Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The voice sliced through the silence, echoing along the stone path as he strode briskly toward the stables.

He pretended not to hear, but the voice came again—sharper this time:
“Mieczysław Stilinski, I know perfectly well that you heard me! Stop right there this instant!”

With a resigned sigh, he came to a halt and turned slowly, his eyes landing on the figure of his aunt, Agnieszka Stilinski, who was hurrying after him with determined steps.

“Aunt, I’ve told you a hundred times—just call me Stiles,” he replied, trying not to let his irritation show.

It was hard, though, not to smile at the sight of her. Agnieszka was fighting both the laws of physics—and perhaps fashion—as she ran. Her pale orange dress, all layers and frills, flapped wildly in the wind. Her flushed cheeks glowed from the effort, and the neat bun she’d arranged so carefully that morning was now crooked, strands of chestnut hair escaping in every direction. She was a small, round woman, but there was a surprising energy in her—quick, even, Stiles had to admit.

“What’s wrong with your name anyway? Mieczysław is a good, strong name! Your grandmother chose it with so much pride, you know,” she panted, not slowing her pace in the slightest.

Feeling slightly guilty for making her run so much, Stiles shortened his stride.

“Aunt Agni, I like my name, I swear I do. But I’m a considerate person. I think of others. Most folks in Beacon Hills can’t even get through the first syllable without tripping over it. ‘Stiles’ is simpler. Punchier. You can fit it on a sign without taking up the whole space.”

“It doesn’t sound like the name of a nobleman!” Agnieszka shot back, her brows knitting in disapproval.

Stiles raised an eyebrow and stopped walking, turning to face her squarely.

“So what? As far as I can tell, no one in this family treats me like a noble anyway, do they? I wasn’t even told Grandfather was going to the House of Arcanum!”

He watched Agnieszka’s face twist with guilt, a sight that stirred in him a strange mix of satisfaction and sadness.

“Well… these are delicate family matters,” she began hesitantly, her eyes avoiding Stiles’s. “And, well, your grandfather is the head of the house in the duke’s absence… so he’s expected to attend the House of Arcanum. I’m not saying you’re not important, Mieczysław, but… there are certain… complications.”

She gestured frantically as she spoke, as though her hands might conjure an explanation her mouth couldn’t quite form.

“You mean the fact that I’m inert?” Stiles cut in bluntly, tired of euphemisms and polite evasions.

Agnieszka froze, her eyes narrowing in reproach.
“Don’t talk like that!” she scolded, her cheeks flushing even redder—this time with indignation. “Don’t you dare use that word to describe yourself. The fact that you don’t have Arkanis doesn’t make you any less. Not to me, and it shouldn’t to you either!”

“And what about Uncle Bartosz?” Stiles shot back, crossing his arms. “Why is he going with Grandpa? He doesn’t have Arkanis either, yet somehow he’s invited to the House of Arcanum.”

Agnieszka blinked, momentarily stunned.
“He is…? But…”

Stiles sighed, feeling his irritation wane slightly—but not enough to surrender just yet. He’d keep it, just enough to wield when the moment was right.

“Then you understand why I’m in such a hurry, don’t you, Aunt?” he said, bowing in an exaggerated flourish before turning and resuming his march toward the stables.

“Mieczysław, wait!” Agnieszka’s voice echoed in the air behind him, but by then he was already inside the stable, clinging to the naive hope that she wouldn’t follow.

Unfortunately, he had underestimated both her determination and her ability to ignore less-than-refined surroundings. Here she came, stepping carefully to avoid soiling the hem of her dress, her eyes darting disapprovingly to the straw-strewn floor and the dirt-streaked walls.

“Aunt, I really don’t have time to argue about this right now. You can scold me all you like—even ground me if you feel like it… though I’m already eighteen.”

“You’re not eighteen yet,” Agnieszka corrected sharply, raising a finger in warning.

“Just seven days left. That’s all. But the point is—I’m already of age. And if it weren’t for this ridiculous, archaic tradition that excludes me for not having Arkanis, I would be my father’s rightful heir. I should be the one handling the political maneuvering at the House of Arcanum, not Grandpa. In fact, I can already guess what they’re plotting—another attempt to pressure us into selling the lands. Why else would they summon my grandfather, an eighty-year-old man in fragile health, to sit through those pointless meetings?”

Stiles’s words came fast, sharp-edged with the weight of long-restrained indignation.

As he spoke, he strode across the stable with purpose, stopping only when a familiar-looking servant appeared, leading a saddled horse.

“Thanks, Scott,” Stiles said, offering the young man a quick nod.

“Do you really think they’d do that?” Agnieszka began nervously. “I mean… what about your uncle? Surely they have to respect our house, even with your father—my brother—so far away. They… they wouldn’t go that far, would they?”

