The Wendigo's Appearance.

In an universe where all creatures live, Xenos Academy doors are open wide.

Okay, fine. Another semester, another round of this B.S. I fiddled with the black stud in my ear, trying not to look like I cared (which, spoiler, I didn't). Smiling was for suckers, or people who actually wanted to be here.

"Vexan Altharis." My voice carried, though I didn't even try. Half the ancient profs in the hall probably knew my family's name before I did. "My grandpa signed the charter in, like, actual blood. So can we skip the history lesson?" I flicked a blonde strand out of my eyes. Seriously, the preamble to this place was always a drag.

Outside, Xenos Academy's gates were doing their usual "creepy old castle" thing, iron spikes like claws. Whatever. The crowds of half-breeds and wannabe demons parted for me without a single word, which was nice. My boots clicked on the cobblestones, deliberately slow. Someone whispered "Altharis" behind me. Good. Let them remember.

My dad was some old war-beast from the frozen north, all muscle and teeth. The other half of me? Yeah, the school’s archivists still got twitchy looking at that side of the family ledger. My tail, blonde like my hair, gave a lazy twitch. My "civilized" form, with the ears perched high on my head and that damn tail, was already enough of a hassle. And then there was the other part, the one from my mom's side, that made the air itself feel a little nervous when I was properly pissed. It wasn't claws or fangs, just... everything around me got sharper.

I let out a low growl, just because I could, passing a huddle of fae kids. Their wings twitched. None of them met my eyes. Perfect. Now, the new transfer was supposed to be showing up—some Wendigo freak from the eastern tribes. Probably never seen a paved road in its life. My lip curled. The Academy was already scraping the bottom of the barrel with forest-dwellers, but a Wendigo? Seriously? This was a joke.

Then the air just dropped. Not, like, metaphorically. It literally got ten degrees colder in a second. My next breath plumed out like it was January. A faint clink of chains echoed from the main gate, slow and deliberate. Heads turned. Conversations died. Even the weird hum of the academy's stupid barrier spells hiccuped.

The Wendigo was just there, at the gates, like it materialized. A deer skull mask, antlers curving out, tilting slightly like it was sizing up the architecture – or maybe everybody in sight. I'd heard stories: super tall, messed up, dead eyes. But this one was almost human-shaped, aside from the mask and the fact that its chest wasn’t moving. No breath. No pulse. Just a faint creak of leather and bone as it took a step forward, leaving frost-cracked cobblestones in its wake.

My tail went stiff. This wasn't some feral beast. This was... old. Something that had learned patience. Its gloved fingers brushed the silver chains on its jeans, and the sound was like bones snapping. A few students actually flinched back, their instincts screaming louder than their pride.

Then it stopped. The mask turned, and even though I couldn't see eyes, I felt the weight of its stare like a knife at my throat. My own gold-brown eyes flickered, hints of red. Not anger, just... recognition. Predator to predator. It tilted its head again, and for a heartbeat, the air smelled like iron and old snow.

Someone’s knee hit the ground. Panic. I ignored them. Instead, I bared my teeth, letting a little shadow warp around me. "Welcome to hell," I murmured, just loud enough for it to hear.

Nothing. No twitch. No sound. Just the slow, deliberate tap of one boot against stone, like it was mapping out the weak points. The silence was way worse than any snarl. My pulse kicked up, not from fear, but some weird jolt of actual interest. This wasn't some cowering prey. This was something that had just walked out of the darkness and didn't give a damn.

Then, without warning, it moved—not toward me, but past me, close enough that I caught the scent of frostbitten dirt and something metallic from under that deer-mask. Its hand brushed the iron gate, and the metal frosted over, tendrils of ice shooting out. Some first-year demon shrieked, snatching her hand back; frostbite blossomed where she’d touched the same gate moments before. Drama queen.

My tail lashed once, hard. I didn’t step back. Instead, I just pivoted, tracking the Wendigo as it walked—no, glided—toward the main hall, its footsteps weirdly silent despite the chains. The crowd parted like a tidal wave, students flattening themselves against walls. Only when it reached the steps did it pause, mask tilting up to the stupid gargoyle above the entrance. For a second, nothing. Then the gargoyle's stone wings actually shuddered, dust shaking loose as it turned its head to stare back. What the hell?

The headmaster, a vampire so old his robes probably had cobwebs from the 1700s, materialized in the doorway, all teeth and fake smiles. "Ah. Our eastern guest," he purred, his voice slithering. "We’ve made… arrangements."

My ears flattened. The Wendigo didn’t even twitch. But the air between them tightened, something sharper than hostility. Recognition. This wasn't just another student. This was a walking disaster wearing a deer’s skull. And for the first time in years, my fingers curled into actual claws, not in anger, but in something dangerously close to… respect.

I didn't stick around for the headmaster's grandstanding. Turning on my heel, I headed for the dorms, my footsteps echoing louder than necessary—a petty "screw you" to the Wendigo's unnatural silence. The clerk at the housing desk, some terrified pixie with too many piercings, barely peeked up from her ledger before sliding a key across the counter. “Altharis. Room 13B.” Her voice trembled. “Your… roommate has already been assigned.”

I snatched the key, the metal biting into my palm. 13B. End of the hall—far enough from the idiot common areas, close enough to the stairwell to bail if needed. I jammed the key in, shoulder-checked the door open. The smell hit me first: frostbitten pine and something darker, like wet earth right after snowmelt.

The dorm wasn't empty. The Wendigo stood in the living area, its gloved fingers trailing over a random book on the coffee table. Ice crystals bloomed where it touched the leather. The deer skull mask tilted towards me—slow, deliberate. No greeting. No flinch. Just the creak of antlers as it studied me like I was something under a microscope.

My lip curled. The room was pristine, untouched. Except for the thin layer of frost creeping up the furniture legs. I tossed my key onto the kitchen counter, the metal skidding to a stop just shy of the frost line. "If you melt on the carpet, you're cleaning it," I said, kicking the door shut behind me. Nothing. Its silence was a living thing, thick enough to choke on.

The kitchen faucet dripped once—then froze mid-air, a perfectly formed icicle dangling. My golden eyes darted to it. I exhaled slowly. I walked past the Wendigo—close enough to feel the unnatural chill radiating off it—and yanked open the fridge. Empty, naturally. Except for a single blood bag with my name scrawled on it. Classic. I smirked. At least the staff remembered my mother's side. The Wendigo’s mask tilted towards the fridge, and for a heartbeat, the frost on the carpet actually retreated a few inches, like it recoiled.

The hallway to the bedrooms was narrow, lined with portraits of old alumni—all frozen mid-scream now, their painted eyes tracking the Wendigo as it passed. I shouldered open my door, sparing a glance at the other bedroom door, already rimed with jagged ice patterns. My own space was untouched: black silk sheets, an obsidian desk, and a window overlooking the academy's blood-red moat. I tossed my hoodie onto the bed, the fabric giving a faint hiss as it brushed against the wards stitched into the mattress. Just another everyday Tuesday at Xenos.

In the living room, the Wendigo knelt by the fireplace, one gloved hand hovering over the ashes. The frost spreading from its fingertips slowed, then stilled, like it was listening to something in the soot. I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "If you're hunting for rats, try the east wing. Third-years taste better." The mask didn’t turn, but the chains on its jeans rattled once, a sound like bones settling.

This was going to be a long semester.