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(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.
Morning light filtered through scattered clouds, pale and cold, casting long shadows across the ground. On either side of the road, tall grass bent gently in the breeze, whispering against itself like hushed voices trading secrets.
Beyond that—trees.
The forest loomed ahead, dense and ancient. Oaks and pines rose high, their branches tangled together like a living ceiling. The deeper parts were darker, untouched by sunlight, as if the woods themselves were guarding something old… something watchful.
Arthur Corvinus walked beside Alan Deaton, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. His steps were relaxed—too relaxed, almost—but his eyes moved constantly, scanning, thinking, calculating.
Deaton, on the other hand, walked with quiet purpose.
In one hand, he carried a worn leather satchel, its edges frayed with age. Inside, faint metallic clinks could be heard with each step—carefully stored instruments shifting against one another. Glass vials filled with crushed herbs. Bundles of dried plants tied with twine. A small mortar and pestle wrapped in cloth. And something else—something heavier, wrapped tighter, protected.
Arthur had noticed it earlier.
He just hadn't asked.
Yet.
For a long while, neither of them spoke.
Only the sound of footsteps.
Wind through leaves.
Distant crows.
Then—
"So," Deaton said at last, voice calm but cutting through the silence with precision, "what's the tale?"
Arthur glanced at him, one brow slightly raised.
"I told you," he said lightly, "I'm just a human child."
Deaton didn't even look at him.
"Yet you live among werewolves."
Arthur let out a quiet sigh, dragging his shoe against the road as if buying time.
"Yeah…" he muttered. "That part needs some explanation."
They walked a few more steps. The forest seemed closer now, its shadows stretching toward them like reaching hands.
Arthur kicked a small stone forward, watching it bounce.
"The Hale family didn't just live as a pack," he began. "They also took people in."
Deaton's gaze shifted slightly.
"People?"
"Kids," Arthur clarified. "Mostly orphans. Some human. Some werewolf."
He shrugged, casual.
"The Hale house was kind of like… a refuge."
Deaton nodded slowly.
"That sounds like Talia."
Arthur smiled faintly.
"Yeah. That's her."
There was a brief silence before Deaton spoke again.
"And your parents?"
Arthur didn't answer immediately.
He watched the road.
Watched the trees.
Then shrugged again.
"Dead," he said simply. "Long time ago."
Deaton studied him now—not just listening, but observing.
"You don't sound affected."
Arthur let out a small laugh.
"Oh, I was devastated," he said dryly. "Cried for weeks. Very dramatic. Ten out of ten performance."
Deaton stopped walking.
Arthur took two more steps before realizing and turning back.
"…What?"
Deaton's eyes were sharp now.
"You deflect with humor," he said. "Often when truth is near."
Arthur tilted his head, grinning slightly.
"Or maybe I just have a great personality."
Silence.
Then Deaton resumed walking.
Arthur followed.
After a moment, Deaton spoke again.
"And before the Hales found you?"
Arthur stretched his arms behind his head, walking backward for a few steps before turning forward again.
"Oh, you know," he said casually. "The usual. Wandering the streets. Fighting crime. Occasionally stealing bread like a tragic novel protagonist."
Deaton's voice remained even.
"You were surviving."
Arthur's grin didn't fade, but something behind his eyes shifted—just slightly.
"Something like that."
The forest edge was close now.
The air changed.
Cooler.
Damp.
The scent of earth and moss replacing the dry openness of the road.
Arthur glanced at Deaton's satchel.
"So," he said, nodding toward it, "what's in the magic bag?"
Deaton didn't look down.
"Tools."
"Very descriptive."
"Medicinal herbs. Mountain ash. Prepared tinctures."
Arthur leaned slightly closer, curious.
"And the heavy one?"
Deaton paused.
For a fraction of a second.
Then—
"Something I hope I will not need."
Arthur's grin widened.
"Oh, now that sounds fun."
Deaton stopped again.
Arthur almost walked into him this time.
"If Talia Hale's condition worsens," Deaton said quietly, "there may be difficult choices to make."
Arthur's smile faded just a little.
"Yeah," he said. "Let's… not do that."
Deaton watched him carefully.
"You care for her."
Arthur scoffed lightly.
"She fed me. Didn't let me die. Basic hospitality, really."
Deaton said nothing.
Arthur looked away first.
They stepped off the road and into the forest.
Immediately, the world changed.
The ground softened beneath their feet, covered in layers of fallen leaves. The trees rose taller here, their trunks thick and roots twisting like veins through the earth. Sunlight struggled to break through the dense canopy, scattering in thin, pale beams.
The deeper they walked, the quieter it became.
No wind.
No birds.
Just them.
Deaton spoke again.
"You said you are human."
Arthur nodded.
"Last I checked."
"And yet," Deaton continued, "you move like something else."
Arthur smirked.
"Flattered."
"You observe like a predator."
"Or a very attentive tourist."
"You do not smell entirely human."
Arthur stopped walking.
Just for a second.
Then continued.
"Maybe I forgot to shower."
Deaton's voice hardened slightly.
"And your eyes."
Arthur glanced at him.
"What about them?"
"They change."
Silence.
A long one.
Then Arthur chuckled.
"Lighting," he said. "Very tricky thing. You'd be surprised."
Deaton stopped again.
This time, Arthur didn't pretend not to notice.
They stood there, surrounded by towering trees, shadows stretching long around them.
"You are hiding something," Deaton said.
Arthur met his gaze.
"Everyone is."
"That is not an answer."
Arthur smiled again—but softer now.
"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's shoulders relaxed slightly.
They continued walking.
The scent hit them before the sight did.
Smoke.
Faint.
Lingering.
Burned wood.
Burned memories.
Arthur's expression shifted.
No jokes this time.
No deflection.
Just quiet.
He pointed ahead.
"We're close."
Through the trees, the remains of the Hale territory began to emerge—darkened earth, broken structures, the ghost of what once stood strong.
Deaton adjusted the strap of his satchel.
"Then let us return to your pack."