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Chapter Text

Beacon Hills at night had a way of turning even the most mundane errands into something straight out of a horror movie. Stiles Stilinski muttered curses under his breath, flashlight in hand, as he picked his way through the overgrown ruins of the Hale house. The pack had long since abandoned it, but tonight, Lydia had insisted on one of her “feelings.”

And who got volunteered to check it out? The human. Well, mostly human. Now with bonus magical powers.

“Because, sure, send the guy with barely any training into the creepy murder house,” Stiles grumbled. “Perfect plan. Great leadership, Scott.”

The flashlight flickered. “Oh, come on. Seriously?” He smacked it against his palm until the beam steadied. The air around him felt heavier the farther he ventured, like the house itself was holding its breath. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say—

The floor groaned ominously.

“Okay, you don’t have to prove you’re haunted,” Stiles said, stepping carefully over a rotting floorboard. His flashlight caught a glint of something metallic buried in debris. Curious, he crouched down, brushing away dirt and cobwebs to reveal what looked like an old, iron-bound chest.

“Well, hello, mysterious plot device,” he said, tugging it free. The chest was surprisingly light despite its size, and when he opened it, he found…a book.

A big, ancient, leather-bound book, covered in dust and etched with intricate symbols that practically screamed magical danger—open me immediately.

Naturally, Stiles opened it immediately.

The moment his fingers brushed the pages, the air around him shifted. A low, ominous hum filled the space, growing louder until it became a deafening roar. Wind whipped through the ruins, scattering debris, and Stiles scrambled backward as the book began to glow with an eerie green light.

“Okay, nope. Nope, nope, nope—this is not how I die!”

Before he could slam the book shut, the glow surged outward in a blinding flash. When the light faded, Stiles found himself face-to-face with a very large, very angry-looking black wolf.

“Holy sh—”

The wolf growled, its yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. Then, just as suddenly, it shifted, bones snapping and reshaping into something far worse: Derek Hale in all his broody, shirtless, alpha glory.

“What the hell did you do?” Derek demanded, his voice low and furious. His eyes scanned the room, nostrils flaring.

“I—uh—” Stiles held up his hands, the book dangling precariously from one of them. “In my defense, I didn’t mean to summon you. If you think about it, this is your fault for leaving cursed stuff lying around.”

Derek took a menacing step closer. “That book isn’t cursed. It’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be touching it.”

“Well, too late for that!” Stiles shot back, waving the book like a shield. “Maybe slap a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sticker on your supernatural murder paraphernalia next time.”

Derek snatched the book from his hands with a growl, but before he could say anything else, the ground beneath them rumbled. A faint green glow pulsed from the book’s pages, spreading outward in jagged cracks across the floor.

“What the hell is that?” Stiles asked, taking a cautious step back.

Derek didn’t answer. His jaw tightened as he knelt to touch one of the glowing cracks, his expression darkening. “You activated something.”

“Well, obviously!” Stiles threw up his hands. “That’s my whole thing—activating bad stuff and dealing with the consequences later. What are we dealing with? Ghosts? Demons? Spooky skeletons?”

Derek shot him a withering glare. “This isn’t a joke, Stiles. That book belonged to a very powerful witch.”

“Fantastic,” Stiles muttered. “Tell me it’s the friendly, Hogwarts kind of witch and not the eat-your-soul kind.”

Before Derek could answer, the glowing cracks erupted, sending shockwaves through the ruins. Stiles barely had time to throw up a shield spell—a simple one he’d practiced on YouTube—as debris rained down around them.

When the dust settled, Derek was standing closer, his body half-shielding Stiles. His eyes were still glowing, his teeth bared in a snarl.

“You’re coming with me,” Derek said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

“Wait, what?”

“You just activated ancient magic in my territory,” Derek snapped. “You’re not leaving until we figure out how to stop it.”

Stiles groaned. “Great. Trapped with Mr. Sunshine himself. Can’t wait.”

As Derek dragged him out of the ruins, Stiles couldn’t help but glance back at the book, now lying eerily still on the ground. Whatever he’d activated, he had a feeling it was only the beginning.

And of course, it was his problem now.

Chapter Text

Stiles was pacing in Derek’s loft, venting his frustration to no one in particular. Derek, for his part, was completely ignoring him, seated at the small kitchen table and flipping through what looked like an old notebook.

“I mean, you’d think the guy who owns an entire loft would at least have Wi-Fi,” Stiles muttered, gesturing at his phone like it was Derek’s fault. “How am I supposed to do anything without a signal? Do you even know what century it is? Or are you too busy perfecting your growling?”

“Stop talking,” Derek said flatly, not even glancing up.

“Not likely,” Stiles shot back. “Besides, I wouldn’t have to talk so much if someone would actually help me figure out how to use magic instead of just glaring at me every time I sneeze near a supernatural object.”

Derek finally looked up, his expression sharp. “Magic is dangerous, Stiles. You don’t control it—it controls you.”

“Wow, thanks for the motivational speech,” Stiles said, throwing his hands up. “What’s next, ‘With great power comes great responsibility?’”

Derek didn’t answer, returning to his notebook as if the conversation was over.

Stiles plopped down on the couch with a dramatic sigh, pulling out his phone. No Wi-Fi meant no TikTok witches, but luckily, he’d already downloaded a few beginner spell videos for “emergencies.” If Derek wasn’t going to help him, he’d just help himself.

Stiles started with the simplest spell he could find: a charm to fix Scott’s shredded lacrosse jersey. He followed the steps meticulously—okay, mostly meticulously—repeating the incantation from the video and waving his hand over the fabric. For a second, it looked like it had worked. The tear sealed itself with glowing threads.

Then the jersey kept transforming. The sleeves unraveled, reweaving themselves into a strange, multicolored scarf.

“Well, that’s...unexpected,” Stiles muttered, holding up the scarf.

Next, he tried a stamina spell. According to the YouTube video, it would “enhance physical endurance and strength.” The pack could use that, right? He gathered the recommended ingredients, said the words confidently, and waited.

Scott burst through the loft door mid-spell, panting after pack training. “Hey, dude—oh, no. What are you doing?”

“Relax,” Stiles said. “I’ve got this!”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Scott’s arms began glowing faintly gold.

“See? Totally fine,” Stiles said.

Then soft fur sprouted from Scott’s forearms.

Scott stared in horror. “DUDE!”

“Okay, so, not totally fine,” Stiles admitted, trying to suppress a laugh.

Scott flailed his now-furry arms, glaring. “Fix it! I look like a werewolf crossed with a golden retriever!”

Stiles was too busy laughing to answer.

The situation escalated when Lydia stormed in, holding a compact mirror in one hand. Her lips sparkled with glitter that looked suspiciously magical.

“Stiles,” Lydia said icily.

“Yes?”

“Why does my lipstick explode when I try to reapply it?”

“Define ‘explode,’” Stiles said, already wincing.

Lydia snapped the mirror shut with a click. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. Fix it.”

“Working on it!” Stiles said, holding up his hands defensively.

Before he could even begin to figure out how to fix anything, Derek returned.

Derek froze in the doorway, taking in the disaster zone that used to be his loft. The couch was covered in glitter, Scott was scratching his furry arms, and Lydia was glaring at Stiles with barely restrained murder in her eyes.

“What the hell happened here?” Derek asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Stiles tried for an innocent grin. “Magic practice?”

Derek’s eyes narrowed as he dropped the paper he was holding onto the coffee table. “I told you to leave the magic alone.”

“And I mostly did!” Stiles protested. “Well, except for a few tiny—okay, moderate—spells, but in my defense, you left me unsupervised.”

Derek stepped closer, his jaw tight. “This isn’t a game, Stiles. Magic is dangerous. And that,” he pointed to the torn page now lying on the table, “is why.”

Stiles frowned, stepping closer to the paper. The moment he touched it, a strange tingling sensation ran up his arm. “What...what is this?”

“It’s part of the grimoire,” Derek said. “It followed me back from the ruins. I left the book there, but this page—”

“Followed you?” Stiles interrupted. “Like a puppy?”

Derek glared. “It’s alive. The grimoire is bound to you now. It’s drawing power from you—and feeding off it.”

“Okay, no. That’s not creepy at all,” Stiles said, staring at the glowing page. “So what, it’s like my magical parasite?”

“More like a leash,” Derek said grimly.

Before Stiles could respond, the loft’s windows rattled violently. A cold gust of air swept through the room, and faint whispers filled the space.

Derek’s eyes flashed red as he stepped protectively in front of Stiles. “We’re not alone.”

Stiles grabbed the glowing page instinctively, its light flaring as the whispers grew louder. His heart raced as a strange voice whispered his name in the air around him.

“Derek,” Stiles said, his voice shaking slightly, “what if I didn’t just activate magic? What if I woke something up?”

The whispers grew into a guttural roar, and the chapter ends as the loft is bathed in eerie green light, leaving Derek and Stiles bracing for the supernatural chaos about to unfold.

Chapter Text

The loft was still quiet, eerily so, after the green light and the whispers had faded. Stiles stood frozen, clutching the glowing page like it might bite him if he let go. Derek’s posture remained tense, his glowing red eyes scanning the room for any lingering threat.

“Okay,” Stiles said after what felt like forever. “So, maybe this is worse than I thought.”

“No kidding,” Derek muttered, his attention snapping back to the paper.

“Hey, don’t growl at me! I didn’t ask to be haunted by the weirdest magical binder in existence.” Stiles tossed the page onto the coffee table like it was on fire, watching it pulse faintly with its eerie green light. “What even was that?”

“I don’t know,” Derek admitted, and somehow that was worse than if he’d had an answer.

“You don’t know?” Stiles echoed. “You’re supposed to be the guy who knows stuff. What’s the point of being the big, bad alpha if you can’t even diagnose a haunted notebook situation?”

Derek let out a long, frustrated breath. “The grimoire isn’t just magic—it’s ancient magic. It doesn’t follow the same rules as what you’ve been reading on Google.”

Stiles flinched at the jab. “Okay, rude. But point taken.”

Derek’s expression softened—well, as much as Derek’s expression could soften, which meant his scowl was a little less intense. “We need to bring the pack in on this. If something’s been activated, it’s not just your problem. It’s everyone’s problem.”

Stiles wanted to argue. He wanted to tell Derek to stop treating him like a fragile, walking time bomb. But the truth was, Derek wasn’t wrong.

The pack meeting was tense.

Stiles sat cross-legged on the couch, arms crossed, as Derek filled everyone in on the situation. Scott, as always, tried to remain diplomatic, sitting at Derek’s kitchen table with his “listening face” on. Lydia perched elegantly on a barstool, looking more annoyed about the glitter situation than the potential magical threat.

Malia, on the other hand, was pacing like a caged animal. “So you’re telling me the book is alive and bonded to Stiles?”

“That’s the gist,” Derek said.

“Cool. Let’s burn it.”

“Malia, no!” Scott jumped in, hands raised. “We can’t just burn something that powerful. What if it backfires?”

Malia huffed, crossing her arms. “Then we destroy it another way. Smash it. Bury it. Feed it to Liam.”

“Hey!” Liam protested from the corner, looking up from his phone.

“It’s not that simple,” Derek said, his tone sharp enough to silence the room. “The grimoire isn’t just bound to Stiles—it’s connected to something older. Something dangerous. Until we know what that is, destroying it could do more harm than good.”

Stiles perked up. “Wow, Derek. That almost sounded like you care about me.”

Derek glared. “I care about not getting the pack killed.”

“And there it is,” Stiles muttered.

Lydia cleared her throat, cutting through the tension. “The question isn’t just what the grimoire wants. It’s why it chose Stiles. Magic doesn’t just bond to anyone—it’s drawn to power.”

Scott frowned, leaning forward. “Are you saying Stiles’ magic is...special?”

“Obviously,” Stiles said with a grin. “But go on, Lydia. I like where this is headed.”

Lydia ignored him. “What I’m saying is, if the grimoire woke up because of Stiles, there’s a reason. And we need to figure out what that reason is before something worse happens.”

As if on cue, the lights flickered.

Later that night, after the pack had dispersed to “strategize” (or, in Liam’s case, to Google “how to fight evil books”), Stiles found himself back in Derek’s loft, pacing.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked, watching him from his usual brooding spot by the window.

“Thinking,” Stiles replied.

“Looks like panicking.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I multitask.”

Derek sighed. “We’re going to figure this out. The pack will—”

“No offense, Derek,” Stiles interrupted, “but your pack’s experience with magic is, uh, limited. If this thing is tied to my magic, maybe I should be the one figuring it out.”

Derek frowned, crossing his arms. “You don’t know enough.”

“That’s why I learn!” Stiles shot back, waving his phone. “There are people out there—real witches, not just TikTok influencers—who’ve dealt with this kind of thing. Maybe I can find answers.”

Derek hesitated, clearly torn between his alpha instincts and his sense of logic. Finally, he said, “Fine. But I’m keeping an eye on you.”

“You’re always keeping an eye on me,” Stiles muttered, but his tone was lighter.

For once, Derek didn’t argue.
Later that night, the loft had settled into an almost eerie quiet. The earlier chaos was gone, leaving only the occasional sound of Derek’s heavy boots on the floor as he paced by the window. Stiles sat on the couch, legs crossed under him, his phone glowing faintly in the dim light.

“Okay, so,” Stiles said, his voice breaking the silence. “Did you know there’s a whole subreddit dedicated to haunted objects? People out here are just...casually living with cursed mirrors and dolls. Like, what kind of life decisions lead to that?”

Derek didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the skyline outside.

“Right,” Stiles muttered. “Of course. Why talk when brooding is an option?” He went back to scrolling through his search results, muttering to himself as he skimmed an article about magical bindings.

Derek finally turned, his arms crossed. “What are you even looking for?”

“Answers,” Stiles said simply. “Something about the grimoire, or the glowing paper, or maybe why the supernatural universe has decided to make me its favorite chew toy. You know, the usual.”

Derek sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t even know what you’re looking at. Half of those sites are probably fake.”

“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Stiles said, shooting him a sarcastic smile. “But for your information, some of these people actually know what they’re talking about.”

Derek moved closer, looming in the way he always did when he was about to make a point. “This isn’t a joke, Stiles. If you get bad information, you could make things worse.”

“Dude, my best friend is a werewolf, my crush was a banshee, and my life is basically one long episode of Supernatural. Things are already worse,” Stiles shot back.

Derek opened his mouth to argue, but then he stopped, his expression softening ever so slightly. “I just...don’t want you getting hurt,” he muttered.

Stiles blinked, taken aback by the unexpected sincerity. He felt a flicker of warmth in his chest before quickly covering it with a smirk. “Aw, Derek, I didn’t know you cared.”

Derek groaned, turning back toward the window. “Just...be careful.”

“You got it, big guy,” Stiles said, turning back to his phone. He scrolled for another few minutes, pausing on a forum post titled “Magical Parasites: Signs and Symptoms.” His brow furrowed as he skimmed it, the words on the screen eerily close to what he was experiencing.

He glanced over at the glowing page on the coffee table. It pulsed faintly, almost as if it were alive.

“You’re not going to, like, crawl into my brain while I’m sleeping, are you?” Stiles asked the page.

Predictably, it didn’t respond.

“Talking to paper now?” Derek asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Talking to paper is less frustrating than talking to you,” Stiles quipped, but there wasn’t much bite in his words.

Derek didn’t reply, but as Stiles kept scrolling, he noticed Derek hadn’t gone back to the window. Instead, he was watching him, quiet and intense, as though bracing himself for whatever mess came next.

Chapter Text

It started as a normal pack meeting. Well, as normal as a pack meeting could be when Stiles Stilinski was involved.

The group was gathered in Scott’s kitchen, plates of pizza scattered across the table. Derek stood off to the side, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, while Stiles sat perched on a stool, tapping away on his phone.

“So, no new attacks?” Scott asked, looking between Derek and Lydia.

“Not yet,” Derek said, his tone dark. “But whatever Stiles woke up is still out there. It’s only a matter of time before it makes a move.”

“Why does everyone keep saying I ‘woke up’ something?” Stiles interjected, waving his phone dramatically. “It’s not like I shook it out of bed and offered it coffee.”

Lydia, without missing a beat, said, “You practically did. The magic responded to you, Stiles. It’s linked to you now.”

Stiles groaned, leaning his head on the table. “Great. I’m Beacon Hills’ supernatural alarm clock. Add that to my resume.”

“Focus,” Derek snapped, and Stiles straightened with an exaggerated eye roll.

Scott held up his hands. “Okay, let’s regroup. Derek, what’s the next step?”

“Preparation,” Derek said simply.

“For what?” Malia asked, tearing into her third slice of pizza.

“For whatever’s coming,” Derek replied, his voice low. “We need to be ready for anything.”

The First Strike
Preparation turned out to mean yet another late-night patrol. Stiles trudged through the woods with the pack, muttering to himself about how unfair it was that he, a self-proclaimed “mostly human,” kept getting dragged into these things.

“Do you ever stop talking?” Derek asked, his voice a low growl.

“Nope,” Stiles replied cheerfully. “It’s one of my many talents.”

The banter was cut short when Lydia froze, her head tilting as her banshee senses kicked in.

“Something’s coming,” she said, her voice sharp.

The group tensed, their eyes scanning the dark forest. Derek’s red alpha eyes flared, and Scott shifted halfway into wolf form, his claws and fangs glinting in the moonlight.

“What is it?” Scott asked, moving closer to Lydia.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it’s powerful.”

Before anyone could react, a shadowy figure burst out from the trees. It moved unnaturally fast, its form flickering like a glitch in reality. Derek leaped forward with a snarl, but the figure evaded him easily, knocking him into a tree with a loud crack.

“Derek!” Stiles yelled, running toward him.

“Stiles, don’t—” Scott started, but it was too late.

The shadowy figure turned its attention to Stiles, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Stiles felt a strange pull like the figure was reaching for something inside him.

And then it lunged.

Magic Unleashed
Time slowed as Stiles raised his hands instinctively, words tumbling from his lips in a language he didn’t recognize. A surge of energy exploded from his body, throwing the shadowy figure backward with enough force to shatter a nearby tree.

The pack stared in stunned silence as the figure dissipated into black smoke, the eerie green light from Stiles’ spell lingering in the air.

“What...the hell...was that?” Malia asked, breaking the silence.

Stiles blinked, staring at his hands like they’d betrayed him. “I have no idea.”

Derek stumbled forward, shaking off his daze. His red eyes locked on Stiles, his expression a mixture of shock and concern. “Where did you learn that spell?”

“I didn’t,” Stiles said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It just...happened.”

“That wasn’t just a spell,” Lydia said, her voice tight. “That was raw magic. Pure power.”

“Raw magic?” Stiles repeated. “Cool, cool. So, uh, does that come with a manual, or am I just winging this?”

Derek stepped closer, his expression serious. “You’re losing control, Stiles. If you can’t stop this, it’s going to destroy you—and everyone around you.”

The weight of his words settled over the group like a heavy fog. For once, Stiles didn’t have a snarky comeback.
The group headed back to Derek’s loft in tense silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Stiles couldn’t shake the memory of the power coursing through him, both terrifying and exhilarating.

When they arrived, Derek pulled him aside, his expression as grim as ever. “We don’t have time to figure this out on our own. We need help.”

“Help? From who?” Stiles asked.

Derek hesitated before answering. “A witch.”

Stiles blinked. “You want to call in another witch? You barely trust me!”

“I don’t have to trust them,” Derek said. “I just need them to stop you from blowing up the pack.”

“Wow,” Stiles said, crossing his arms. “You really know how to inspire confidence.”

Derek didn’t reply, his gaze flickering to the torn page on the coffee table. It pulsed faintly as if it were alive.

Stiles followed his gaze, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach. Whatever they’d just faced, it wasn’t over. And he wasn’t sure they were ready for what came next.

Chapter Text

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Stiles muttered as he followed Derek and Scott deeper into the woods. “We’re really going to see a witch? You realize that’s like walking into a vampire’s lair with a sign that says fresh blood here, right?”

