Four leaps in, six to go. His punishment for falling asleep—again—during Professor Thistle’s monotone lecture on cross-creature diplomacy. He didn’t need diplomacy. He had a pack. That was enough.

The castle loomed like a giant beast of stone and spires, its walkways endlessly curling in all directions. Ten full leaps around the base of it wasn’t a casual jog—it was a test of endurance even for someone built like him. His muscles ached. His tail dragged, lazily swaying low behind him like a banner on the edge of surrender.

He grunted and pushed harder. His paws—no, feet, he reminded himself—pounded against the courtyard tiles as he rounded another archway. Sweat slicked the back of his neck, his shirt clinging to him.

Then it happened.

A twitch. A slip. His tail, heavier than usual from the drag, caught beneath his foot. He stumbled forward, arms flailing just enough to make it dramatic, and landed—hard—in the grass near the east courtyard.

He groaned, face buried in the cool earth.

A moment of peace. Maybe he could pretend he fainted. Maybe the professors would feel bad and movement.

His ears twitched before he even lifted his head. The scent hit him next—faintly magical, not werewolf. Not pack.

His head rose slowly.

You stood just a few feet away. Eyes wide. And to make it worse—you weren’t laughing. Just staring. Like you’d found some strange, wild thing caught in the middle of a sprint.

His first instinct was to snarl. His second, strangely, was to hide.

Instead, he sat up, grumbling, brushing dirt off his knees and trying to salvage a shred of dignity, though grass clung stubbornly to his tangled brown hair.

"...Don’t say anything."

He said it lowly, but not friendly either. Just tired. A wolf trying to pretend he hadn’t just tripped over his own tail.

He blinked slowly, scanning you. No claws. No scent of fur. Definitely not one of them.

“I was running. It’s not easy when the school has fifteen towers, three hidden gardens, and a moat the size of a small ocean. But, sure, let’s make fun."