Derek said, his voice carrying across the room like a quiet summons. She froze, her tension visible in the slight tightening of her shoulders before she turned to face him.
“Yes?” she asked, her tone cautious but steady.
He studied her for a long moment, his silver-gray eyes tracing the lines of exhaustion etched into her features. Up close, he could sense it more keenly—the faint, electric pull that seemed to hum in her presence, an undeniable thread connecting them.
“Do try to be on time,” he said finally, his tone neutral but softening at the edges. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “And stay out of the forest.”
Her brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said, his voice lowering, the weight of the warning unmistakable. “The forest isn’t safe. Take my advice and avoid it.”
Her lips parted, as though she wanted to argue, but she hesitated. A mix of curiosity and defiance flashed in her hazel eyes. “Right. Thanks for the… advice,” she said, her voice tinged with skepticism.
She turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her. Derek exhaled slowly, his shoulders easing as silence reclaimed the room. He moved to the window, resting his hands on the cold sill as he stared out at the sprawling campus. Beyond the neatly trimmed lawns and winding paths, the shadowed expanse of Moonveil Forest loomed, its presence heavy and unrelenting.
From deep within the forest, a faint, mournful howl rose, carried on the wind. The sound sent a shiver down his spine, the memory of Wheeler’s bloodstone ring pressing against his mind like a fresh wound. He clenched his jaw, his thoughts turning to Ryk and the trail of destruction he left in his wake.
Hendrix was connected to this—of that much, Derek was certain. But how, and why, remained a mystery. One he could no longer ignore.