“It’s not your decision,” Derek said over his shoulder.

Stiles scowled. “You’re such a ray of sunshine, Derek. I’m amazed you don’t melt in the daylight.”

“Stiles,” Scott said, his voice calm but firm, “can you focus? This is serious.”

“Everything is serious lately,” Stiles grumbled, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “And for the record, I am focusing. I just happen to focus better when I’m sarcastic.”

Derek didn’t bother replying, which only annoyed Stiles more.

They arrived at the witch’s cottage just as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the ivy-covered structure. It looked oddly welcoming for the home of someone who supposedly dabbled in dangerous magic. Stiles half-expected a black cat to stroll across the porch, but instead, the door creaked open before anyone could knock.

“Derek Hale,” a smooth, lilting voice greeted. “Still brooding, I see.”

A woman stepped into the doorway, her sharp green eyes taking in the group with a knowing look. She had an air of calm authority, her wild auburn hair framing a face that managed to be both warm and unnervingly piercing at the same time.

“Rowena,” Derek said, his voice carefully neutral.

“Ah, but you haven’t introduced me to your friends.” Rowena’s gaze landed on Stiles, lingering there a moment too long. “And who’s this charming young man?”

“Stiles,” he said quickly, giving her a once-over. “And you must be the witch I’m supposed to trust with my life. Love what you’ve done with the place—very Hansel and Gretel chic.”

Rowena laughed softly, the sound both amused and slightly condescending. “Oh, I like him.” She turned her attention back to Derek. “Why is he here? His magic is...” She tilted her head, studying Stiles like a particularly interesting puzzle piece. “Untrained.”

“That’s the problem,” Derek said, stepping inside.

Rowena waved them in, closing the door behind them. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight, Derek. Otherwise, I’d send you back to your wolves without so much as a cup of tea.”

“Generous? Is that what we’re calling it?” Stiles muttered, earning a sharp look from Derek.

Inside the cottage, Stiles couldn’t help but stare at the shelves lined with jars of herbs, dried flowers, and other strange substances he couldn’t identify. A cauldron bubbled in the corner, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and something metallic.

Rowena motioned for them to sit, her attention flicking back to Stiles. “Tell me, dear, how long have you been dabbling in magic?”

“Uh, define ‘dabbling,’” Stiles said, shifting uncomfortably under her gaze.

Derek stepped in. “The grimoire bonded to him. It’s been amplifying his power, but it’s out of control. He’s a danger to himself and the pack.”

“Not helping,” Stiles muttered.

Rowena ignored him, her focus narrowing on the glowing page Derek placed on the table. “The grimoire...” she murmured, running a finger over the page without touching it. “Fascinating. This kind of magic is ancient. Older than your wolves, Derek. Older than most of what roams Beacon Hills.”

“Yeah, we’ve got the ancient part down,” Stiles said. “What we need is the ‘how do we make it stop’ part.”

Rowena tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “Make it stop? That’s not how this works. The grimoire chose you for a reason, boy. Severing the bond is possible, but it won’t solve the larger problem.”

“What larger problem?” Scott asked.

Rowena smiled faintly. “The reason the grimoire chose him in the first place. It didn’t just wake up for anyone. Magic like this is drawn to power. And our young Stiles here...he has more power than he realizes.”

Stiles blinked. “Okay, that’s...vague and terrifying. Can we skip to the part where you give me a spell or something to make this whole thing less...deadly?”

Rowena stood, moving to a shelf and plucking a small vial of shimmering liquid. “This potion will stabilize your connection to the grimoire temporarily. It won’t sever the bond, but it will give you time to figure out what it wants from you.”

“What it wants from me?” Stiles repeated, taking the vial cautiously. “Great. So now the magical murder book has demands?”

“Magic is alive, dear,” Rowena said with a wink. “The sooner you learn to listen to it, the better.”

As the group prepared to leave, Rowena stopped Stiles at the door, leaning in just enough to make him uncomfortable.

“Be careful, boy,” she said softly. “The grimoire may be bound to you, but something far more dangerous is watching.”

“Cool,” Stiles said, swallowing hard. “Thanks for that. Totally not ominous at all.”

Rowena just smiled, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before she stepped back into the shadows of her cottage.

As the group stepped out into the chilly night air, Stiles couldn’t help but glance back at the cottage. Its ivy-covered walls and softly glowing windows looked more ominous now like it was watching them leave. He shivered and tugged his jacket tighter.

“I don’t trust her,” Derek said suddenly, his voice low.

“Oh, good,” Stiles replied, slipping the shimmering vial Rowena had given him into his pocket. “I was worried you were about to add her to your Christmas card list.”

“I’m serious.” Derek stopped, his red alpha eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight. “Witches always have their own agendas. She’s not helping us out of the kindness of her heart.”

“Okay, fine,” Stiles said, throwing up his hands. “Let’s say she does have an agenda. What choice do we have? Unless you’ve got a magical how-to manual stashed somewhere, she’s the only one who knows what’s going on.”

Derek’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

“Besides,” Stiles continued, “I’m pretty sure if Rowena wanted to kill me, she could’ve done it already. Did you see how fast she spotted my whole ‘untrained magic’ situation? I think she could take me in, like, one round. Two, tops.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Derek growled.

“I don’t know, man,” Stiles said, resuming his walk. “I’m just trying to find the silver lining here. You should try it sometime—it’s called optimism.”

Scott, who had been walking a few steps ahead, turned back with a small smile. “She gave us a lead, at least. That’s better than nothing, right?”

Stiles nodded, patting the pocket where the vial rested. “Right. Lead secured. Worst case scenario, this potion turns me into a newt or something, and you guys can keep me as a magical mascot.”

“Not funny,” Derek muttered, brushing past him to take the lead.

“A little funny,” Stiles said under his breath.

As they continued through the woods, Stiles couldn’t shake the feeling that Rowena had been watching him differently. Not just with curiosity, but with something deeper—something that made his skin crawl and his stomach twist.

When they reached the edge of the woods, he looked back one last time. The cottage was barely visible through the trees, but he swore he saw movement in one of the windows.

“Stiles,” Derek called, his tone clipped. “Let’s go.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Stiles said, turning away.

Inside the cottage, Rowena watched them leave from the window, her fingers resting lightly on the curtain. Her expression was unreadable—part amusement, part...something else.

“He has no idea,” she murmured softly to herself, the corner of her mouth lifting in a faint, bittersweet smile. “Not yet.”

The wind shifted outside, carrying the faint sound of whispers through the trees, as if the magic itself were waiting for something. Or someone.

Chapter Text

Back at Derek’s loft, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Stiles paced the floor, the glowing vial Rowena had given him turning over and over in his hands. Every time he looked at it, he felt a strange unease settle in his chest, like the potion was holding more secrets than solutions.

“Are you actually going to do something with that, or just wear a hole in the floor?” Derek asked from his perch by the window.

Stiles stopped pacing just long enough to glare at him. “It’s called thinking, Derek. You should try it sometime.”

Derek didn’t rise to the bait, his red eyes flicking briefly to the vial. “Rowena said it’s temporary. It won’t solve anything.”

“Yeah, well, temporary is better than nothing,” Stiles shot back. He hesitated, holding the vial up to the light. The liquid inside shimmered like molten silver. “What if she’s wrong? Or worse—what if she’s right and this thing just makes everything worse?”

“Then we deal with it,” Derek said simply.

Stiles snorted. “Wow, you really do have a way with pep talks. I feel so reassured.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, his voice sharper now. “You can’t keep dancing around this. The grimoire isn’t going away, and whatever’s coming for you won’t either. You need to take this seriously.”

“I am taking it seriously!” Stiles snapped. “Do you think I want to be the magical problem child of Beacon Hills? Do you think I asked for this?”

Derek stepped closer, his presence as overwhelming as always. “No one’s saying you asked for it, but it’s here. You have to deal with it.”

Stiles stared at him, the words bubbling up before he could stop them. “And what if I can’t? Huh? What if I screw up again and get someone hurt? Or worse?”

For a moment, Derek didn’t say anything. His gaze softened—not by much, but enough for Stiles to notice. “You won’t.”

Stiles huffed a bitter laugh. “Wow. Stellar argument. Thanks, Derek. That totally fixed my deep-seated insecurities.”

Derek growled low in his throat, his frustration obvious. “You’re not alone in this, Stiles. The pack has your back.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said quietly, looking away. “Until I mess up so badly you can’t save me.”

A Sudden Interruption
Before Derek could respond, a loud thud shook the loft. Both of them froze, their senses on high alert.

“What the hell was that?” Stiles asked, already moving behind Derek instinctively.

Derek didn’t answer. His eyes glowed red as he scanned the room, every muscle in his body tensed.

Another thud, this one closer. It sounded like something—or someone—was trying to break through the walls.

“Uh, Derek? Any chance this is just some really aggressive squirrels?” Stiles whispered.

Derek shot him a look that said not now, then moved toward the source of the noise.

The wall by the kitchen cracked, faint green light spilling through the seams like the loft itself was coming apart. Derek didn’t hesitate—he lunged toward the wall, claws out, just as the green light exploded outward.

Stiles threw up his hands instinctively, a string of unfamiliar words tumbling from his lips. A shimmering barrier formed between them and the blast, deflecting most of the impact.

When the dust settled, the shadowy figure from the woods was standing in the middle of the loft. Its form flickered like static, and its glowing eyes locked onto Stiles.

“You again?” Stiles groaned. “What is this, round two of ‘let’s scare the teenager’?”

The figure moved toward him, its shadowy hands outstretched. Derek stepped in front of Stiles with a snarl, claws flashing.

“Get back,” Derek growled, his voice almost unrecognizable in its ferocity.

The figure didn’t stop. It lunged, its movements unnaturally fast, but Derek was faster. He slashed through the shadow with a roar, and the figure let out a guttural scream as it dissolved into smoke.

Stiles lowered his hands, the barrier fading. “Uh, good job, Derek. Way to make scary ghost-smoke things scream.”

“Stiles,” Derek said sharply.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t move.”

Stiles froze as the green light reappeared, swirling in the air like it was searching for something. It spiraled toward him, and before he could react, it sank into his chest.

Pain lanced through him, sharp and searing, and he dropped to his knees with a strangled gasp.

“Stiles!” Derek was at his side in an instant, his hands gripping Stiles’ shoulders as the younger man’s body trembled.

“I’m fine,” Stiles croaked, though his voice didn’t sound convincing even to himself. “Totally fine. Just...glowing a little.”

Derek’s jaw clenched as he helped Stiles to his feet. “This is getting worse.”

“No kidding,” Stiles muttered, wincing as the residual pain faded.

They both looked at the glowing page on the coffee table. It was pulsing faster now, its eerie green light synchronized with the faint glow emanating from Stiles’ chest.

Stiles groaned as he stumbled into his room later that night, dropping his backpack onto the floor with a loud thud. He flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling while trying to ignore the faint warmth still radiating from his chest.

The drive home with Derek had been awkward, to say the least. Derek had insisted on dropping him off, citing “safety reasons,” but the tension in the car had been unbearable. Now, lying in the familiar comfort of his room, Stiles felt the weight of everything pressing down on him.

The grimoire wasn’t just a book. It wasn’t just a magical artifact. It was alive—and it had chosen him.

He rolled over, staring at his desk where his laptop sat closed, taunting him. There was homework to do, essays to write, and a life to pretend he still had. But how was he supposed to care about algebra when shadowy figures were breaking into his life and weird witches were handing him potions?

A soft knock at the door startled him.

“Come in,” he called, sitting up quickly.

The door creaked open to reveal his dad, looking tired but still wearing that familiar, reassuring expression.

“Hey, kid,” the sheriff said, stepping inside. “You okay? You looked a little...off when you got home.”

Stiles hesitated. He wanted to tell his dad everything—to dump the weight of the grimoire, Rowena, the shadow creature, and the fact that his chest was currently glowing like a mood ring—but he couldn’t. His dad didn’t deserve to carry that kind of burden.

“Yeah,” Stiles said finally, forcing a smile. “Just school stuff. You know how it is.”

His dad gave him a long, assessing look before nodding. “All right. Just...don’t push yourself too hard, okay? You’ve been running yourself ragged lately.”

“Sure thing, Dad,” Stiles said, his smile softening into something genuine.

The sheriff ruffled his hair—a rare display of affection—and left, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Stiles grabbed the vial from his pocket and held it up to the light. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, and for a moment, he swore he could hear a soft whisper emanating from it.

“Just one more thing to figure out,” he muttered, placing the vial on his desk.

He flopped back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling again. Tomorrow, he’d have to pretend everything was normal. School, homework, lacrosse practice, and maybe even lunch with Scott and Lydia. But for tonight, he let his eyes drift shut, the hum of the grimoire’s magic still lingering in the back of his mind like a distant, eerie lullaby.

Outside, the wind carried faint whispers through the trees, promising that normalcy was about to become a distant memory.

Chapter Text

Beacon Hills High was buzzing with gossip the next day, but for once, Stiles had no clue what everyone was talking about. He’d barely made it through first period before Scott cornered him at his locker, his expression somewhere between excitement and dread.

“Stiles!” Scott said, gripping his shoulder. “Did you hear about the ball?”

Stiles blinked. “Uh, ball? Like a sports thing? Because unless Coach is dragging us into some kind of weird lacrosse prom, I’m not following.”

“No, it’s a thing,” Scott said, lowering his voice as a group of cheerleaders passed by. “A supernatural thing. Lydia said it’s a formal gathering—like a summit—for all the supernatural leaders in the area. She got us invited.”

“Define ‘invited,’” Stiles said suspiciously, slamming his locker shut.

“She convinced the organizer that we’re important enough to attend,” Scott explained, looking sheepish. “It’s happening at that big hotel just outside town tomorrow night. Derek’s already on board.”

Stiles groaned. “Of course Derek’s on board. Let me guess—he wants me to sit in a corner and keep my magical glow stick powers under wraps?”

“Pretty much,” Scott admitted.

“Great,” Stiles muttered, rubbing his temples. “A night of awkward formal wear and brooding werewolves. Sounds fantastic.”

The next evening, Stiles found himself standing in front of the full-length mirror in his room, fidgeting with the tie his dad had loaned him.

“Looking sharp,” the sheriff said from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a small smile.

“Yeah, well, it’s not every day I get invited to a fancy supernatural shindig,” Stiles said, adjusting his tie for the hundredth time. “You think this screams ‘responsible witch’ or ‘please don’t eat me’?”

His dad chuckled. “Somewhere in between.”

Stiles turned to face him, suddenly feeling a pang of guilt. “You’re okay with this, right? Me going out to...do whatever it is we’re doing?”

The sheriff’s smile softened. “I trust you, Stiles. Just...be careful, okay? And if anything happens—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll call,” Stiles said quickly, waving him off. “Scout’s honor.”

With that, he grabbed his keys and headed out, trying to ignore the growing knot of anxiety in his chest.

The Beacon Hills Grand Hotel looked like something out of a movie. The ballroom was decked out in gold and white decorations, with chandeliers casting a warm glow over the crowd of sharply dressed supernatural beings. Stiles stuck close to Scott and Lydia as they entered, his eyes darting around the room.

“Is it just me,” he whispered, “or does this feel like the setup for a really bad horror movie?”

“Relax,” Lydia said, her green gown sparkling under the lights. “Just stick to the plan. Observe, don’t draw attention to yourself, and for the love of God, don’t touch anything magical.”

“Touch anything magical? Me?” Stiles said, feigning innocence. “Never.”

Lydia gave him a pointed look before drifting off to mingle with the crowd, leaving Stiles and Scott to fend for themselves.

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles asked, scanning the room.

“Over there,” Scott said, nodding toward the far end of the ballroom.

Stiles followed his gaze and immediately regretted it. Derek stood near the edge of the room, looking devastatingly sharp in a black suit that somehow made him even broodier than usual. He was in deep conversation with another alpha, his expression unreadable but intense.

“Of course he looks like a freaking catalog model,” Stiles muttered. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Stiles.”

“Right, focus.”

The night progressed uneventfully—until it didn’t.

Stiles was halfway through an awkward conversation with a very talkative banshee when he felt it: a faint, familiar hum in the back of his mind. His chest tingled, the same warmth he’d felt when the grimoire’s magic surged through him.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, stepping back from the banshee.

“What’s wrong?” Scott asked, appearing at his side.

“It’s here,” Stiles said, his voice tight. “The grimoire—it’s doing something.”

As if on cue, the chandeliers flickered. The room fell silent as the lights dimmed, and a cold wind swept through the ballroom.

Derek was the first to react, his red alpha eyes flashing as he moved toward Stiles. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know!” Stiles said, his voice rising. “I didn’t do anything—I swear!”

Before Derek could reply, the center of the ballroom erupted in green light. The glow coalesced into a swirling, shadowy figure, its form similar to the one they’d encountered in the loft but larger and more defined.

The crowd erupted into chaos, supernatural beings scrambling for safety.

“Stiles!” Derek barked, grabbing his arm. “What is that?”

“Something really pissed off!” Stiles shouted, his heart racing.

The shadow creature turned its glowing eyes on him, and Stiles felt the bond with the grimoire flare to life, the connection searing through his chest like a hot wire.

“Stiles, do something!” Scott yelled.

“Like what?!”

“Anything!”

Stiles raised his hands, instinct taking over. Words poured from his lips—words he didn’t recognize but felt deep in his bones. The air around him shimmered, and a barrier of green light erupted between the creature and the crowd.

The shadow slammed into the barrier, letting out a guttural roar that shook the room. Stiles gritted his teeth, the effort of holding the shield draining him quickly.

“Stiles, you can’t hold it forever!” Derek shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos.

“Yeah, no kidding!” Stiles yelled back.

Chapter Text

The ballroom felt like it was collapsing under the weight of the chaos. The shadow creature slammed against the green barrier Stiles had conjured, each impact sending ripples of energy through the shield. The glowing dome was holding—for now—but every strike left Stiles a little more drained.

“Uh, Derek?” Stiles called out, his voice strained as he struggled to keep the shield intact. “I could really use a game plan right about now!”

Derek was already in motion, dodging through the panicked crowd to reach Stiles’ side. His red alpha eyes flared as he looked between Stiles and the shadow creature, which was clawing at the barrier with unnatural fury.

“What’s it doing?” Derek demanded.

“Gee, I don’t know, Derek,” Stiles snapped, sweat dripping down his face. “Probably trying to kill me! Call it a hunch!”

The shadow let out a guttural roar, its glowing eyes narrowing as it pounded against the shield with renewed intensity. Stiles stumbled, his knees buckling under the strain.

“Stiles!” Derek caught him before he could hit the floor, one strong arm locking around his waist. “You’re pushing too hard. Drop the shield—I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, sure,” Stiles gasped. “I’ll just let the smoke monster eat everyone. Great idea.”

“You can’t hold this forever,” Derek said, his tone sharp but tinged with something else—concern.

“Watch me,” Stiles muttered, gritting his teeth as another wave of energy surged through him.

A Desperate Plan
Across the room, Scott and Lydia were trying to rally the remaining supernatural guests. Scott had shifted halfway, his claws bared and fangs glinting in the dim light. Lydia’s banshee senses were on high alert, her sharp gaze darting between the shadow creature and the crowd.

“What do we do?” Scott asked, his voice tight.

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “The creature is feeding off something—it’s drawn to Stiles’ magic. We need to sever the connection.”

“Easier said than done,” Scott muttered, glancing at Stiles, who was visibly shaking under the strain of holding the shield.

“I’ll distract it,” Lydia said, her voice firm. “You just make sure Stiles doesn’t get hurt.”

Scott hesitated for a split second before nodding. “Be careful.”

Lydia didn’t respond. She stepped forward, her banshee scream building in her throat. The sound ripped through the ballroom like a shockwave, sharp and piercing. The shadow creature faltered, recoiling from the sound, giving Stiles a momentary reprieve.

The Bond Deepens
“Lydia bought you some time,” Derek said, his grip on Stiles tightening as he helped him to his feet. “Use it.”

“Use it for what?!” Stiles snapped, panic creeping into his voice. “I don’t exactly have a spell for ‘banish terrifying shadow creature’ in my back pocket!”

Derek turned him to face the creature, his voice low and urgent. “The magic is connected to you, Stiles. You’ve been fighting it—stop fighting and use it.”

“Use it?” Stiles repeated, incredulous. “Derek, this thing is literally trying to eat me. You want me to just...hand it the keys?”

“No,” Derek said, stepping closer, his voice steady despite the chaos. “You make it work for you. You’re stronger than you think, Stiles.”

For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Stiles stared at Derek, his breath catching. There was something raw in Derek’s gaze—something that steadied him, even as his chest burned with the weight of the magic.

“Okay,” Stiles said softly, exhaling shakily. “Okay. Let’s hope you’re right.”

He closed his eyes, focusing on the searing heat in his chest. It felt wild and uncontrollable, like a storm trapped inside him, but he reached for it anyway.

The connection snapped into place like a live wire. Stiles felt the magic surge through him, powerful and overwhelming but not as chaotic as before. He opened his eyes, green light blazing in them as he raised his hands toward the creature.

“You want my magic?” he said, his voice stronger now. “Take it.”

Victory and Collapse
The shadow lunged at Stiles, but this time, he didn’t flinch. A pulse of green energy shot from his hands, slamming into the creature with enough force to shake the room. The shadow writhed, its form distorting as the energy tore through it.

With one final, guttural scream, the creature dissolved into smoke, which swirled briefly before vanishing completely. The ballroom fell silent, the air heavy with the lingering hum of magic.

Stiles swayed, the light in his eyes fading as the connection severed. He would have hit the floor if Derek hadn’t caught him, lowering him gently.

“Stiles,” Derek said, his voice low and urgent. “Stay with me.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles mumbled, though he didn’t sound convincing. “Just...need a nap. Like, a week-long nap.”

Scott and Lydia rushed over, Scott dropping to his knees beside Stiles while Lydia scanned the room for any remaining threats.

“Is it gone?” Scott asked.

“For now,” Derek said grimly, his attention fixed on Stiles.

Lydia crouched down, her sharp eyes studying Stiles intently. “You stabilized the magic,” she said. “But that creature wasn’t random. Something sent it.”

“Great,” Stiles muttered, his voice weak. “More mysteries. Love that for us.”

As the ballroom slowly settled, the echoes of chaos fading into an uneasy silence, Stiles felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. Derek’s grip was the only thing keeping him upright, though he hated to admit it. His chest still burned faintly where the magic had surged, and the eerie hum of the grimoire lingered in his mind like a distant whisper.

Then the whispers grew louder.

The room’s remaining lights flickered again, casting long, wavering shadows across the cracked marble floor. A chill swept through the air, different from the creature’s presence—calmer, but no less unsettling.

Stiles stiffened, his head snapping toward the grand entrance of the ballroom.

“Please tell me that’s not round two,” he muttered, gripping Derek’s sleeve instinctively.

Derek turned, his body tensing as a figure emerged from the shadows near the doorway.

The newcomer walked with unnerving ease, their silhouette sharp against the flickering lights. As they stepped into view, the tension in the room shifted. Rowena’s wild auburn hair and piercing green eyes were unmistakable, but there was something about her now—something more commanding, almost regal—that sent a shiver down Stiles’ spine.

“Oh, fantastic,” Stiles said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The cavalry’s here. What’s the matter, Rowena? Couldn’t get here before the ghost demon tried to kill me?”

Rowena’s lips curled into a faint smile, her gaze sweeping over the damaged ballroom and the scattered remnants of the supernatural crowd. “Well, you seem to have handled yourself admirably, darling. Though I must say, your technique is...raw. Destructive, even.”

“Gee, thanks,” Stiles muttered.

Rowena’s attention shifted to Derek, her expression unreadable. “You called me here, Alpha. I assume this wasn’t just for my sparkling company.”

Derek stepped forward, his posture guarded. “Something attacked the ball. It was after Stiles—and his magic.”

“Was it now?” Rowena said, tilting her head slightly. Her sharp gaze landed on Stiles, studying him with an intensity that made his stomach twist.

“Okay, can you not look at me like that?” Stiles said, straightening despite the exhaustion weighing him down. “I already feel like a weird science experiment. No need to add creepy witch vibes to the mix.”

Rowena ignored him, stepping closer. “What exactly did you do, boy?”

“Me? Nothing!” Stiles said quickly, holding up his hands. “Well, not nothing. I kind of...used the magic...? But only because it was either that or let Smoky the Murder Ghost kill everyone. So really, I think I deserve points for effort here.”

Rowena’s faint smile returned, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Effort, yes. But control? That’s another matter entirely.”

“Not helping,” Derek growled, stepping protectively in front of Stiles.

Rowena’s gaze flicked to Derek, her expression briefly amused. “Ah, of course. Ever the guardian.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough for Stiles and Derek to hear. “You’d do well to keep a closer eye on him, Alpha. There are forces at play here far beyond your understanding.”

Derek bristled, his claws flexing at his sides. “What forces?”

Rowena stepped back, her enigmatic smile returning. “Oh, you’ll see soon enough. The boy’s magic has woken something ancient—something that won’t rest until it’s reclaimed what it’s owed.”

“Can you be a little less cryptic?” Stiles asked, his voice laced with irritation. “Or is ‘vague and creepy’ just your default setting?”

Rowena laughed softly, but there was no warmth in it. “Patience, darling. All will be revealed in time.”

She turned on her heel, her long coat billowing dramatically as she strode toward the exit. Just before stepping into the shadows, she glanced back over her shoulder.

“Be ready, Stiles. This is only the beginning.”

And then she was gone, leaving the room heavy with the weight of her warning.

Stiles let out a shaky breath, leaning heavily on Derek. “Great. Another mystery. Because I didn’t have enough of those already.”

Derek’s gaze lingered on the doorway, his jaw tight. “We need to find out what she knows.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his voice quieter now. “But I’ve got a feeling I’m not gonna like the answer.”

Chapter Text

Stiles had barely made it to first period the next morning when Scott cornered him in the hallway.

“You okay?” Scott asked, his voice laced with concern.

“Define ‘okay,’” Stiles replied, shutting his locker with a little more force than necessary. “If by ‘okay,’ you mean completely freaked out about glowing demon books, murderous shadow monsters, and cryptic witches, then sure—I’m fine.”

Scott frowned. “You could’ve just said no.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Stiles quipped, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He sighed when Scott didn’t respond, the weight of the previous night pressing down on him. “I’m fine, Scott. Really. Or, you know, as fine as someone who had a murder ghost try to claw their soul out can be.”

“You don’t have to pretend everything’s normal,” Scott said, his voice soft.

“Oh, trust me, nothing’s normal,” Stiles said, pulling out his phone. “For starters, I just Googled ‘ancient shadow creature attacks’ during breakfast, and now my algorithm thinks I’m one step away from starting a cult.”

Scott cracked a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Seriously, Stiles. If you need anything—”

“I know, dude,” Stiles interrupted, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re my guy. But for now, I’ve got to focus on surviving the horrors of pre-calc.”

Scott hesitated but nodded. “Text me if anything weird happens.”

“Oh, sure. Weirdness and I are besties,” Stiles said, giving a mock salute before heading off to class.

Later That Day
By lunchtime, Stiles was practically vibrating with nervous energy. His phone buzzed with texts from Lydia, each one more urgent than the last.

Lydia: Have you noticed anything strange today?
Lydia: Stranger than usual, I mean.
Lydia: Check the grimoire. NOW.

Stiles glanced around the cafeteria, then slipped the torn page out of his bag. It had been eerily quiet since the ball, but the faint green glow had returned, pulsing steadily. He frowned, holding it under the table as Lydia’s next text came through.

Lydia: Meet me in the library. Bring the page.

“Why does it always have to be the library?” Stiles muttered, shoving the page back into his bag and grabbing his tray.

In the Library
Lydia was waiting in the back corner, a stack of ancient-looking books spread out across the table.

“You’re late,” she said without looking up.

“I’m sorry, were you expecting me to teleport?” Stiles shot back, dropping into the chair across from her. “What’s so urgent?”

Lydia gestured to the glowing page. “That.”

“Yeah, I gathered,” Stiles said, pulling it out of his bag. “It’s still glowing and weirdly warm. And, oh, it keeps whispering my name in the creepiest ASMR voice ever.”

Lydia leaned in, her expression tight. “It’s reacting to something. Rowena said the grimoire was bound to you, right? That’s not just a metaphor, Stiles—it’s literal. This is part of whatever she was warning us about.”

“Okay, well, if this is all part of her big cryptic prophecy or whatever, why didn’t she just tell us?” Stiles said, waving his hands. “She shows up, looks mysterious, drops a couple of vague one-liners, and then poofs back into the witchy void. Super helpful.”

“She knows more than she’s letting on,” Lydia said, her eyes narrowing. “She wasn’t just watching the grimoire at the ball—she was watching you.”

Stiles blinked. “Creepy. But also, what else is new? Magical drama is basically my brand now.”

Before Lydia could respond, a soft hum filled the air. Stiles glanced down at the page, which was glowing brighter now, its pulse quickening.

“That can’t be good,” he said, holding it up cautiously.

The hum grew louder, and for a moment, Stiles swore he saw the faint outline of a symbol forming on the paper’s surface—a sigil he didn’t recognize.

“What is that?” Lydia asked, her voice sharp.

“I don’t know!” Stiles said, panic creeping into his tone. “It’s not like this thing came with an instruction manual!”

The glow intensified, and Stiles felt a searing pain shoot through his hand. He dropped the page with a hiss, cradling his palm as the paper floated gently to the table, its glow fading back to a faint pulse.

“What just happened?” Lydia demanded.

“I think it bit me,” Stiles said, wincing as he inspected his hand. A faint mark had appeared on his palm, resembling the same sigil he’d seen on the page.

Lydia leaned closer, her eyes narrowing. “That’s not just a mark. That’s a binding.”

“Binding?” Stiles echoed. “Like...forever binding?”

“Possibly,” Lydia said, her tone grim.

“Fantastic,” Stiles muttered. “Because that’s exactly what I needed today—an ancient magical tramp stamp on my hand.”

Before Lydia could reply, Stiles’ phone buzzed again. This time, it was from Derek.

Derek: Get to the loft. Now.

Stiles groaned, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Why do I get the feeling this day is about to get even worse?”

Lydia gave him a pointed look. “Because it’s you, Stiles.”

He sighed, grabbing his bag and the glowing page. “Touché.”

As he left the library, the sigil on his palm began to faintly glow, matching the hum of the grimoire in his bag. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t going to wait much longer to reveal itself.

Chapter Text

Stiles had barely made it to Derek’s loft before the first growl greeted him.

“You’re late,” Derek said, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, looking every bit the intimidating alpha Stiles had grown used to—and maybe a little too fond of.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Stiles said, brushing past him. “I didn’t realize we were on a strict timetable for you yelling at me part of the day. My bad.”

Derek let the comment slide, but his jaw tightened as he shut the door. “What happened?”

“Well,” Stiles began, dropping his bag onto the couch, “the glowing page is still doing its creepy light show, I may or may not have a magical tattoo now, and Lydia thinks it’s a binding sigil. So, you know, a normal Tuesday.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed as he grabbed Stiles’ wrist, flipping his hand over to examine the mark. The sigil glowed faintly against Stiles’ skin, its intricate design pulsing with the same rhythm as the page.

“Did this happen today?” Derek asked, his voice low and measured.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, swallowing hard. “The page did it. It started glowing brighter, and then—bam—magic hickey.”

Derek ignored the sarcasm, his gaze fixed on the mark. “It’s not a hickey. It’s a claim.”

“Wow, thanks, Derek,” Stiles deadpanned. “That totally makes it sound less terrifying.”

Derek released his hand, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “This isn’t just about the grimoire anymore. The magic is imprinting on you—it’s marking you as its anchor.”

“Anchor?” Stiles echoed, his voice rising. “Why does that sound bad? That sounds bad.”

“It means the grimoire is drawing its power from you now,” Derek explained, his tone clipped. “If something happens to you—”

“Let me guess,” Stiles interrupted, his heart racing. “If I die, the magic gets unleashed, and boom—supernatural apocalypse?”

Derek didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes said enough.

The Power Surges
Stiles sank onto the couch, running his hands through his hair. “Okay, great. No pressure or anything. I’ll just...stay alive forever. Easy.”

“Stiles, this isn’t a joke,” Derek snapped. “If you don’t get this under control, the magic will destroy you—and everyone else.”

“Well, excuse me for not being thrilled about my new job as Beacon Hills’ magical power strip!” Stiles shot back, his frustration boiling over.

Before Derek could respond, the lights in the loft flickered. A sharp, crackling sound filled the air, and Stiles doubled over with a gasp, clutching his chest.

“Stiles!” Derek was at his side in an instant, gripping his shoulders.

“I’m fine!” Stiles said through gritted teeth, though he clearly wasn’t. The sigil on his hand was glowing brighter now, and green light flickered along his fingertips.

The air around them crackled with static, and a nearby lamp shattered, sparks flying across the floor.

“Not fine, not fine!” Stiles gasped, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts.

“Focus!” Derek barked, shaking him lightly. “Breathe. Control it.”

“I’m trying!” Stiles snapped, squeezing his eyes shut. He concentrated on the magic surging through him, trying to push it down, to contain it.

Slowly, the light dimmed, and the static in the air dissipated. Stiles slumped forward, panting, as the sigil on his hand faded back to its faint glow.

Derek didn’t let go of him, his grip firm but steady. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said, his voice shaky. “It just...flared up out of nowhere. Like it had a mind of its own.”

“It does,” Derek said grimly. “And it’s going to keep testing you until you take control.”

“Great,” Stiles muttered, leaning back against the couch. “So now my magic’s a toddler having temper tantrums. That’s just perfect.”

The Quiet Moment
For a while, neither of them spoke. Derek stood and began clearing the shattered remains of the lamp, his movements tense but methodical. Stiles watched him, guilt twisting in his stomach.

“Hey,” Stiles said softly. “Sorry, I...snapped. I know you’re just trying to help.”

Derek paused, glancing at him over his shoulder. For a moment, his expression softened, the hard edges of his usual scowl giving way to something almost vulnerable.

“I don’t want to lose anyone else,” Derek said quietly.

The words hung in the air, heavier than anything Stiles had expected. He swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond.

“You won’t,” Stiles said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, yeah, I screw up a lot, but I’ve made it this far, right?”

Derek huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s what worries me.”

Stiles smiled faintly, the tension between them easing just a little.

Just as the moment settled, the faint sound of Derek’s phone buzzing broke the fragile silence. Derek frowned, pulling it from his pocket and glancing at the screen. His expression darkened immediately.

“What is it?” Stiles asked, already bracing himself for bad news.

“Rowena,” Derek said, his voice sharp. “She wants to meet. Now.”

Stiles groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Of course she does. Because nothing screams good timing like a surprise pop quiz from the queen of cryptic commentary.”

“It’s not just her,” Derek said, his tone heavier now. He turned the phone toward Stiles, showing him the message:

Rowena: The magic is accelerating. If you wait any longer, it’ll consume him.

Stiles stared at the screen, his throat tightening. “Okay, that’s...ominous. Even for her.”

Derek didn’t respond. He was already grabbing his jacket, his movements sharp and purposeful.

“Wait, hold up!” Stiles scrambled to his feet, his bag swinging awkwardly off his shoulder. “What does she mean, ‘consume him’? That sounds bad. That sounds really bad!”

“It is,” Derek said flatly, grabbing his keys. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s go? That’s it? No plan? No reassurance? Just ‘let’s go’?” Stiles demanded, trailing after him. “Can we at least pretend to have a strategy? Or, I don’t know, a pep talk? I’m kind of spiraling here!”

Derek turned abruptly, his red alpha eyes flashing. “The strategy is keeping you alive, Stiles. Now move.”

The weight of Derek’s words—and the fierce determination in his gaze—shut Stiles up, at least for a moment.

“Fine,” he muttered, slinging his bag higher on his shoulder. “But if this ends with me getting turned into some kind of magical ghost battery, I’m haunting all of you.”

The ride to Rowena’s secluded cottage was tense and silent, the air in Derek’s car thick with unspoken worry. Stiles stared out the window, his hand resting on his lap, where the faint glow of the sigil pulsed softly against his skin.

“Do you think she actually has answers this time?” Stiles asked finally, breaking the silence.

“She’d better,” Derek said, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.

Stiles nodded, but his mind raced with doubts. The sigil’s warmth was spreading, creeping up his arm in slow, rhythmic waves. He flexed his fingers, trying to shake the feeling, but it didn’t help.

By the time they reached the cottage, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the forest in deep shadows. The cottage glowed faintly from within, its windows spilling warm, golden light into the encroaching darkness.

Rowena stood in the doorway, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable.

“You took your time,” she said, her sharp green eyes flicking between them.

“Yeah, sorry,” Stiles said, stepping out of the car. “I was busy not dying back there. You should try it sometime—it’s exhausting.”

Rowena’s lips twitched in amusement, but her tone remained cool. “The grimoire isn’t waiting, darling. Neither should you.”

“Great. Let’s cut to the part where you explain what’s happening,” Stiles said, brushing past her into the cottage.

“Patience,” Rowena said, closing the door behind them. Her gaze lingered on Stiles, her amusement fading into something more serious. “We’re not dealing with a mere magical artifact anymore. The grimoire’s connection to you is deepening—it’s far older and more dangerous than you realize.”

Derek stepped forward, his voice low and firm. “Then start talking. What’s it after?”

Rowena hesitated for a moment, her sharp demeanor faltering just slightly. “It’s not what it’s after,” she said quietly, her eyes locking onto Stiles. “It’s who.”

Stiles stares back at her, his chest tightening as the sigil on his hand flares brighter, its pulse syncing with the ominous whispers now echoing faintly in the room.

Chapter Text

Rowena’s cottage had always felt a little too cozy for someone as sharp and dangerous as its owner. The scent of herbs and burning candles filled the air, and faint runes carved into the wooden beams seemed to pulse softly as Stiles and Derek stepped inside.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Rowena said, sweeping past them to a small table piled with books and jars.

“Yeah, real comfortable,” Stiles muttered, eyeing the bubbling cauldron in the corner. “Because nothing says ‘relax’ like being surrounded by things that probably explode.”

“Stiles,” Derek said warningly, his red alpha eyes narrowing.

“What?” Stiles threw up his hands. “Sorry if I’m not in the mood for a tea party. I’ve got a creepy book living rent-free in my head, a magic tramp stamp on my hand, and now you’re telling me this isn’t about what the grimoire wants but who it’s after?”

Rowena turned, fixing him with a pointed look. “Exactly.”

“Well, great,” Stiles said, flopping into a chair. “Fantastic. Can’t wait to unpack that trauma.”

Rowena smirked faintly but quickly sobered. She moved to the table, spreading out several weathered parchments and gesturing for them to come closer. “The grimoire is more than just a book of spells. It’s a vessel—a conduit for magic so ancient it predates most of the supernatural beings walking this earth.”

Derek frowned, leaning over the table. “Then why is it connected to him?”

“That,” Rowena said, her gaze locking onto Stiles, “is the question, isn’t it?”

The Grimoire’s True Nature
Stiles glanced at Derek, then back at Rowena. “So, what? The grimoire just...saw me and thought, ‘Hey, that guy looks like a great magical chew toy’?”

Rowena rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. The grimoire doesn’t choose lightly. It only bonds to those with an exceptionally strong magical lineage—those capable of handling its power.”

Stiles froze. “Magical lineage? No, no. See, that can’t be right. I’m just...me. My mom was normal. My dad’s normal. I’m, like, aggressively average.”

Rowena raised an eyebrow. “Oh, darling. You’re many things, but ‘average’ isn’t one of them.”

Derek crossed his arms. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the boy’s magic didn’t just come out of nowhere,” Rowena said, her voice sharp. “It’s in his blood. His very being.” She turned to Stiles, her expression softening slightly. “Tell me, lad, have you ever wondered why you were drawn to the supernatural? Why you’ve always seemed to fall into its orbit?”

“I...I don’t know,” Stiles said, his voice quieter now. “I figured it was just bad luck. Or maybe Scott’s bad luck rubbing off on me.”

Rowena shook her head. “No. The grimoire chose you because of who you are. You carry a legacy of magic in your veins—a legacy that the grimoire recognizes.”

Stiles felt like the room was spinning. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself, his mind racing. “But...that doesn’t make sense. My mom never said anything about magic. My dad doesn’t know anything about this stuff.”

“Not everyone who carries magic knows of it,” Rowena said gently. “Sometimes it lies dormant, waiting for the right moment—or the right catalyst—to awaken.”

Derek placed a steadying hand on Stiles’ shoulder, grounding him. “If this is true, then what does the grimoire want from him?”

Rowena hesitated, her eyes flicking back to the glowing sigil on Stiles’ hand. “It wants to complete the bond. To fully merge with him.”

“M-m-m-m-mmerge?” Stiles stammered, panic creeping into his voice. “Like, merge how? Because that sounds like it ends with me getting turned into a human horcrux.”

Rowena smirked despite the tension. “Not quite. But once the bond is complete, your power will no longer be your own. The grimoire will become a part of you—and you, a part of it.”

“Okay, but what if I say no?” Stiles asked, his voice rising. “What if I don’t want to be part of some ancient creepy book club?”

Rowena’s expression darkened. “If you resist, the bond will consume you from the inside out. The grimoire does not take rejection lightly.”

The Warning
The weight of her words settled over the room like a heavy fog. Stiles sat back in the chair, staring at his glowing hand as dread pooled in his chest.

“So, what do we do?” Derek asked, his voice firm.

Rowena’s gaze shifted to him, her sharp eyes softening slightly. “There’s no easy solution, Alpha. Severing the bond is nearly impossible without destroying the vessel—and doing so could destroy the boy as well.”

“Not an option,” Derek said immediately.

Rowena nodded, but her expression remained grim. “Then your only choice is to find out why the grimoire bonded to him in the first place. The answer lies in his bloodline—something or someone in his past that ties him to the magic.”

“And how exactly do we do that?” Stiles asked, throwing up his hands. “I don’t have a magical ancestry.com login.”

Rowena’s lips twitched in amusement. “Leave that to me.”

Before Stiles could argue, the runes carved into the cottage walls began glowing faintly, pulsing with an eerie light. Rowena’s expression turned serious, her voice dropping to a whisper. “We’re out of time.”

“Out of time for what?” Stiles asked, but he didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

The temperature in the room plummeted, and a familiar, guttural roar echoed through the air. Shadows crept along the walls, coalescing into a dark, flickering figure with glowing eyes—the same creature that had attacked at the ball.

“Oh, come on!” Stiles yelled, scrambling to his feet. “This guy again?!”

Derek stepped in front of him, claws extended and red eyes blazing. “Get behind me.”

The shadow surged forward, its guttural growl shaking the walls. Rowena moved quickly, grabbing a handful of herbs and muttering an incantation under her breath. A shimmering barrier flared to life, blocking the creature’s path, but the strain was clear on her face.

“This won’t hold for long!” she warned.

The creature slammed against the barrier, its glowing eyes fixed on Stiles. The sigil on his hand burned brighter, and he felt the familiar pull of the magic coursing through him.

“What does it want?!” Stiles shouted over the chaos.

“It’s not after you,” Rowena said, her voice sharp. “It’s after your power. The grimoire’s power.”

“Great! How do I stop it?!”

“Trust the magic!” Rowena snapped.

Stiles hesitated, his heart pounding as the barrier began to crack. Derek growled, his stance unwavering, but Stiles could see the desperation in his eyes.

Finally, Stiles raised his hand, the sigil glowing like a beacon. The magic surged through him, wild and untamed but oddly familiar. He stepped forward, his voice steady despite the fear.

“You want the magic?” he said, his voice laced with defiance. “Come and get it.”
The shadow lunges forward, the room exploding in a blinding flash of green light.

Chapter Text

The blinding green light faded slowly, leaving the cottage shrouded in silence. Smoke and the faint smell of singed wood lingered in the air as Stiles blinked, his vision clearing to reveal the aftermath.

The shadow creature was gone—dissipated into nothing—but the toll of its attack was written all over the room. Derek stood just a few feet away, his red alpha eyes dimming back to their usual stormy gray as he scanned the area for any remaining threat. His chest heaved with barely-contained energy, his claws still extended.

Stiles stood in the middle of the room, his glowing hand raised, trembling as the sigil dimmed. The hum of the magic still coursing through him was both electric and nauseating, like a storm he couldn’t fully control.

“Well,” Stiles muttered, breaking the silence. “That sucked.”

Rowena emerged from behind the table, brushing soot from her coat and giving Stiles an appraising look. “Sucked, perhaps, but effective. You banished it, didn’t you?”

“Sure,” Stiles said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Banished it. Totally meant to do that. Definitely didn’t almost pass out in the process.”

Derek growled low in his throat, stepping closer to Stiles. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking, ‘Don’t die,’” Stiles snapped, lowering his hand. “Mission accomplished, by the way. You’re welcome.”

“You don’t just throw yourself into something like that without knowing what you’re doing,” Derek growled, his tone harsh but edged with something else—fear.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Stiles shot back. “Did I miss the part where you handed me the Supernatural Survival for Dummies manual? Because I didn’t see one lying around.”

“Enough,” Rowena said sharply, cutting through their argument. She stepped between them, her gaze flicking between Stiles and Derek with a faint smirk. “If the two of you are done posturing, perhaps we can focus on the larger issue.”

Derek’s scowl deepened, but he fell silent, stepping back to give her space.

“The shadow creature was a construct,” Rowena explained, moving to the center of the room. “A manifestation of the grimoire’s power, sent to test its bond with you.” She turned to Stiles, her sharp eyes narrowing. “And you passed.”

“Yay,” Stiles said weakly, dropping into a chair. “What’s my prize? More terrifying ghost monsters?”

Rowena ignored the sarcasm, her expression serious. “The grimoire’s connection to you is growing stronger, but it’s still incomplete. Whatever force created that creature will try again—and next time, it won’t be so easily banished.”

“Great,” Stiles muttered, running a hand through his hair. “So we’re back to square one: figure out why the grimoire likes me so much before it decides to eat my soul.”

“Exactly,” Rowena said, her tone clipped. “And if you want to survive, you’ll need to embrace the magic.

Chapter Text

The Jeep rattled to a stop outside Stiles' house. The engine cut out, leaving a thick, uncomfortable silence lingering between them. Stiles shifted in his seat, glancing at Derek, who hadn't moved.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

"You're doing that thing again," Stiles finally muttered, gripping the door handle. "The broody silent thing. Is this going to be a regular post-near-death experience routine?"

Derek exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. "I don’t trust Rowena."

Stiles arched a brow. "Really? Because she seemed super trustworthy in that ‘might-sell-your-soul’ kind of way."

Derek shot him a look.

"Yeah, okay," Stiles conceded. "But she’s the only one giving us answers right now. Unless you’ve got another ancient witch on speed dial, we’re kind of stuck with her."

Derek's grip tightened. "I don’t like the way she looks at you."

That made Stiles pause. "What, like she wants to kill me?"

"No," Derek said, his voice low. "Like she knows something she’s not telling us."

Stiles blinked. Derek wasn’t wrong. Rowena’s gaze had lingered longer than necessary during their last encounter. It wasn’t predatory—it was...calculating.

"Maybe she does," Stiles said quietly, leaning back in his seat. "But if this thing’s tied to my bloodline, I need to know. We can’t just sit on this and hope the grimoire leaves me alone."

Derek’s jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to argue, but something held him back. His eyes flicked to Stiles’ hand, where the sigil still faintly glowed.

Finally, Derek spoke. "You shouldn’t be alone tonight."

Stiles snorted. "What, you offering to sleep on my floor like some kind of supernatural bodyguard?"

Derek didn’t answer right away, and Stiles froze when he realized Derek wasn’t joking.

"...Wait. You’re serious?" Stiles squinted at him. "Derek, I appreciate the whole alpha-protecting-the-pack thing, but I think I’ll survive one night without a werewolf-shaped shadow in the corner."

Derek stared at him, his expression unreadable but intense. "You’re not invincible, Stiles."

The words felt heavier than they should have.

Stiles swallowed hard, his hand tightening around the door handle. "Yeah, I know that."

Neither of them moved. The Jeep felt too small, the air too thick.

Derek’s gaze softened just slightly, but there was something else there—something that made Stiles’ heart beat faster for reasons that had nothing to do with magic.

"I’m fine," Stiles said quickly, forcing a grin he didn’t quite feel. "Promise. I’ll call if anything glows, levitates, or tries to eat me."

Derek didn’t look convinced, but after a long pause, he gave a reluctant nod. "Fine. But I’m keeping my phone on."

"Noted," Stiles said, slipping out of the Jeep.

As he walked toward the front door, he hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder. Derek was still sitting there, watching him with that same quiet intensity.

Stiles lingered for a second longer than necessary. Then he shook his head and stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him.

Inside the House
The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Stiles tossed his keys on the counter, the faint jingle echoing louder than it should have. He wandered into the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge for a snack he didn’t really want.

His mind kept circling back to Derek—how close he’d been, how his eyes had softened right before Stiles left the car.

Stiles shook his head. Nope. Not going there.

Instead, he grabbed a bottle of water and headed upstairs.

As he passed the hallway mirror, something flickered out of the corner of his eye. He froze, stepping back slowly.

The sigil on his hand was glowing again, faint but steady.

"Seriously?" Stiles muttered, holding his hand up to the mirror. The reflection pulsed faintly, and for a split second, the glass rippled like water.

He stepped back, his heart hammering. "Okay. That’s new."

The whispering started again, faint and distant. It wasn’t coming from the mirror—it was coming from his room.

Stiles hesitated outside his bedroom door, listening carefully. The whispers were soft, almost melodic, but the longer he stood there, the more distorted they became.

Slowly, he pushed the door open.

His room looked normal—nothing out of place. But the grimoire’s torn page, sitting innocently on his desk, was glowing brighter now. The sigil on the page matched the one on his hand, pulsing in sync.

Stiles approached it carefully. "Hey, listen. If you’re about to pull a Poltergeist on me, I’d appreciate some warning."

The whispers didn’t stop.

When he reached the desk, he hesitated. The air around the page felt heavier, charged with something he didn’t understand.

He reached out slowly—

BANG.

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin as his phone vibrated violently in his pocket. He fumbled to pull it out, heart racing.

Derek: Did you feel that?

Stiles frowned, glancing around the room. "Feel what?" he muttered.

Another text.

Derek: Something’s wrong. I’m coming over.

Stiles stared at the screen, about to text him back, when the whispering in the room abruptly stopped.

The lights flickered.

And from the shadows in the corner, a shape slowly began to form.

"...Derek, you might want to hurry," Stiles muttered, backing away from the desk.

The figure moved closer, its eyes glowing the same unsettling green as the grimoire.

Stiles stood frozen as the shadowy figure took shape in front of him. It wasn’t like the creature from the ball—it was smaller, more defined. Almost...human.

The sigil on his hand flared brighter, and as the figure stepped into the dim light of his room, Stiles realized with a cold jolt of horror—

It looked just like him.

Stiles stares at the shadowy version of himself, the whispers returning louder than ever.

Chapter Text

Stiles didn’t move.

The shadow in front of him flickered like a broken TV signal—distorted yet unmistakably him. Same build. Same unruly hair. Same sarcastic scowl that usually made an appearance right before trouble kicked down his door.

It didn’t make sense.

The figure’s glowing green eyes locked with his, and for a second, the room felt too small. Stiles’ chest tightened, the sigil on his hand pulsing like a second heartbeat.

“Okay,” Stiles muttered, lifting his hands in surrender. “I get it. You’re here to haunt me for something dumb I did. Can we skip the creepy staring contest and just—”

The shadow moved.

Fast.

Stiles barely stumbled back in time, crashing into his desk chair as the figure lunged. His elbow knocked into the notebook, sending the grimoire’s torn page fluttering to the floor. The second it touched the ground, the whispers returned—louder, angrier.

“Awesome,” Stiles gritted out, scrambling backward. “Now you’re cranky, too.”

The shadow halted, flickering again as if restrained by an invisible force. Its head tilted, mimicking him almost perfectly.

“Seriously, what are you?” Stiles said, edging toward his door.

The figure didn’t answer.

But as it took another step forward, the overhead lights blew out.

The Loft, Minutes Earlier
Derek’s eyes snapped open.

He was halfway to his feet before he even realized why. The loft was quiet—too quiet. His skin prickled with the unmistakable feeling of magic stirring in the air.

Not just magic. Stiles’ magic.

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, barely registering the missed call from Scott. Instead, he opened his texts.

Derek: Did you feel that?

The response was almost instant.

Stiles: Feel what?

Derek’s eyes narrowed. He was already pulling on his jacket.

Derek: Something’s wrong. I’m coming over.

His phone buzzed again as he was heading to the door.

Stiles: ...Might want to hurry.

Derek didn’t need more convincing.

Stiles’ House
By the time Derek parked outside, the house felt off.

He could sense it from the driveway—the faint hum of supernatural energy curling around the edges of the property. It clung to the air like static before a storm.

Derek moved fast, climbing the front steps two at a time. His hand was halfway to the door handle when he heard it.

A low, distorted voice.

Coming from inside.

His heart dropped.

Back Upstairs
Stiles’ breathing slowed as he inched toward the hallway, keeping one eye on the shadow.

It wasn’t attacking. Not yet.

But the sigil on his hand had started burning again, which was usually his cue that something bad was brewing.

“You can just leave, you know,” Stiles tried, his voice shaking slightly. “I promise not to tell anyone you stopped by for some light haunting. No hard feelings.”

The figure’s mouth twitched in response—like it was almost smiling.

“Okay, nope.” Stiles’ hand shot toward the doorknob.

Before he could turn it, the figure moved again—this time appearing directly behind him.

Stiles spun, eyes wide. “Okay, personal space!”

The shadow leaned in closer, and Stiles felt his own voice, distorted and rough, whispering back at him.

"It’s already yours.”

Stiles froze.

“What the hell does that mean—?”

The door to his room burst open with a crack.

Derek stormed inside, red eyes glowing as he took in the scene. His gaze immediately locked onto the shadowy figure still looming over Stiles.

“What the—” Derek started, stepping forward.

The shadow jerked back at the sight of Derek, flickering violently before dissolving into the corner of the room like smoke.

Stiles exhaled, bracing against the desk. “Oh, sure. Now it decides to be scared.”

Derek didn’t relax. His claws were still half-extended as his gaze swept the room. “What was that?”

“Wish I knew,” Stiles muttered, rubbing his face. “It looked like me. Kind of. If I were evil and, you know...more ghostly.”

Derek’s eyes darkened. He stepped closer, gently taking Stiles’ wrist and turning his palm over. The sigil on Stiles’ hand was glowing faintly again.

“It was feeding off your magic,” Derek said quietly. “It wasn’t just a shadow.”

Stiles glanced at his hand, swallowing hard. “Great. Just what I needed. A magical stalker.”

Derek didn’t let go. His thumb brushed over the edge of the sigil, and the sensation sent a shiver up Stiles’ spine—not from pain, but from something else.

“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” Derek asked, his voice softer now.

“I figured I could handle it,” Stiles said, trying (and failing) to ignore the way Derek’s hand lingered against his skin.

Derek’s eyes flicked up to meet his, and for a moment, the tension shifted—less about the magic, more about something neither of them wanted to name.

“Next time, call,” Derek said firmly, his hand still wrapped around Stiles’.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his heart beating a little too fast. “Okay. Next time.”

Neither of them moved.

“Uh, Derek?” Stiles finally said, his voice awkward. “You’re still...holding my hand.”

Derek dropped it immediately, clearing his throat and stepping back. “I was checking the sigil.”

“Sure. Totally. That’s what I thought too,” Stiles said, rubbing his palm nervously.

Derek glanced around the room, clearly trying to change the subject. “That thing—whatever it was—it’s not gone. Not really.”

Stiles nodded, his humor fading. “I know. It’s waiting.”

Derek met his gaze, and this time, there was no mistaking the protective fire behind it.

“Then so am I.”

Outside the house, a shadow moved along the tree line, watching the second-floor window where Stiles and Derek stood.

Its eyes glowed faintly before disappearing into the night.

Chapter Text

Derek stayed longer than Stiles expected.

Not that he minded.

After the shadow incident, Stiles had made a half-hearted attempt to convince Derek that everything was probably fine. Derek didn’t budge.

So now, Stiles was sprawled across his bed, fiddling with his phone while Derek stood by the window, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the tree line outside like the shadow might reappear at any second.

“You know,” Stiles said, scrolling through his texts, “I don’t think staring at the woods is going to scare it off.”

Derek didn’t look away. “It’s not the woods I’m worried about.”

Stiles paused, glancing at Derek’s tense posture. He knew that tone—low, clipped, and dripping with ‘I’ll break something if anything tries to hurt you.’

It did something to him that he wasn’t ready to unpack.

“You realize you’re standing there like you’re about to wrestle the boogeyman, right?” Stiles said, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I don’t think fists are gonna cut it with a shadow version of me.”

Derek finally turned, his eyes sharp. “I’m not letting my guard down. Last time I thought something was handled, someone died.”

Stiles sobered. He knew Derek didn’t say things like that lightly.

“Hey,” Stiles said, softer this time. “I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”

Derek’s gaze flicked to him, something unspoken passing between them.

Before either of them could say anything else, the faintest creak echoed from downstairs.

Derek’s head snapped toward the door immediately, and Stiles sat bolt upright.

“Please tell me that was the house settling,” Stiles whispered, already knowing the answer.

Derek’s eyes flashed red. “Stay here.”

“Yeah, right,” Stiles scoffed, hopping off the bed. “Like I’m letting you wander around my house alone while Casper 2.0 is creeping around.”

Derek shot him a glare but didn’t argue. They moved quietly down the hallway, feet barely making a sound on the hardwood floor.

As they reached the stairs, Stiles peered over Derek’s shoulder, his nerves humming.

The living room was empty.

Or at least, it looked empty.

Derek stepped forward, and that’s when Stiles noticed it—something faint and flickering in the corner by the fireplace.

It wasn’t a shadow this time. It was smaller. Human-shaped.

Stiles grabbed Derek’s arm. “Wait—look.”

Derek froze, following Stiles’ gaze.

There, standing just at the edge of the flickering light, was a figure.

It wasn’t the same dark, distorted version of Stiles from before. This one was younger.

Much younger.

Stiles’ breath caught in his throat.

The figure was a child. Maybe eight or nine. Pale skin. Wide eyes. Tousled hair that looked eerily familiar.

The boy met Stiles’ gaze.

And smiled.

“Stiles,” Derek said slowly, sensing the shift in the air.

Stiles blinked, taking a hesitant step forward. “Who...?”

The boy’s head tilted, and Stiles felt the sigil on his hand pulse sharply—like a static shock directly to his chest.

Derek grabbed his arm, pulling him back.

The boy’s smile faded instantly, his eyes darkening to the same eerie green glow that had haunted Stiles before.

“Not a kid,” Derek growled, stepping between them.

The figure flickered violently, and just like that, it dissolved into thin air.

Stiles let out a shaky breath, clutching his chest. “Okay. So that’s definitely new.”

Derek’s jaw clenched. “It’s getting stronger. It’s not just mimicking you anymore—it’s changing.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Stiles muttered, glancing around the room. “First creepy shadows, now creepy children. What’s next? My own evil twin?”

Derek’s gaze lingered on the spot where the figure had stood. “You sure that wasn’t...?”

“What? Me?” Stiles said quickly. “No way. I mean, sure, maybe I was that adorable as a kid, but I definitely didn’t glow in the dark.”

Derek didn’t smile. “You said the grimoire’s bonded to you. What if it’s not showing random visions? What if it’s digging into your memories?”

Stiles blinked. “Okay. Nope. Hard pass on that theory.”

Derek stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Stiles.”

“Look, if I had a creepy magical ghost twin, I think I’d remember,” Stiles said, waving him off. “This isn’t some long-lost childhood trauma resurfacing. It’s just—”

The sigil on his hand pulsed again. Hard.

Stiles winced. “Okay. Maybe it is digging around in there.”

Derek watched him carefully, his voice dropping. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but the look in Derek’s eyes stopped him. It wasn’t just the alpha glare—it was worry. Real, raw worry.

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “But whatever it is...I think it’s trying to show me something.”

“Then we figure it out,” Derek said firmly.

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “What, we?”

“Yes, we,” Derek said, crossing his arms. “I’m not leaving you alone with this thing in your head.”

For once, Stiles didn’t have a sarcastic comeback.

“Okay,” he said softly, brushing his thumb over the glowing sigil. “We figure it out.”

Derek gave a short nod, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease.

As they headed back upstairs, Stiles couldn’t shake the lingering image of the boy’s face.

Something about him felt too familiar.

Later that night, as Stiles slept, the flickering figure returned—this time, watching from the edge of his room.

The boy’s eyes glowed faintly, and just before fading into the shadows, he whispered something almost too soft to hear.

"You already know me."

Chapter Text

Stiles jolted awake.

His room was dark, but the feeling that someone had just been there lingered in the air like static after a lightning strike.

His heart pounded as his eyes scanned the corners of the room.

Empty.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. “Okay. Great. Sleep paralysis with a side of glowing child ghosts. Love that for me.”

Stiles shifted under the covers, glancing at the clock. 4:03 AM. Too early to call Scott. Too late to pretend he could go back to sleep.

His gaze flicked toward his desk. The grimoire’s torn page still sat there, silent now, but the sigil on his hand throbbed faintly in response to it.

Rolling onto his side, he grabbed his phone.

Stiles: You awake?

Three dots appeared immediately.

Derek: I knew you wouldn’t sleep.

Stiles cracked a tired smile. Of course Derek was awake. He probably hadn’t even left his Jeep in the driveway.

Stiles: Still watching the house?
Derek: I’m in the backyard. You’re fine.

Stiles blinked and sat up. The backyard?

He pulled the curtain aside, and sure enough, Derek stood at the tree line, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, shoulders squared like he was waiting for something to jump out at him.

Stiles sighed and texted again.

Stiles: You know staking out my backyard at 4 AM is weird, right?
Derek: So is being haunted by yourself.

“Fair point,” Stiles muttered, tossing the phone on his bed.

By the time morning rolled around, Derek was gone, but Stiles didn’t need supernatural senses to know he hadn’t gone far.

The sigil on his palm still pulsed faintly as he hurried downstairs, throwing on his hoodie. He barely made it to the kitchen before his dad looked up from his mug of coffee.

“Long night?” the sheriff asked, giving him that all-knowing dad look.

“You have no idea,” Stiles muttered, grabbing cereal from the cabinet.

His dad raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “You know,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “you’ve been pulling the ‘haunted by supernatural nonsense’ look for a while now.”

Stiles paused mid-pour. “Oh yeah? And what does that look like?”

The sheriff sipped his coffee. “Tired. And sarcastic.”

Stiles smirked. “So…me?”

His dad pointed at him with his mug. “Exactly.”

Stiles grinned faintly, but his eyes flicked toward the window. The tree line looked normal, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

Beacon Hills High
By lunchtime, the weirdness hadn’t let up.

Stiles leaned against his locker, arms crossed as Scott filled him in on pack business.

“So no more hunters on the north side,” Scott said, frowning. “But Liam’s worried something’s circling the preserve again.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Circling? Like animal circling or supernatural-freak-with-a-grudge circling?”

Scott shrugged. “Could be either. Malia’s keeping an eye on it, but she said she felt…off.”

“Great,” Stiles said, shutting his locker with a sigh. “Add that to the pile of weird. Guess I’m not the only one being haunted.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed. “You’re still seeing it?”

“It is a very generous term. More like me,” Stiles said, lowering his voice. “Only, you know…creepier. Shadow-y. And apparently a child version last night.”

Scott’s face darkened with concern. “Stiles—”

“I know, I know,” Stiles interrupted, holding up his hands. “I shouldn’t brush it off. But what am I supposed to do? Therapy for ‘potential magical clone possession’ isn’t exactly covered by the school counselor.”

Scott opened his mouth to argue, but Lydia’s heels clicking down the hallway saved Stiles from the lecture.

Lydia stopped in front of them, her gaze sharp as she took in Stiles. “You look like you slept for two hours.”

“Three, actually,” Stiles quipped. “And Derek was in my backyard.”

Lydia didn’t blink. “That’s not surprising.”

Stiles frowned. “It’s not?”

“No,” she said matter-of-factly. “If I were Derek, I’d be hovering too.”

Scott smirked. “He’s been doing a lot of that.”

Stiles huffed. “Okay, let’s not turn this into ‘Derek’s Secret Feelings Hour.’ We’ve got bigger things—like, for example, the creepy kid ghost that appeared in my living room.”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “A child?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, crossing his arms. “Looked like me, but younger. Happened after I saw the shadow version at the ball.”

Lydia exchanged a glance with Scott. “That’s not good.”

Stiles threw up his hands. “Yeah, I figured.”

The Library
By late afternoon, Stiles sat in the library with Lydia, scanning through ancient texts Rowena had “graciously” dumped on them.

Lydia flipped through a thick book, her eyes narrowing. “Here,” she said, pointing to a section written in Latin.

Stiles leaned over. “Okay, I trust you to translate, because I don’t do dead languages before dinner.”

Lydia ignored him. “It says something about mirrored spirits—fragments of the self that manifest through binding magic.”

“Fragments of the self?” Stiles repeated slowly. “Like…pieces of me?”

“Or memories,” Lydia said softly.

Stiles’ chest tightened. “So, you’re saying the kid version of me might be some kind of magical flashback?”

Lydia met his gaze. “Or something buried deeper.”

Stiles swallowed. He didn’t like the sound of that.

Before he could respond, his phone buzzed.

Derek: Outside.

Stiles frowned. “Great. And now Derek’s stalking me at school.”

Lydia didn’t even look up. “You should talk to him.”

Stiles glanced toward the door. Derek’s Jeep was visible through the window, parked across the street like some brooding werewolf security detail.

“Fine,” Stiles grumbled, standing up. “But if he growls at me for not calling last night, I’m blaming you.”

Lydia smirked faintly. “I’ll take the heat.”

As Stiles left the library and crossed the parking lot, the faint reflection in the glass door didn’t show him.

It showed the child again—standing just behind him.

And this time, it was smiling.

Chapter Text

Stiles yanked the door open and stepped outside, the cold air biting against his skin. He let it ground him, shaking off the uneasy feeling still clinging to him from the reflection.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

At least, that’s what he told himself as he crossed the lot toward Derek’s Jeep.

Derek leaned against the driver’s side, arms crossed, watching him approach with that signature scowl—the one that made Stiles’ heart do flips he refused to acknowledge.

“You’re becoming alarmingly predictable,” Stiles called out, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. “Following me around like this? People are going to talk.”

Derek’s eyes flicked to the school entrance behind Stiles. “Maybe I want them to.”

Stiles froze for half a beat. “Okay,” he said slowly, “you can’t just drop lines like that and expect me to process them like a normal person.”

Derek smirked, barely. “Then stop baiting me.”

“Oh, but it’s so fun,” Stiles shot back. But as he got closer, the teasing died on his lips.

Derek’s posture was tenser than usual—his arms crossed a little tighter, his shoulders a little too stiff. He wasn’t just here to check in.

“What happened?” Stiles asked, his tone shifting.

Derek met his gaze, eyes flickering with something Stiles recognized as hesitation.

“I caught a scent,” Derek said. “At the preserve. It smelled like you.”

Stiles arched a brow. “I mean, I do run around there with Scott all the time. Maybe it was just—”

Derek shook his head. “It wasn’t normal. It was…off. Fainter. Like a trace of something that shouldn’t be there.”

Stiles stiffened, his mind flashing to the child in the reflection. “The kid,” he said, the words slipping out. “I saw him again. In the glass when I left the library.”

Derek’s expression hardened instantly.

“You think the grimoire’s pulling memories out of me or something?” Stiles asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like…manifesting the ‘inner child’ version of me?”

“It’s more than that,” Derek said, straightening. “If that thing has your scent, it’s becoming physical. And if it’s physical—”

“—then it can do more than just haunt me,” Stiles finished grimly.

Derek nodded, his gaze flicking to Stiles’ hand where the sigil still glowed faintly beneath the skin.

“Okay,” Stiles said, dropping his hand. “That’s unsettling.”

“You’re not going home alone tonight,” Derek said, his tone final.

Stiles squinted. “Okay, not to ruin the whole ‘protective alpha’ thing you’ve got going on, but is stalking me your new life goal?”

Derek didn’t blink. “If it keeps you alive? Yes.”

Stiles opened his mouth, ready to argue, but something in Derek’s eyes stopped him.

It wasn’t just protectiveness. It was fear.

For him.

Stiles swallowed. His usual jokes dried up faster than he wanted to admit. “Fine,” he muttered. “But if you’re staying over, I’m making you watch Star Wars.”

Derek’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Because,” Stiles said, climbing into the Jeep’s passenger seat, “if I’m getting haunted by a creepy child version of myself, you’re getting haunted by the knowledge that you somehow lived this long without seeing it.”

Derek huffed as he got in and started the engine.

But he didn’t say no.

The Stilinski House – That Night
The house was quiet when they arrived. Too quiet.

Stiles tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, his eyes flicking instinctively to the shadowy corners of the room.

Nothing.

For now.

“Any weird vibes?” Stiles asked, peeling off his hoodie and throwing it over a chair.

Derek lingered by the door, scanning the room like a wolf prowling his territory. “Not yet.”

Stiles let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Great. So we’re just waiting for Mini Me to pop up like a horror movie jump scare. Super comforting.”

Derek’s gaze followed him as Stiles moved toward the living room. “I’ll take the couch.”

Stiles snorted. “Seriously? You’re like two feet taller than that thing. My dad’s old recliner’s probably a better bet.”

Derek shrugged. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

Stiles faltered for a second, his sarcasm softening.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

They didn’t talk about it—Derek’s time alone, wandering from place to place after losing his family. But Stiles had read between the lines long ago.

He tried to brush off the sudden heaviness. “Well, if you need a blanket or something, they’re in the closet. Just don’t go for the floral one. It’s cursed.”

Derek gave him a flat look. “It’s not cursed.”

“Right,” Stiles said, smirking. “You say that now, but let me know when it starts whispering Latin in your sleep.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

Later That Night
Stiles couldn’t sleep.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the faint glow of the sigil on his hand the only light in the room. The house was silent except for the occasional creak of floorboards downstairs—Derek, probably pacing like the overprotective werewolf he was.

Stiles turned over, tugging the blankets tighter.

But just as he started to drift, the whispers returned.

Soft at first, like the rustling of wind through leaves. But then—

"Come and see."

Stiles’ eyes snapped open.

His room was cold. Too cold.

Sitting up slowly, he glanced toward the window. The curtain shifted slightly, but the window was shut.

Stiles’ stomach twisted.

He wasn’t alone.

In the farthest corner of his room, just barely illuminated by the faint light from his desk lamp, stood the child.

Smiling.

The sigil on Stiles’ hand flared painfully.

But this time, the boy didn’t vanish.

He stepped forward, his bare feet making no sound against the floor.

Stiles’ pulse hammered in his ears.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Derek? Now would be a great time to come upstairs.”

The boy stepped closer, his head tilting.

And as his face became clearer, Stiles felt the breath leave his lungs.

Because the child wasn’t just familiar.

He was identical to a photo Stiles hadn’t looked at in years—one of him and his mother.

The boy stops at the edge of the bed, eyes glowing softly.

"You remember now, don’t you?"

Chapter Text

The boy’s words echoed in Stiles' head, soft but heavy—like a hand pressing down on his chest.

"You remember now, don’t you?"

Stiles didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

His eyes locked on the child standing at the edge of his bed. The boy’s pale face was calm, almost serene, but his eyes—those glowing green eyes—weren’t normal.

They were ancient. Watching.

“I don’t,” Stiles whispered, throat dry. “I don’t remember anything.”

The boy’s head tilted, and for a flickering moment, he almost looked…disappointed.

"You will."

The room seemed to tilt, the edges darkening. Stiles blinked hard, gripping the blanket to ground himself, but the boy—his younger self—was already fading.

By the time Stiles’ vision cleared, the room was empty.

The only sign the child had ever been there was the faint, pulsing glow of the sigil on Stiles’ hand.

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered to the empty room. “I’m fine. Totally not losing my mind.”

Downstairs
The stairs creaked beneath Stiles' weight as he descended, his bare feet light against the wooden steps.

Derek was in the living room, stretched across the recliner like he hadn’t moved in hours. His eyes snapped open the second Stiles stepped into view.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Derek said, sitting up, voice low and rough with exhaustion.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles muttered, sinking onto the couch, “kind of hard to sleep when baby me shows up glowing like a radioactive nightlight.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “It was here?”

Stiles nodded, rubbing his palm. “Didn’t do much this time. Just stood there. Stared. Said some creepy things. Real horror movie energy.”

Derek leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What did it say?”

“That I’d remember soon,” Stiles replied, his voice softening. “But that’s the thing—I don’t want to remember. If this is tied to the grimoire, it can’t be anything good.”

Derek didn’t respond immediately. His gaze lingered on Stiles, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Stiles huffed out a breath, running his fingers through his hair. “I mean, I get it—classic supernatural setup, right? I’ve got repressed memories, spooky kid ghosts, and a magical artifact that’s probably trying to make me its favorite chew toy.”

“Stiles.”

Derek’s voice cut through his rambling, calm but firm.

Stiles glanced up, meeting Derek’s gaze.

“You’re not doing this alone,” Derek said simply.

The words shouldn’t have hit as hard as they did, but Stiles felt the tension in his chest loosen—just slightly.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, smiling faintly. “I know.”

The Next Day – Beacon Hills Preserve
Stiles stepped carefully over a fallen tree branch, following Derek deeper into the woods. The early morning fog hadn’t fully lifted, casting long shadows between the trees.

“I still don’t get why we’re here,” Stiles muttered, shivering slightly. “If the kid ghost thing is tied to the grimoire, why are we wandering around the preserve like we’re filming Blair Witch?”

Derek didn’t stop walking. “The scent I picked up yesterday led here. If the grimoire’s magic is manifesting physically, it’s not just attached to you anymore. It’s moving.”

Stiles frowned, trailing behind him. “Great. Now my magical stalker has legs.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the soft crunch of leaves beneath their feet.

After a while, Stiles spoke up again. “You think Rowena knows more than she’s letting on?”

Derek didn’t answer right away, but his expression darkened. “She always knows more than she says.”

“Yeah, that tracks,” Stiles muttered. “But if this thing’s tied to my past, how does she fit into it?”

Derek slowed, finally glancing over his shoulder. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Stiles wanted to argue, but a familiar scent hit him—smoke and iron, faint but distinct. His steps faltered.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Do you smell that?”

Derek paused, sniffing the air. His posture stiffened instantly.

They weren’t alone.

The Clearing
They reached a clearing near the heart of the preserve, where the fog hung thick and still.

In the center stood the boy again.

This time, there was no flickering. No fading.

He was solid, standing barefoot on the grass, head tilted slightly as he watched them approach.

Stiles’ breath caught.

Derek stepped protectively in front of him, claws unsheathing instinctively. “Stay behind me.”

“I think I’m good with that,” Stiles whispered, not moving.

The boy’s eyes glowed faintly, but he didn’t speak.

Derek took a slow step forward, keeping his guard up. “What do you want?”

The boy blinked.

Then, slowly, he raised a hand and pointed—directly at Stiles.

“Oh, hell no,” Stiles muttered. “Why’s it always me?”

Derek growled low in his throat. “Leave him alone.”

The boy’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze seemed heavier—like he was looking through Stiles rather than at him.

“You left me here.”

The words struck like a hammer.

Stiles staggered back, his heart pounding. “What—what do you mean I left you? I don’t even know who you are!”

The boy’s head tilted again, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"You will."

Suddenly, the clearing shifted.

The ground beneath Stiles’ feet rippled like water, and the forest faded into something else—something familiar.

A hospital room.

And in the center of it, Stiles saw his mother.

Alive.

Stiles’ breath caught in his throat as the memory solidified, crystal clear and painfully real.

His younger self sat by the bed, gripping his mother’s hand.

And standing just behind him—watching silently—was the boy.

Chapter Text

Stiles stood frozen.

The air in the clearing shifted around him, bending reality like ripples on glass. The towering trees and fog of the preserve dissolved into the sterile, cold white of Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital.

He recognized it instantly.

The creak of the chair beside his mother’s bed, the faint antiseptic smell clinging to the air—all of it.

Stiles' breathing slowed as he stared at the scene unfolding in front of him.

He was there.

Or at least, his younger self was.

A small, pale version of him sat beside his mom, holding her hand tightly like he could somehow anchor her to the world.

Claudia Stilinski lay still, her chest rising and falling unevenly, but she was smiling at the boy. Her eyes crinkled at the corners in the way Stiles remembered—soft, warm, full of love.

He wanted to run to her.

To touch her hand.

To feel something other than the empty ache that had sat in his chest for years.

But his feet wouldn’t move.

Because standing just behind his younger self was the boy.

The same one from the reflection.

The boy who looked exactly like him—only now, the glow in his eyes was softer, calmer.

Stiles’ chest tightened.

“Is this…?” he whispered, more to himself than Derek.

“A memory,” Derek said quietly from behind him, his voice steady but cautious. “Or something close to it.”

Stiles glanced sideways, realizing Derek was standing beside him, his claws still half-extended, gaze locked on the scene like he expected the boy to lash out at any second.

“But I don’t remember this,” Stiles said.

He should remember. He remembered the hospital visits, the long nights sitting by her side. But this—this moment wasn’t one of them.

“This wasn’t real,” Stiles said, his voice cracking slightly. “It never happened like this.”

The boy—his younger reflection—lifted his gaze from the hospital bed.

And for the first time, he spoke.

"It did."

Stiles felt the world shift beneath his feet.

“No, it didn’t,” Stiles said sharply, taking a step forward. “I remember everything about my mom. I remember how she—how she left. I remember what I lost.”

The boy didn’t move, but his expression softened.

"You don’t remember everything."

The Memory Fractures
The hospital room flickered like a glitching screen, distorting as if struggling to stay grounded in reality.

Derek stepped closer, his shoulder brushing against Stiles’. “I don’t like this.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles muttered, gripping the edge of the hospital bed for balance. “Neither do I.”

His fingers passed right through it.

His hand cut through the memory like mist, leaving nothing but cold air behind.

“It’s not solid,” Stiles said, frowning.

“It’s not supposed to be,” Derek replied, his gaze darting to the boy. “It’s a projection. The grimoire’s pulling this from somewhere deep.”

“Great,” Stiles said. “So, what, it’s rooting through my subconscious like it’s Netflix?”

Derek didn’t answer.

Because the boy was moving now—circling the hospital bed slowly, his small hand trailing over the edge.

Stiles’ younger self never looked up, his eyes fixed on Claudia, but the glowing boy’s gaze was locked on him.

“This wasn’t real,” Stiles said again, louder this time, like he could force the truth to stick.

"You left this behind," the boy whispered, his voice soft but unwavering. "You forgot me."

Stiles’ breath caught.

“I didn’t forget anything.”

The boy stopped at the foot of the bed.

"Then why can’t you look at her?"

Stiles froze.

His hands trembled at his sides as his gaze flicked to Claudia’s face.

She looked peaceful. Her breathing slow.

But he couldn’t take a step closer.

Derek shifted beside him, his voice low. “Stiles?”

“I can’t,” Stiles whispered.

His chest tightened, old grief pressing down like a weight. The ache that had dulled over time now roared back to life, raw and sharp.

“It’s not her,” Stiles muttered, forcing his gaze to the floor. “It’s not real.”

But when he said the words, they felt hollow.

Because part of him wanted it to be real.

The Grimoire’s Intentions
The boy tilted his head, watching him carefully.

"It’s not about her," he said softly.

Stiles frowned, his eyes narrowing. “What?”

"It’s about you."

Before Stiles could ask what that meant, the hospital room flickered violently.

The edges of the memory began to unravel, and the glowing boy stepped back, slowly fading into mist.

“Wait!” Stiles lunged forward, reaching for him, but his hand cut through nothing.

The world dissolved in a blink, and suddenly—

He was standing back in the preserve.

Cold air rushed back into his lungs, the forest stretching out around him as if nothing had happened. The clearing was empty, and the fog hung low over the trees.

Stiles staggered slightly, disoriented. Derek caught his arm.

“You okay?” Derek asked, his grip firm and grounding.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, though his voice shook. “I just—”

He glanced at his hand.

The sigil was glowing brighter now, the pulsing faster and stronger.

“Derek, this isn’t just some random magical nightmare,” Stiles said quietly, his heart still racing. “That kid—I think he’s me. Or some part of me I left behind.”

Derek’s brows furrowed, his eyes narrowing in concern.

“The grimoire’s trying to show me something,” Stiles continued, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what, but whatever it is… it’s not finished.”

Derek’s gaze darkened, his voice low. “Then we find out what it wants. Together.”

Stiles met his eyes, something warm flickering in his chest at the certainty in Derek’s tone.

“Together,” Stiles echoed.

But as they turned to leave the preserve, the faint echo of a child’s laughter followed them, drifting softly through the trees.

Unseen by either of them, the glowing boy stood at the edge of the clearing, watching silently.

The sigil on his palm matched the one on Stiles’ hand.

And as he faded into the mist, his eyes flashed brighter.

"I’m waiting."

Chapter Text

The drive back from the preserve was quiet.

Too quiet.

Stiles sat in Derek’s Jeep, staring out the window as Beacon Hills blurred past. The sigil on his palm still glowed faintly, a constant reminder of the boy—the shadow of himself—now lurking somewhere just beyond reach.

He hated how familiar that feeling was.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Derek said suddenly, eyes flicking to him from the driver’s seat.

Stiles snorted softly. “You know that’s my default setting, right?”

Derek didn’t smile. “It wasn’t just a memory back there.”

Stiles glanced at him, brow furrowing. “Yeah. I got that when baby me decided to point out all my emotional baggage.”

Derek’s grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. “It’s not just about your past. The grimoire is pulling something else out.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Something else? Like what—my Netflix queue? Because I’m not apologizing for binge-watching The X-Files.”

Derek gave him a long, unamused look.

“Fine,” Stiles muttered. “But if this is some ‘unlock your inner magic’ situation, I’m gonna need more than cryptic child ghosts and vague witch riddles.”

Derek didn’t answer, his focus returning to the road.

But his silence was heavy, like he already knew the answer and wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

The Stilinski House
The house felt too still when they got inside.

Stiles shut the door quietly behind him, glancing around like he expected the kid-version of himself to be waiting on the couch with popcorn.

Nothing.

Derek lingered by the doorway, his eyes scanning the room with that intense, predatory focus Stiles was getting way too comfortable with.

“Do you—uh—want something to drink?” Stiles asked awkwardly. “We’ve got water, orange juice, and whatever’s been fermenting in the back of the fridge since Thanksgiving.”

Derek arched a brow. “I’m fine.”

“Right. Of course, you are.”

Stiles hovered near the kitchen counter, drumming his fingers nervously. The silence between them wasn’t bad—it was just… charged.

“So,” Stiles said, after a beat, “you staying again tonight? I can set up a blanket fort in the living room if you’re into that kind of thing.”

Derek crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

Stiles expected as much.

He glanced at Derek, taking in the way his eyes softened just slightly—not enough for most people to notice, but Stiles always noticed.

“Hey,” Stiles said, shifting a little closer, “you know this isn’t your fault, right?”

Derek’s gaze snapped to him, guarded. “I never said it was.”

“You didn’t have to.”

For a moment, Derek looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled softly and dropped his arms to his sides. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

The sincerity in his voice made Stiles’ heart do that stupid fluttery thing he absolutely refused to acknowledge.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles said, covering with a grin, “you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Derek’s lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile Stiles was going to get.

And honestly, it was enough.

Later That Night
Stiles couldn’t sleep.

Again.

He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the faint hum of the sigil on his hand keeping him anchored somewhere between exhausted and wired.

Downstairs, Derek’s quiet footsteps echoed faintly as he patrolled the house. The thought of Derek pacing through the living room like some grumpy, overprotective wolf should’ve been ridiculous.

Instead, it made Stiles feel… safe.

Which was weird.

Stiles sat up, rubbing his face. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and opened his texts.

Stiles: You know I’m not gonna sleep, right?
Derek: I know.

Stiles smirked, biting his lip.

Stiles: You’re very helpful.
Derek: Go to sleep.

Before he could reply, the sigil on his hand flared brighter, the green light washing over his room in a soft pulse.

Stiles froze.

The whispers returned, faint but clear.

"Come back."

Stiles’ chest tightened as the air in his room thickened. Slowly, he glanced toward the corner—

And there he was.

The boy stood in the shadows, watching silently, his head tilted as if waiting for something.

Stiles’ pulse quickened. “You again,” he whispered. “I thought we agreed no creepy surprise visits.”

The boy didn’t answer.

Instead, he raised his hand and pointed—toward the window.

Stiles followed his gaze, stepping cautiously toward the glass.

Outside, the fog had rolled in thick across the backyard. But just beyond the trees, Stiles saw something faintly glowing in the distance.

It wasn’t the sigil.

It was a light.

“Derek,” Stiles called, his voice sharper now.

Within seconds, Derek was at the door, eyes flashing red as he scanned the room. “What?”

Stiles pointed out the window. “Tell me you see that.”

Derek’s gaze shifted, locking onto the glow. His eyes narrowed. “I see it.”

“Well,” Stiles said, tugging on his jacket, “guess we’re not sleeping tonight.”

Derek growled softly. “Stay behind me.”

Stiles opened the window, climbing down onto the porch roof. “Not happening.”

Derek sighed heavily but followed him out.

The Woods
They moved silently through the backyard, the fog curling around their legs as they crossed into the preserve. The light ahead grew brighter the closer they got.

Stiles’ hand ached.

The sigil’s pulsing matched the glow now—synchronized like a heartbeat.

Finally, they reached a clearing.

At the center stood a tall, ancient tree. The glow emanated from its base, where faint symbols carved into the bark flickered softly.

Stiles stepped closer, his palm burning.

“I know this tree,” he said quietly.

Derek stayed close behind him. “It’s older than Beacon Hills.”

Stiles knelt, brushing his fingers against the bark. The carvings beneath his touch felt familiar.

Too familiar.

Suddenly, the whispers returned, curling around him like smoke.

"It started here."

Stiles glanced at Derek. “I think—”

Before he could finish, the ground shifted beneath them, and the sigil on his hand blazed bright.

The forest faded again.

And this time, when the world sharpened, they weren’t alone.

Claudia Stilinski stood by the tree, staring at them with glowing green eyes.

Stiles’ breath caught as his mother stepped forward, her hand resting gently on the sigil carved into the tree.

"You’ve come back to finish it."

Chapter Text

Stiles couldn’t breathe.

His mom—his actual mom—stood right there.

She looked exactly like he remembered. The soft curls framing her face, the gentle but tired smile, the warmth that made every terrible day better when he was a kid.

But there was one glaring difference.

Her eyes glowed green.

Derek stepped protectively in front of Stiles, claws half-extended, his body tense and ready for whatever supernatural force this was.

“Stiles,” Derek said quietly, “that’s not her.”

Stiles didn’t move.

His brain knew Derek was right—couldn’t be more right. Claudia Stilinski had been gone for years. But that didn’t stop the sharp ache clawing its way up his throat.

“She looks real enough,” Stiles muttered, his voice rough.

Derek didn’t lower his guard. His red alpha eyes flickered as he scanned Claudia carefully, watching for even the slightest movement.

“Why is she here?” Derek asked, his tone sharper now.

Claudia’s head tilted slightly, the same way the shadow boy had. Her gaze flickered past Derek, landing on Stiles like she was waiting for him to say something.

You’ve come back to finish it.

Stiles swallowed hard, forcing himself to step out from behind Derek.

“I don’t know what ‘it’ is,” Stiles said, his heart hammering, “but you’re going to have to be way more specific if you want me to—”

Claudia’s eyes softened. “You do know.”

Stiles froze, the weight of her voice pulling at something buried deep in his chest.

Derek’s hand shot out, gripping Stiles’ arm as if to stop him from stepping closer. “Stiles.”

Stiles barely heard him.

His gaze locked onto Claudia, memories flashing—his mom tucking him in at night, brushing his hair back with soft fingers, whispering that he’d be okay after every bad dream.

This wasn’t fair.

“I tried to remember everything,” Stiles said, his voice cracking as he took another step forward. “I held onto every second I could. So if you’re trying to tell me I missed something—”

Claudia smiled faintly. “You didn’t miss it. You buried it.”

The ground beneath Stiles’ feet shifted, but this time it wasn’t the forest changing.

It was him.

Memory Unraveling
The clearing around them flickered. Stiles felt like he was standing between two realities—caught in the thin veil between the present and something else entirely.

Derek tightened his grip. “Stiles, listen to me—whatever this is, it’s not your mom. It’s something the grimoire is using.”

“I know that!” Stiles snapped, but his voice wavered.

The problem wasn’t knowing. It was wanting to believe, even for a second, that Derek was wrong.

Because if there was even a tiny chance this wasn’t some magical illusion…

Claudia’s gaze softened further. “Let me show you.”

Stiles’ breath hitched.

And before Derek could stop him, he stepped forward and placed his hand against hers.

Flashback – Stilinski House (Years Ago)
Suddenly, he wasn’t in the woods anymore.

He stood in the hallway of his childhood home.

The walls were lined with photos—some of them familiar, but others… weren’t.

Stiles’ younger self, maybe seven or eight, sat cross-legged on the floor at the end of the hall, stacking small stones into towers.

His mom sat nearby, watching him with a gentle smile.

Stiles’ throat tightened as he took in the scene, his hand brushing against the wall for support. “I remember this.”

It wasn’t a particularly important day. There was no tragedy attached to it. It was just one of those small moments that meant nothing and everything at the same time.

He remembered sitting there for hours, just talking to her—about the stars, the shapes in the clouds, and the weird bird that wouldn’t stop hanging around their yard.

It was peaceful.

But something wasn’t right.

As Stiles watched, Claudia shifted, pulling a small leather-bound book from the shelf beside her.

Stiles blinked.

He’d never seen that book before.

The sigil on his palm flared as Claudia handed the book to young Stiles.

And as his younger self opened it, Stiles caught the faint shimmer of green light reflecting in the glass photo frames on the wall.

Present – Back in the Clearing
Stiles gasped, stumbling backward.

Derek caught him, steadying him as the forest snapped back into focus around them.

“What did you see?” Derek asked, his eyes burning red.

Stiles’ head spun.

He remembered the day now—remembered her handing him that book. But the memory was hazy, like someone had taken a match to the edges.

“I—I think it was the grimoire,” Stiles said, his breathing uneven. “She had it. My mom had the grimoire.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted.

Claudia was gone now, the space where she had stood empty except for the faint crackle of residual magic.

But the sigil on the tree—burned deep into the bark—still glowed softly.

“Maybe it wasn’t the grimoire exactly,” Stiles muttered, kneeling beside the tree. “Maybe it was part of it.”

He reached out, brushing his fingers against the carved sigil.

The second he touched it, the forest shifted again, but this time only for him.

A Whisper from the Past
Stiles stood in the same hospital room he’d seen before.

His younger self sat by Claudia’s bedside, head down, tears clinging to the edges of his eyes.

Her hand rested on his, and she whispered something too soft to hear.

But when Stiles stepped closer, he caught the end of it.

"One day, you’ll need to remember. And when that day comes, follow the light, sweetheart."

Stiles’ breath caught.

He knelt beside his younger self, his heart pounding.

“What light?” Stiles whispered, desperate for the answer.

But the memory dissolved before he could ask.

Stiles snapped back to reality, his hand still pressed to the sigil on the tree.

Derek knelt beside him, eyes narrowed. “What did you see?”

Stiles looked up, his heart racing.

“I think… she left something behind. And I need to find it.”

As the words left his mouth, the ground beneath the tree cracked—just slightly.

And deep below, something faintly glowed.

Chapter Text

The crack in the ground widened.

A faint green light seeped from beneath the roots of the ancient tree, pulsing slowly—like a heartbeat.

Stiles stared, his breath catching in his throat.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, “if this is some kind of cursed magical treasure, I’m filing a complaint with whatever department handles supernatural inheritance.”

Derek shot him a sharp look but didn’t let go of his tense stance. “Step back.”

Stiles didn’t move. “I think—”

“Stiles.”

Derek’s tone left no room for debate.

Stiles reluctantly shifted backward, though his eyes never left the light creeping from the ground. Derek knelt at the base of the tree, his claws extending as he carefully began pulling at the roots, tearing them apart with ease.

“You’re disturbingly good at that,” Stiles commented, arms crossed.

Derek didn’t respond. He dug deeper, ripping up the tangled mass of earth and wood until the light grew stronger.

And then they saw it.

Beneath the dirt, wrapped in darkened, ancient cloth, was a small box.

Derek hesitated. The air around it crackled faintly, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Magic,” Derek growled.

“Yup,” Stiles said, stepping closer despite Derek’s warning glare. “I feel it too.”

The sigil on Stiles’ palm flared in response, the glow matching the box perfectly.

“Guess it’s for me,” Stiles said, kneeling beside Derek.

“Or it’s a trap,” Derek muttered, not backing down.

Stiles smirked. “Isn’t it always?”

Before Derek could stop him, Stiles reached out and placed his hand on the box.

The Box Opens
The second Stiles’ fingers brushed the cloth, the world shifted.

A rush of cold air spiraled around them, and for a moment, Stiles thought he heard distant voices—whispers he couldn’t quite make out.

The cloth unraveled on its own, peeling back like petals, revealing the box beneath.

It wasn’t ornate or flashy.

It was simple, blackened with age, and faint carvings lined its edges—symbols that Stiles recognized but couldn’t place.

Derek’s claws flexed as he watched closely. “You sure this is a good idea?”

“Nope,” Stiles replied, popping the ‘p.’ “But if this thing’s connected to my mom, I need to know.”

With a deep breath, Stiles lifted the lid.

Inside lay a small leather-bound book—similar to the one from the vision.

But this one wasn’t glowing. It looked worn, like it had been hidden for years.

And beneath the book, nestled carefully in the cloth, was a silver ring.

Stiles frowned, picking it up. The sigil on his hand flickered brighter the second he touched the metal.

“Okay,” Stiles muttered, turning the ring over in his fingers. “This is officially weird.”

Derek leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “That symbol… it matches the grimoire.”

Stiles froze, examining the ring more closely. He hadn’t noticed at first, but etched into the inside of the band was the same sigil—the mark that had appeared on his palm.

“It’s a family crest,” Stiles whispered, realization dawning.

Derek stiffened. “Your family?”

“I—I guess,” Stiles said, voice uncertain. “But that doesn’t make any sense. My mom never mentioned anything about magic. Or grimoires. Or whatever this is.”

Derek’s gaze darkened. “Maybe she was trying to protect you.”

Stiles' chest tightened at the thought.

He wanted to argue, to dismiss the idea that his mom had kept something this big from him, but deep down, he knew Derek was probably right.

“She left this behind,” Stiles said softly, running his thumb over the ring. “She wanted me to find it.”

Derek’s gaze flicked toward the book still sitting in the box.

“There’s more,” he said.

Stiles carefully lifted the leather-bound book, the weight of it heavier than he expected. The pages inside were filled with delicate, handwritten notes—some in English, some in Latin.

But as he flipped through the first few pages, one thing became clear.

“This is hers,” Stiles whispered.

Derek leaned over his shoulder. “Your mom’s?”

Stiles nodded, his chest tightening. The handwriting was unmistakable. Claudia Stilinski’s careful, looping script lined every page.

“It’s a journal,” Stiles said, swallowing hard. “It’s hers.”

He glanced at Derek, his heart pounding.

“My mom knew about the grimoire.”

The First Entry
Stiles sat on the couch later that night, the journal open across his lap. Derek paced quietly behind him, pausing occasionally to glance at the pages over Stiles’ shoulder.

The words on the first entry made his stomach twist.

"To my son—"

Stiles’ breath hitched.

Derek leaned closer, but he didn’t say anything, letting Stiles read in silence.

"If you’re reading this, it means the magic has returned to you. I always hoped it wouldn’t. But if it has… you need to know the truth."

Stiles' fingers tightened around the edge of the journal.

"Our family’s connection to the grimoire is old—older than Beacon Hills. It’s in our blood. But the magic is dangerous. I tried to keep you away from it, but I knew this day might come."

Stiles swallowed hard.

"The grimoire chose you, just like it chose me. But you’re stronger than you realize. I believe in you."

His vision blurred slightly, and he had to blink rapidly to keep reading.

"When the shadows call, follow the light. It will guide you home."

Stiles closed the journal slowly, his heart aching in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

For a long time, he didn’t speak.

Derek finally broke the silence. “She knew.”

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered. “She knew.”

Derek’s hand brushed against his shoulder—light, grounding, and full of quiet reassurance.

Stiles didn’t pull away.

“Guess we’ve got some reading to do,” Stiles said, attempting a weak smile.

Derek nodded. “We’ll figure it out.”

Stiles exhaled slowly, leaning back against the couch. The journal lay heavy in his lap, but for the first time, he didn’t feel as alone.

Maybe—just maybe—following the light wasn’t as impossible as it seemed.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet.

The journal sat open across Stiles’ lap, its fragile pages illuminated by the soft glow of the desk lamp. Derek leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed, his eyes scanning the entries over Stiles’ shoulder.

Neither of them spoke for a long time.

The weight of Claudia’s words still hung between them—The magic has returned to you.

Stiles flipped to the next page, his fingers trailing over the faded ink.

"The grimoire is not just a book. It’s alive, in its own way. It chooses those who carry the bloodline. I tried to break the connection after you were born. I thought I succeeded… but if you’re reading this, I was wrong."

Stiles exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “Awesome. So my family tree comes with a haunted spell book and zero instructions.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed at the words. “She thought she broke the bond. That means she knew how dangerous it was.”

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered, tapping his fingers against the edge of the journal. “And judging by the glowing sigil burned into my hand, I’m guessing the grimoire wasn’t thrilled about being ditched.”

Derek shifted, his red eyes flickering faintly as he stared down at the page. “There’s more.”

Stiles followed his gaze, scanning further down.

"I left a piece of the grimoire behind—hidden, bound in the roots of the tree where it all began. If you found it, the bond is already rekindling."

Stiles glanced at the small box resting beside him on the couch. The silver ring still pulsed faintly with the same green light as his sigil.

“Yeah, Mom,” Stiles muttered. “Really getting that vibe.”

Derek’s focus didn’t waver. “Why did she hide it?”

Stiles frowned, flipping through the journal faster. “I don’t know. There’s gotta be more.”

As he skimmed the pages, something in the margins caught his eye.

Small symbols—sigils similar to the one on his palm—were scribbled in faint ink beside several paragraphs.

Derek leaned in closer. “Look at the patterns. They match the runes Rowena uses.”

Stiles froze.

His gaze snapped to Derek. “Wait, you’re saying Rowena—Rowena—is somehow tied to this?”

Derek’s expression darkened. “It’s not impossible. She’s older than she looks. And she always seems to know more than she lets on.”

Stiles leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Great. So, let me get this straight. My mom left behind a magical journal, part of the grimoire, and there’s a chance Rowena’s been lurking in the background this whole time?”

Derek gave him a pointed look. “You sound surprised.”

Stiles groaned. “Why is it always witches?”

Later – Stilinski House
The soft hum of Derek’s Jeep idling in the driveway filled the air as Stiles stood by the open door, clutching the journal to his chest.

“You sure you don’t want to stay?” Stiles asked, trying to sound casual.

Derek leaned against the doorframe, his gaze steady. “You’re not alone, Stiles. If anything happens—”

“I know,” Stiles cut in, offering a faint smile. “You’ll be the first person I call. Right after I panic and scream into the void for ten minutes.”

Derek didn’t smile, but his eyes softened.

He lingered there for a second too long, as if debating whether or not to leave.

“Go,” Stiles said, nudging him lightly. “You’ve done your brooding bodyguard duty for the night.”

Derek huffed but didn’t move immediately.

“Be careful with that journal,” Derek finally said, nodding toward the worn book in Stiles’ hands. “It might hold answers, but it also ties you closer to the grimoire.”

Stiles’ grin faltered. “Yeah. I kind of figured that part out already.”

Derek’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, but then he stepped down onto the porch, heading toward the Jeep.

Before climbing in, he glanced back.

“If anything changes—”

“I know, Derek,” Stiles interrupted, leaning against the doorframe. “I promise.”

Derek hesitated, then nodded once before pulling away.

Stiles watched until the red taillights disappeared down the street.

The second the Jeep was gone, the house felt too quiet.

Midnight – Stiles’ Room
Stiles lay on his bed, the journal open beside him, but he hadn’t turned a page in nearly twenty minutes.

His eyes flicked between the words and the silver ring now sitting on his nightstand.

The sigil on his hand pulsed faintly again, the glow matching the soft light from the ring.

Every time he tried to ignore it, the whispers returned—soft and distant, but unmistakable.

"You already know the way."

Stiles swallowed hard, his fingers curling against the blanket.

“I don’t,” he whispered to the empty room. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

The whispering stopped.

But the light from the ring brightened.

Before he could think too hard, Stiles sat up, grabbed the ring, and slid it onto his finger.

The moment the metal touched his skin, the sigil on his palm flared.

A rush of cold shot up his arm, and Stiles barely had time to gasp before—

Vision – The Beacon Hills Preserve
Stiles stood at the base of the ancient tree once more.

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

The boy—the glowing, shadowed version of his younger self—stood just a few feet away, staring at him.

“You’re back,” the boy said softly.

Stiles crossed his arms, trying to steady his racing heart. “Yeah, I guess I am. Care to explain why?”

The boy didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he held up his hand.

The same silver ring gleamed on his finger, identical to the one Stiles now wore.

Stiles’ stomach dropped. “What—”

"You left me here."

The boy’s voice was calm, but the weight of his words cut deep.

Stiles’ throat tightened. “I didn’t leave anyone—”

"You forgot."

The forest around them flickered.

And suddenly, Stiles was standing at the edge of a familiar graveyard.

His mother’s grave.

Stiles’ heart pounded as he turned toward the boy, who now stood by the headstone, eyes glowing softly.

"It’s not just about her. It never was."

The sigil on Stiles’ hand burned.

He clenched his fist, his voice shaking. “Then tell me what it is about.”

The boy’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze pierced through him.

"You’ll see soon enough."

Stiles jolted awake in his bed, gasping for air.

The ring on his finger was ice cold.

And across his room, standing in the corner, the boy watched him quietly—still there.

"You’re running out of time."

Chapter Text

Stiles’ heart slammed against his ribs.

The boy—his shadow—stood in the corner, barely more than a flicker in the dim light. But he was solid enough for Stiles to see him clearly.

And solid enough for him to know this wasn’t a dream.

Stiles sat up slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. “Okay,” he whispered, holding his hands up like he was negotiating with a wild animal. “This is new. I thought we were sticking to creepy visions. Now you’re just… chilling in my room?”

The boy didn’t answer.

His eyes glowed faintly, casting soft green reflections across the walls.

Stiles swallowed hard, glancing toward the bedroom door. “Derek’s gonna kill me for not calling him right now.”

The boy’s head tilted, his expression unreadable.

"You didn’t tell him everything."

Stiles stiffened. “Excuse me?”

"You know why I’m here. But you didn’t tell him."

Stiles clenched his jaw. “Yeah, well, maybe I didn’t feel like explaining to my terrifying alpha best friend that the creepy ghost kid haunting me looks exactly like me. You think that’s an easy conversation?”

The boy stepped closer.

His movements were eerily fluid, too smooth to be natural.

Stiles tensed but held his ground.

“I don’t even know what you are,” Stiles said, voice lowering. “You keep showing up, saying cryptic things, and flashing those freaky glow eyes at me. Care to explain?”

The boy stopped just a few feet away.

"I’m you."

Stiles blinked. “Yeah, I got that part. Thanks.”

"No," the boy said softly, his voice like an echo layered over Stiles' own. "I’m the part you left behind."

The words settled heavily between them.

Stiles’ pulse quickened. His mouth opened to argue, but something clicked—like a memory just out of reach.

Before he could respond, the boy’s eyes flickered brighter.

"You need to remember, Stiles. Or this won’t stop."

The room shifted slightly—tilting, warping—before the boy faded, dissolving into soft wisps of shadow that melted into the walls.

And then he was gone.

Stiles sat there, staring at the empty space for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, he grabbed his phone.

Stiles: Come back.

The response was almost instant.

Derek: I never left.

Five Minutes Later – Stilinski House
Derek was already halfway through the front door when Stiles opened it.

“What happened?” Derek asked immediately, stepping inside and scanning the room like he expected something to jump out from behind the furniture.

Stiles shut the door behind him, rubbing the back of his neck. “He was here. The kid—me, whatever he is. He was standing in my room, just… watching.”

Derek’s eyes darkened, his body going rigid. “Here? Physically?”

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered, crossing his arms. “I could’ve poked him if I was feeling brave and/or stupid.”

Derek’s gaze swept the house again, his jaw tight. “Did he say anything?”

Stiles hesitated for half a second too long.

Derek caught it immediately. “Stiles.”

“He said he’s part of me,” Stiles admitted, his voice quieter now. “The part I left behind.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said, exhaling sharply. “But he’s not trying to hurt me. I think… I think he’s trying to warn me.”

Derek wasn’t convinced.

His red alpha eyes flashed as he prowled toward the stairs. “I’m checking your room.”

“Fine,” Stiles called after him, trailing behind. “But if you find any more creepy magical versions of me under the bed, I’m moving to Canada.”

Stiles’ Room
The room looked normal.

No shadows. No glowing eyes. Just Stiles’ usual organized chaos—half-open books, empty energy drink cans, and a hoodie that definitely should’ve been washed weeks ago.

Derek lingered by the window, scanning the space carefully.

“You know,” Stiles said from the doorway, “I don’t think glaring at the walls is gonna make him come back.”

Derek’s shoulders stayed tense, but he didn’t argue.

After a moment, he turned to face Stiles. “You’re sure it wasn’t just a vision?”

“Derek,” Stiles deadpanned, pointing to the floor. “The kid literally left footprints.”

Derek’s gaze dropped—and sure enough, faint impressions pressed into the carpet led directly to where the boy had stood.

Derek’s expression darkened. “We need to talk to Rowena.”

Stiles grimaced. “Of course we do. I was hoping to avoid another witchy heart-to-heart.”

Derek shot him a look.

“What? I’m not exactly feeling the warm and fuzzy vibes from her,” Stiles said, tossing his hands in the air. “She’s sketchy. And let’s not forget, she probably knew about all this way before I did.”

Derek crossed the room, stopping just inches in front of him. “She has answers. And right now, that’s more important than trusting her.”

Stiles huffed but nodded. “Fine. But if she starts calling me ‘darling’ again, I’m hexing her.”

Derek’s eyes softened, and for a split second, Stiles thought he saw the corner of Derek’s mouth twitch.

“I’d pay to see that,” Derek muttered as he brushed past him toward the hallway.

Stiles blinked, stunned. “Was that… sarcasm?”

“I’ll be in the car,” Derek called over his shoulder.

Stiles grinned.

Creepy ghost doppelgänger aside, the night was starting to look up.

As Stiles locked the front door behind him and followed Derek out, he didn’t notice the faint reflection in the glass.

The boy stood just inside the house, watching them leave.

But this time, his eyes weren’t glowing.

They were dark.

And the faintest trace of a smile tugged at his lips.

"See you soon."

Chapter Text

Rowena’s cottage looked exactly how Stiles remembered—cozy, cluttered, and filled with way too many things that could probably kill him.

The door swung open before Derek could knock.

“I knew you’d come,” Rowena said smoothly, leaning against the frame with a sly smile. “Didn’t think you’d bring the Alpha, though. What’s wrong, dear? Afraid I’ll steal you away?”

Derek growled low in his throat.

Stiles grinned. “Trust me, that’s not the concern.”

Rowena’s eyes sparkled with amusement, but her gaze sharpened when she caught sight of the sigil still faintly glowing on Stiles’ hand.

“Well,” she said, stepping aside. “That didn’t take long.”

Stiles frowned, glancing between her and Derek. “Okay, that’s a suspiciously ominous way to greet someone. Care to elaborate, or are we going straight to the cryptic part?”

Rowena shut the door behind them, waving toward a table cluttered with books and half-melted candles. “Sit.”

Stiles dropped into the nearest chair while Derek stood near the door, arms crossed, radiating distrust.

Rowena leaned over the table, resting her chin on her hand as she studied Stiles.

“You saw him, didn’t you?” she asked quietly.

Stiles’ stomach twisted. “The kid? Yeah. He’s been making house calls.”

Rowena’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes darkened slightly. “I warned you the grimoire wouldn’t let you go. This shadow—this fragment of yourself—is part of that.”

Stiles clenched his jaw. “He said I left him behind. That I forgot.”

Rowena’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You did.”

Derek stepped forward. “Explain.”

Rowena’s gaze flicked to him, her smirk returning. “My, aren’t you protective tonight.”

Derek’s glare could’ve burned through steel.

Rowena sighed dramatically, brushing curls over her shoulder. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She gestured to the journal still tucked under Stiles’ arm. “You found the journal. Good. But what you don’t realize is that your mother was far more involved with the supernatural than you’ve been led to believe.”

Stiles’ grip on the book tightened. “I figured that part out when she started showing up in magical visions.”

Rowena arched a brow. “Claudia wasn’t just bonded to the grimoire, Stiles. She was guarding it.”

The room fell deathly quiet.

Stiles blinked. “I’m sorry. What?”

“She knew the danger,” Rowena continued, her gaze steady. “The grimoire doesn’t attach itself to just anyone. Your family line has carried magic for generations. Claudia tried to sever the bond—tried to shield you from it—but magic like that doesn’t simply vanish.”

Stiles’ throat tightened. “So… what you’re saying is, my mom didn’t just know about the grimoire. She was its babysitter.”

“In a way,” Rowena replied. “She bound part of it away—sealed it beneath the roots of the tree where you found the box. But she didn’t destroy it. She couldn’t.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “And now that bond’s passed to Stiles.”

Rowena nodded.

Stiles leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “Of course. Because my life wasn’t complicated enough.”

Rowena’s gaze softened slightly. “Your mother did what she thought was best, darling. But magic like this leaves traces. Memories.”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably, his mind flashing to the boy in his room. “And those traces… they show up as creepy kid versions of me?”

Rowena smirked faintly. “The grimoire manifests in ways that make sense to the one bonded to it. He is the part of you that carries the connection—unfinished, waiting to be reclaimed.”

Stiles frowned. “Reclaimed how?”

Rowena straightened, stepping closer. “You need to confront him. All of him. Until you acknowledge that piece of yourself, the bond will only grow stronger… and more dangerous.”

Derek’s hand twitched at his side, but his voice was calm. “And if he doesn’t?”

Rowena met Derek’s gaze. “Then the grimoire will consume him.”

Later – Outside Rowena’s Cottage
The air felt heavier as they stepped outside.

Stiles shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, staring up at the dark sky.

“She’s not wrong, you know,” Stiles said after a beat.

Derek, standing just behind him, frowned. “You’re not seriously considering facing that thing alone.”

“I don’t think I have a choice,” Stiles muttered, kicking at a loose stone. “If I don’t figure this out, I’m either gonna get haunted to death or accidentally explode.”

Derek didn’t look away. “You’re not doing it alone.”

Stiles turned to him, grinning faintly. “Look at you. Brooding alpha and emotional support werewolf. I’m honored.”

Derek growled softly. “Stiles.”

“I know,” Stiles said quietly, his smirk fading. “I know you’re serious. And… I appreciate it.”

Derek’s gaze lingered for a moment before he nodded, stepping closer. “We’ll figure this out. But you’re not going to let the grimoire decide who you are.”

Stiles exhaled, his breath curling in the cold air.

For the first time in days, the sigil on his palm didn’t feel quite as heavy.

“Thanks,” Stiles said softly.

Derek didn’t reply, but his presence beside Stiles felt grounding in a way that words couldn’t match.

As they walked toward Derek’s Jeep, the faintest flicker of green shimmered in the trees behind them.

The boy stood at the edge of the woods, watching.

His eyes glowed softly.

But this time, he wasn’t smiling.

He was waiting.

Chapter Text

The woods were unnaturally quiet.

Derek’s Jeep rumbled to a stop at the edge of the Beacon Hills Preserve. Stiles stared out at the tree line, his fingers absently tracing the sigil on his palm. It hadn’t stopped glowing since they left Rowena’s.

He felt it now—like a tether pulling him deeper into the forest.

The kid was waiting.

Stiles sighed heavily, shoving the door open. “Alright, let’s get this over with. I’m ready for my spooky supernatural therapy session.”

Derek exited the Jeep without a word, his eyes scanning the area carefully. The moonlight reflected in his gaze, giving them that faint red flicker Stiles had come to recognize as protective but also mildly irritated.

“Stay close,” Derek muttered, stepping ahead of him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles said, falling into step behind him. “Not like I’m running toward my haunted doppelgänger with open arms.”

They walked deeper into the preserve, following the faint path winding toward the clearing. The air grew colder the closer they got, and the light breeze rattling the leaves sounded almost like whispers.

“You feel that, right?” Stiles asked quietly.

Derek’s jaw tightened. “I feel it.”

Stiles swallowed. “Cool, cool. Just making sure I’m not imagining the paranormal death vibes.”

The sigil on his palm pulsed stronger now, casting faint light over the surrounding trees.

And then, just as they reached the clearing, he was there.

The boy—Stiles’ shadow—stood beneath the ancient tree, hands at his sides, eyes glowing softly.

He didn’t move.

“Showtime,” Stiles whispered.

Derek stepped protectively in front of him, but Stiles nudged him aside. “I got this,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be right here.”

Stiles nodded, taking a deep breath before stepping forward.

The boy’s gaze followed him, calm but piercing.

“You came,” the boy said softly.

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered, stopping a few feet away. “I figured it was about time we had a chat. You’ve been showing up uninvited for a while now.”

The boy tilted his head, eyes flicking toward Derek for the briefest moment.

“You didn’t tell him everything.”

Stiles stiffened. “I told him enough.”

The boy smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it. “You’re lying. Even to yourself.”

Stiles clenched his jaw, but the boy stepped forward, closing the space between them.

“I’m the part you don’t want to remember,” the boy whispered. “The part you left behind when she died.”

Stiles’ breath caught.

His heart hammered painfully in his chest. “No,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “That’s not—”

“You buried me,” the boy continued, his voice soft but relentless. “But I never left. I’ve been here. Waiting.”

Stiles took a step back. His chest tightened, the weight of the words pressing down like a storm cloud ready to burst.

He didn’t want to hear this.

Not now.

Not ever.

Derek stepped closer, sensing the shift. “Stiles,” Derek warned, his red eyes flickering dangerously.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said quickly, but his voice wavered.

The boy’s glowing gaze didn’t leave his.

“You think you can keep running,” the boy said. “But you can’t run from me.”

Stiles swallowed hard. “I’m not running.”

“Then stop pretending I’m not real.”

The sigil on Stiles’ palm flared brightly, burning like fire.

Stiles hissed, clutching his hand as the glow intensified. The boy stepped closer, his form flickering slightly.

“Why are you still here?” Stiles snapped, gritting his teeth through the pain. “What do you want from me?”

The boy’s gaze softened, and for the first time, he looked less like a shadow and more like… him.

“I want you to remember.”

Stiles’ heart twisted painfully, memories flashing behind his eyes—his mom’s laughter, the way she held his hand when he was scared, and the nights he spent sitting outside her hospital room, pretending he was fine when he wasn’t.

When he lost her, he buried that pain.

Buried himself.

“I know it hurts,” the boy whispered. “But you have to stop pushing me away.”

Stiles’ throat tightened.

For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the fragment of himself he’d tried to forget.

And finally—finally—he took a step forward.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered, his voice cracking.

The boy smiled faintly.

“It’s okay,” the boy said softly. “I was always waiting for you to come back.”

Stiles’ palm burned one last time—bright and searing.

But this time, he didn’t pull away.

He let it happen.

The Bond Seals
The boy reached out, his hand pressing lightly over the sigil on Stiles’ palm.

A rush of warmth spread through him, and for the first time, the pain faded.

The sigil’s glow softened, no longer pulsing wildly but steady—controlled.

The boy’s form flickered once, his edges dissolving like smoke.

And just before he disappeared, he whispered one last thing.

"You’re whole now."

Stiles’ breath left him in a shaky exhale.

He opened his eyes.

The clearing was empty.

Derek stepped beside him, his eyes flickering back to normal as he scanned the space cautiously. “Stiles?”

Stiles flexed his hand, staring down at the now dormant sigil. It was still there, faint but no longer burning.

“I think…” Stiles said quietly, swallowing hard. “I think it’s over.”

Derek watched him carefully. “You sure?”

Stiles nodded slowly.

“I faced him. The part I left behind.”

Derek’s gaze lingered, searching his face. “And?”

Stiles smiled faintly. “And I think… I’m okay.”

Derek didn’t say anything, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

“Let’s go home,” Derek said finally, placing a steady hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles exhaled softly. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

As they walked back to the Jeep, the sigil on the tree behind them faded into darkness.

But deep beneath the roots, something else shifted—watching.

Waiting.

Because some bonds can’t be broken.

Chapter Text

The ride back to Stiles’ house was quieter than usual.

The kind of quiet that felt fragile—like speaking too loudly would shatter it.

Stiles stared out the window, watching the dark trees blur past. His hand rested on his lap, the sigil faint against his skin now, but still there. The steady pulse of it felt… different. Less like a burden. More like a part of him he’d finally stopped running from.

He could breathe again.

Derek hadn’t said much since they left the clearing. Stiles knew him well enough to realize that Derek’s silence wasn’t about discomfort. It was how he processed things.

Which was fine.

Stiles needed the space to process too.

But after about ten minutes of uninterrupted brooding, Stiles couldn’t help himself.

“So,” Stiles said, breaking the silence, “on a scale of one to ten, how reckless was that?”

Derek didn’t look away from the road. “Fifteen.”

Stiles snorted. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

“You didn’t have to do that alone,” Derek added, his voice softer but firm.

“I wasn’t alone,” Stiles said, glancing at him. “You were there.”

Derek’s grip on the wheel tightened just slightly, but he didn’t respond.

The corner of Stiles’ mouth twitched. “Admit it, you were worried.”

“I’m always worried when you’re involved,” Derek muttered.

“Aw, Derek,” Stiles teased. “That’s the closest thing to affection I’ve ever heard from you.”

Derek shot him a side-eye glare that lacked any real heat.

“I’m serious,” Derek said after a moment. “Whatever that was—whatever part of you the grimoire manifested—it’s not gone for good. Magic doesn’t just disappear. It changes.”

Stiles sobered slightly, staring down at his hand.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

And he did.

The boy was gone, but the connection to the grimoire wasn’t severed. It was dormant. Waiting.

But this time, Stiles didn’t feel afraid.

The Stilinski House – Later That Night
The house was dark when they pulled up.

Stiles stepped out of the Jeep, stretching as the cool night air hit him. Derek lingered by the driver’s side, his gaze flicking to the windows like he was half-expecting something to leap out at them.

“You can relax,” Stiles said, jingling his keys. “No ghost kids tonight. I think we’re good.”

Derek didn’t look convinced, but he followed Stiles to the door.

“Want to come in?” Stiles asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Derek hesitated, but the tension in his stance finally eased. “Yeah.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Look at you. Almost social.”

Derek gave him a flat look. “Don’t push it.”

Inside
The warmth of the house wrapped around them like a blanket.

Stiles kicked off his shoes and tossed his jacket over the back of a chair, making a beeline for the kitchen. “I don’t know about you, but I’m eating my weight in cereal. You in?”

Derek hovered near the door, arms crossed. “I’m good.”

Stiles poured himself a bowl, leaning against the counter as he ate. Derek’s eyes tracked his movements—not in a paranoid, ‘what’s going to attack us now’ way, but with something else.

Something quieter.

“You really thought I couldn’t handle that tonight, didn’t you?” Stiles asked, his tone light but curious.

Derek met his gaze. “It wasn’t about handling it. You’ve been pushing this down for years. I just didn’t want you to face it alone.”

Stiles paused mid-chew.

It wasn’t the words themselves. It was the way Derek said them—like it mattered to him in ways Derek wouldn’t fully say out loud.

Stiles swallowed his cereal, setting the bowl down. “Thanks,” he said softly.

Derek’s eyes softened just slightly. “Don’t make it a habit.”

Stiles smirked. “No promises.”

Later
Derek crashed on the couch, his arms crossed, eyes half-lidded as he pretended he wasn’t keeping watch.

Stiles flipped through Claudia’s journal at the kitchen table, the glow from the sigil softly illuminating the pages.

The entries were mostly personal—reflections on her life, Stiles, and brief mentions of her connection to the grimoire.

But near the end, there was something else.

A sketch of the same sigil now burned into Stiles’ palm.

Beneath it, Claudia had written:

"The bond cannot be severed. Only inherited."

Stiles traced the words carefully.

It wasn’t over.

But maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

Outside, hidden beneath the moonlit trees, a shadow moved.

It wasn’t the boy.

But something darker.

Watching.

Waiting.

Because bonds weren’t just inherited.

They were hunted.

Chapter Text

The woods outside Stiles’ house felt heavier.

Derek noticed it the second he stepped onto the porch, standing just behind Stiles as the front door clicked shut.

Something was watching.

Derek’s gaze swept the tree line, his red eyes flickering as he scanned for movement. The forest sat still, but the weight in his chest told him otherwise.

Stiles stopped at the bottom of the steps, oblivious to Derek’s rigid stance.

“Well,” Stiles said, stretching, “this has been fun and not at all horrifying. I’m going to bed, and you’re free to return to Alpha Brood Mode at the loft.”

Derek didn’t move.

Stiles frowned. “Derek?”

His hand shot out, catching Stiles by the wrist.

“Someone’s out there,” Derek muttered.

Stiles immediately stiffened. “Uh. Ghost kid or something worse?”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Worse.”

The shadows at the edge of the woods shifted.

A figure stepped into the light.

Tall. Human.

But Stiles’ stomach twisted the second he saw the faint glint of the silver ring on the man’s hand—identical to the one now burning faintly on his palm.

The man’s sharp eyes locked onto Stiles.

“Well,” the stranger said smoothly, “aren’t you the spitting image of Claudia?”

Derek immediately stepped between them, claws flashing. “Who are you?”

The man smiled faintly, unfazed.

“You can call me Marcus,” he said. “And I’ve been waiting a long time for you, Stiles.”

Stiles’ breath hitched.

Derek’s voice was dangerously low. “You’re not getting near him.”

Marcus tucked his hands casually into his coat pockets, head tilting slightly. “Relax, Alpha. I’m not here to fight.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” Derek’s claws flexed.

Marcus’ eyes gleamed faintly under the moonlight. “I’m here because of the bond. The one Claudia tried to bury.”

Stiles’ heart pounded. “My mom… buried something?”

Marcus’ gaze drifted to Stiles, calm but focused. “A door. And now you’re the key.”

Derek’s body tensed, his shoulders tightening like he was ready to shift at any second.

“You’re not doing this alone,” Derek growled softly, loud enough for Stiles to hear.

Stiles swallowed, trying to shove down the nerves rising in his throat. “Good. Because I’m pretty sure this isn’t a one-man job.”

Inside – Calling the Pack
Back inside, Stiles sat hunched over the kitchen table, fingers tapping anxiously against the sigil on his palm. Derek leaned against the counter, already dialing Scott.

“Tell them to get here. Now,” Derek said without preamble.

Stiles arched a brow. “You could say please.”

Derek ignored him.

Within twenty minutes, the entire pack had crowded into the Stilinski living room.

Scott, Lydia, Malia, and Liam filled the space, the air buzzing with pack tension as Derek explained what happened.

Marcus. The bond. The door.

“He knew your mom?” Scott asked, pacing near the couch, eyes narrowing as he processed the details.

Stiles nodded. “Apparently. And if he’s right, whatever she sealed away wasn’t small.”

Malia crossed her arms, gaze flicking to the glowing sigil on Stiles’ hand. “So, what—you’re magical now? Should we start calling you ‘witchy boy’ or something?”

“I vote no on that,” Stiles muttered.

Liam leaned forward, brows furrowed. “What’s he trying to open? Like, worst-case scenario?”

Rowena’s voice cut in from the doorway as she arrived.

“Something you don’t want to meet, dear.”

Rowena’s Explanation
Rowena swept into the room, red coat trailing dramatically behind her as usual.

“You met Marcus,” Rowena said, glancing at Stiles with a knowing smirk. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Trouble does love you.”

Stiles threw up his hands. “Yes, let’s all agree I’m a supernatural magnet. Can we focus?”

Derek’s glare sharpened. “What does Marcus want?”

Rowena’s expression shifted, turning serious. “The bond Stiles carries isn’t just connected to the grimoire. It is the key to a seal Claudia left behind. Marcus has been searching for it ever since she disappeared.”

Scott stepped forward. “If it’s still sealed, why now? Why didn’t he show up earlier?”

Rowena’s eyes met Stiles’.

“Because the bond lay dormant—until it awakened in Stiles.”

Lydia frowned. “So Marcus tracked the bond through him.”

Rowena nodded. “Exactly. Claudia shielded Stiles for as long as she could. But Marcus knew the seal would eventually pass to her bloodline.”

Stiles exhaled sharply. “And guess who drew the short straw.”

Rowena stepped closer, her gaze flicking toward the pack. “This isn’t just Stiles’ fight. If Marcus succeeds, that door won’t just open for him. It’ll open for everything connected to the grimoire.”

Scott exchanged glances with Lydia, the weight of Rowena’s words settling over the room.

“Then we stop him,” Scott said firmly, stepping beside Stiles.

Liam grinned faintly. “I mean… how bad could this guy be?”

Malia smirked. “Let’s find out.”

Stiles glanced at his friends, feeling the knot in his chest loosen slightly.

“Look at you guys,” Stiles muttered, trying to mask the emotion in his voice with sarcasm. “One big dysfunctional supernatural family.”

Derek’s hand brushed against his shoulder as he passed.

“That’s how packs work,” Derek said quietly.

Stiles swallowed hard, glancing up at him.

And maybe—just maybe—he felt a little safer knowing they’d face this together.

Chapter Text

The Stilinski house had never been this crowded.

Stiles sat cross-legged on the couch, wedged between Liam—who had already claimed the good corner seat—and Lydia, who was flipping through Claudia’s journal like it held all the answers.

Malia sprawled across the recliner, eyeing the room like she was prepared to throw someone through a wall if necessary. Scott paced near the fireplace, arms crossed, while Derek lingered by the window, eyes flicking toward the woods every few minutes.

And Sheriff Stilinski?

He stood by the kitchen, arms crossed, the Dad Look™ firmly in place as he took in the sight of his living room being overtaken by supernatural teenagers and one perpetually brooding werewolf.

“So,” the Sheriff said, voice flat, “let me get this straight. Some guy named Marcus thinks my son is the key to unlocking a supernatural door your dead mother sealed, and now he’s stalking him?”

“Yup,” Stiles replied without looking up. “Pretty much nailed it.”

The Sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course he is.”

Malia grinned. “You’re taking this well.”

“Taking it well?” the Sheriff repeated, shooting Stiles a sharp glare. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve arrested half of you, healed from werewolf claws, and had to explain why my squad car ended up wrapped around a tree thanks to some magical nonsense.”

Liam sank lower in his seat.

“That was one time,” Stiles muttered.

The Sheriff wasn’t done. “And now I find out Claudia left behind a magical door that people are trying to kill my son over?”

Rowena, who had just entered the kitchen carrying tea like she owned the place, smiled. “I did say Marcus wasn’t subtle.”

The Sheriff gestured vaguely toward her. “And you—who exactly are you?”

Rowena beamed. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Stiles coughed. “Uh, she’s… kind of a witch. Don’t worry, Dad. She’s only mildly dangerous.”

Rowena shot Stiles a smirk.

Derek, clearly losing patience, pushed away from the window. “We’re wasting time. Marcus is still out there. The longer we sit here, the closer he gets to finding whatever Claudia sealed away.”

Scott nodded. “Derek’s right. We need to track him. If he’s moving through the preserve, we can cut him off before he gets close to the tree.”

The Sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “And what exactly happens if he does open this door?”

Rowena’s smirk faded. “Then the real trouble begins.”

Stiles exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. “Fantastic. Just what we needed—end-of-the-world level supernatural drama.”

“Isn’t that every week for you?” Lydia muttered.

Stiles shot her a look.

The Plan Comes Together
Scott turned toward the pack, settling into his usual leadership mode. “Alright. We split up. Liam, Malia, and I will take the north part of the preserve and follow any trails Marcus left. Derek and Stiles, you—”

“Oh, no,” Sheriff Stilinski interrupted, raising a hand. “He’s not going back out there alone with just Derek.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “I can handle it.”

“I know you can handle it,” the Sheriff said, fixing Derek with the I’m watching you glare. “But this is my son we’re talking about. You’re not taking him into the woods without backup.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but one look from his dad shut it down.

The Sheriff’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I’m coming with you,” the Sheriff added.

Scott hesitated. “Sir—”

“I’ve been dealing with Beacon Hills weirdness longer than most of you,” the Sheriff said flatly. “I’m not letting you leave me behind on this one.”

Derek crossed his arms. “You’re human.”

“Yeah,” the Sheriff shot back, “but I’m also the one with a gun. So unless you’ve got magic claws that can stop a bullet, I’m coming.”

Malia grinned. “I like him.”

Stiles groaned, sinking lower into the couch. “This is going to end with someone yelling at me.”

Beacon Hills Preserve – That Night
The preserve was blanketed in fog by the time Stiles, Derek, and the Sheriff reached the clearing.

The ancient tree loomed ahead, the scar in its bark barely visible under the moonlight.

Stiles could feel the pull of the sigil on his palm, tugging him closer.

“You okay?” Derek asked quietly, glancing sideways at Stiles.

Stiles nodded, but he kept his hands tucked into his jacket pockets to hide the faint glow. “Yeah. Just… déjà vu. This feels too familiar.”

The Sheriff followed close behind, flashlight cutting through the fog. “Stay close. I don’t like the feel of this place.”

Stiles snorted. “What gave it away? The giant creepy tree or the glowing magic in my hand?”

Before Derek could respond, the Sheriff’s flashlight flickered.

Stiles froze.

The shadows near the tree shifted.

Marcus stepped forward, calm and composed, as if he’d been expecting them.

“Evening,” Marcus said, eyes gleaming faintly under the beam of light.

The Sheriff immediately unholstered his gun. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

Marcus smirked. “That’s a shame. I love games.”

Derek stepped protectively in front of Stiles, claws extending.

“You’re not getting near him,” Derek growled.

Marcus’ gaze didn’t waver. “I’m not here to fight. I’m here for the boy. The bond belongs to me.”

The Sheriff’s hand tightened on his gun. “He’s not going anywhere with you.”

Stiles’ heart hammered, but he forced himself to step forward.

“You’re not taking this bond,” Stiles said firmly. “And whatever’s behind that door—it stays there.”

Marcus’ smirk faded.

His eyes locked with Stiles, and for the first time, there was no amusement.

“Then I guess we’ll see who gets to the door first,” Marcus said, his voice low.

And just like that, he melted back into the trees.

Derek exhaled slowly, his claws retracting.

“We’re running out of time,” Derek muttered, eyes narrowing.

The Sheriff’s gaze lingered on the tree.

“Then we stay ahead of him,” the Sheriff said calmly. “And we stop this before it starts.”

Stiles swallowed hard, staring at the scarred bark.

The door wasn’t just waiting.

It was calling.

Chapter Text

The clearing was too quiet.

Stiles stood at the base of the ancient tree, staring at the faint scar running down its bark. The sigil on his palm pulsed softly, in perfect rhythm with the glow beneath the roots.

Derek and the Sheriff flanked him on either side. Scott, Malia, Lydia, and Liam were scattered along the edges of the clearing, forming a loose perimeter.

It felt like they were standing on the edge of something big—like the air itself was holding its breath.

“So,” Stiles said, breaking the silence, “I’m guessing this is the part where the creepy door opens and we all get thrown into some magical nightmare?”

Malia grinned. “Sounds fun.”

The Sheriff shot her a look. “Define fun.”

Lydia stepped closer to the tree, her eyes narrowing as she studied the faint glow beneath the roots. “It’s already weakening. This wasn’t just sealed physically—it was bound by magic.”

Scott nodded, crossing his arms. “Marcus knew that. He’s been trying to force the bond to break.”

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably. “Awesome. So, I’m basically the supernatural crowbar that’s keeping this thing shut.”

Derek’s gaze flicked toward him. “You’re more than that.”

Stiles blinked, caught off guard by the softness in Derek’s voice.

The Sheriff stepped forward, drawing everyone’s attention. “Alright,” he said, his voice calm but firm, “if this door opens, we need to know what we’re dealing with. What exactly is behind it?”

Rowena’s voice drifted in as she arrived at the edge of the clearing, wrapped in her usual red coat.

“Chaos,” she said simply, striding toward the tree.

Stiles exhaled sharply. “You couldn’t soften that a little?”

Rowena smirked, but her eyes stayed fixed on the roots. “The grimoire doesn’t just hold spells, dear. It contains fragments of magic older than anything you’ve encountered. Some of it… unstable.”

Scott’s brows furrowed. “And if Marcus gets through this door?”

Rowena’s smile faded. “Then he’ll have access to the kind of power that even an Alpha can’t stop.”

Silence hung over the clearing.

Liam shifted nervously. “So, what’s the plan? Because I vote for not dying.”

Stiles raised his hand. “Agreed.”

The Sheriff glanced at Stiles, eyes narrowing slightly. “We seal it. Permanently. No more loose ends, no more haunted tree in the middle of Beacon Hills.”

Rowena gave a soft hum of approval. “That’s the idea. But you’ll need Stiles to do it. The bond ties him to the grimoire’s seal. He’s the only one who can finish what Claudia started.”

Stiles froze.

“Wait. Me?”

Rowena arched a brow. “Yes, darling. You.”

“Awesome,” Stiles muttered, his heart rate spiking. “Just what I wanted—more responsibility.”

Scott clapped a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, offering a reassuring smile. “We’ve got your back.”

Stiles exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

But as his palm pressed against the scarred bark of the tree, the sigil on his skin flared—casting faint green light over the clearing.

The door was waking up.

The Door Opens
The roots beneath the tree shifted.

A low, rumbling vibration echoed across the clearing, like something deep underground had started to stir.

Stiles’ hand burned, but he didn’t pull away.

“You okay?” Derek asked, standing so close their shoulders brushed.

“Define okay,” Stiles muttered.

The sigil beneath the roots flared brighter, and the scar in the bark began to split, revealing faint symbols etched deep into the wood.

“This isn’t normal,” Lydia said, stepping back. “The magic’s too old.”

Rowena nodded, her eyes narrowing. “We’re tapping into something ancient. I’d suggest caution.”

Malia cracked her knuckles. “I don’t do caution.”

Before Stiles could make a sarcastic comment, the tree shuddered violently.

And the door opened.

A faint seam split along the ground, revealing a dark, spiraling void beneath the roots. The magic thrumming from it felt… wrong. Heavy.

Marcus’ voice echoed from somewhere behind them.

“I was wondering when you’d finally show up.”

Stiles spun around, heart racing.

Marcus emerged from the shadows, calm and composed, but his eyes burned with barely concealed hunger.

“You’re too late,” Stiles said, stepping in front of the door. “I’m sealing it.”

Marcus’ gaze flicked to the glowing sigil on Stiles’ palm. “You don’t understand, do you? This door isn’t just holding magic.”

Stiles frowned. “Then what is it holding?”

Marcus smiled faintly.

“It’s holding her.”

Stiles’ stomach dropped. “I—what?”

Marcus took another step forward, ignoring the way Derek’s claws extended in warning.

“Your mother left part of herself behind to keep the seal intact,” Marcus explained, his voice softer now. “Her magic, her memories… everything that tied her to the grimoire.”

Stiles’ throat tightened.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not possible. She’s gone.”

Marcus’ gaze didn’t waver.

“Not all of her.”

Derek’s hand curled around Stiles’ wrist, grounding him.

“We’re sealing it,” Derek said firmly. “Together.”

Marcus’ eyes darkened. “You’d bury her forever?”

Stiles swallowed hard, his hand trembling slightly.

His mother’s face flashed in his memory—soft, warm, and full of love.

One day, you’ll need to remember.

Stiles clenched his jaw.

“I already remember her,” he whispered. “I don’t need this door to hold onto that.”

The sigil on his palm flared brighter, and the tree trembled in response.

Marcus’ expression twisted, rage flickering in his eyes. “You’ll regret this.”

Stiles smirked faintly. “Yeah, well. I regret a lot of things.”

He pressed his hand against the door.

The symbols along the tree glowed brilliantly, and the door beneath the roots began to close.

Marcus lunged forward—

But Derek intercepted him, slamming him back with a snarl.

The pack surged forward, forming a line between Marcus and the tree as Stiles sealed the door.

Magic crackled through the clearing.

And with one final pulse of green light, the seal snapped shut.

Marcus collapsed to his knees, breathing hard, but the power he’d been chasing was gone.

Stiles exhaled shakily, stepping back as the glow faded from his palm.

“It’s done,” he said softly.

Derek’s hand brushed against his shoulder. “You did it.”

Stiles smiled faintly, exhaustion settling in. “Yeah. We did.”

Epilogue Tease:

As the pack left the clearing, Rowena lingered behind.

Her gaze flicked toward Marcus, who still knelt in the dirt, staring at the closed door.

“You always chase things beyond your reach,” Rowena mused.

Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “One day, it will open again.”

Rowena smiled faintly.

“Perhaps,” she said, turning away. “But not today.”

The door beneath the roots stayed silent.

For now.