Stiles gave a humorless laugh, tightening the straps on the heavy bag slung over his shoulder.

“Aunt, those pompous nobles couldn’t care less about right and wrong. All they want is more land, more power. They can smell weakness a mile away. With my father gone, and no man in our house with Arkanis to represent us, we’re an easy target. Oh sure, we still have my grandmother and my cousin—but with these outdated laws that treat women with Arkanis as even more of an abomination than an inert like me, what good does that do us?”

“Don’t talk like that…” Agnieszka murmured, but her voice was thin, as though she already knew she agreed with him.

And Stiles knew she did. Of course she did. After all, his aunt was inert too—born into a noble family famed for their magical abilities, the Arkanis, but never inheriting them herself. It left people like them in a kind of social limbo: part of the bloodline, yet never fully “worthy” in the eyes of others. And naturally, they were expected to stay silent, leaving the “true nobles” to make every decision. Utter nonsense, Stiles thought bitterly.

He swung up onto the horse—a handsome white steed with chestnut patches—and adjusted the saddle straps, ensuring his bag full of arcanomechanics tools wouldn’t slip loose on the road.

“What am I supposed to tell your grandmother when you don’t show up for lunch?” Agnieszka asked finally, her voice carrying the heavy weight of defeat.

Stiles shot her a mischievous grin, tilting his head with exaggerated charm.
“Tell her I’ll be there for dinner. Probably with a good story to share.”

“Oh, heavens… Just don’t cause too much trouble, all right?”

“Aunt, you say that like you don’t know me at all!”

He tugged on the reins and urged his horse forward, trotting out of the stable. But even from a distance, her voice carried after him:
“It’s because I know you that I’m worried!”

Stiles, despite the simmering irritation still twisting in his chest, couldn’t help but smile at her words. “You seem to be a magnet for trouble.” That’s what his father used to say, in equal parts reproach and pride.

Well then, if trouble was his so-called “magical gift,” he’d wield it like a weapon. And if it meant protecting his family and their lands, so be it—he’d welcome all the trouble in the world.

The region of Beacon Hills possessed a singular beauty. Its densely forested hills, majestic mountains, and fertile valley looked as though they had been painted by hand—worthy of being immortalized in tapestries. Yet the land’s allure lay not only in its breathtaking scenery, but in the secrets buried beneath it. The soil of Beacon Hills was rich with magical minerals, essential elements for the use and study of Arkanis. That made the region both a coveted treasure and, inevitably, a political battlefield.

Stiles knew this reality all too well. Nowhere else in Caeloria did so many nobles crowd into a single territory—“stacked on top of each other,” as he liked to say. And when nobles weren’t being kept in check by a ruling hand or distracted by an external war, they preferred to battle among themselves. Intrigue, gossip, and treacherous alliances were the true daily bread of Beacon Hills.

His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Stiles, wait up!”

He glanced back, just enough to see a white horse closing in at a fast gallop. It didn’t take long to recognize the rider atop the steed.

“Scott?” he called out, brow furrowing in mild suspicion. “Did my aunt send you? To play babysitter?”

A half-smile curved Scott McCall’s lips as he skillfully tugged on the reins, slowing his horse to match Stiles’s pace. Stiles couldn’t help but acknowledge the young man’s skill—a natural horseman, far better in the saddle than he would ever be. Scott oversaw the Stilinski stables, and Stiles knew no other servant in the household had Scott’s patience or talent with animals.

The young man’s warm brown skin and cropped dark hair caught the sunlight as he shrugged, his crooked smile highlighting the faint asymmetry of his jaw. Stiles never missed a chance to remind his friend that said asymmetry came courtesy of a well-placed horse kick in his childhood. Scott, of course, rolled his eyes every time the subject came up.

“No… I came on my own. Though, to be fair, the idea of playing babysitter isn’t entirely absurd.” Scott arched a brow with playful humor—a gesture that would have earned him a reprimand had they been in the presence of others. But here, away from the formalities of noble houses, they were simply friends first.

“One thing you can be sure of, Master McCall,” Stiles replied with a grin, patting the heavy satchel strapped to his side, brimming with arcanomechanics tools and crystals, “I don’t need a babysitter. I can take care of myself just fine.”

Scott, however, didn’t look convinced. He pulled a face, his expression openly skeptical.
“You’re planning to face nobles with Arkanis… armed with screws, metal, and whatever else you’ve stuffed in that bag?” He gestured vaguely toward the satchel. “Against people who can literally set half the forest on fire with a snap of their fingers? I’d feel better if you told me you planned to use your fists.”

“Arcanomechanics does use Arkanis too, Scott,” Stiles replied, with the weary impatience of someone who’d had this argument far too many times already.

But to his frustration, Scott’s expression remained thick with doubt. And Stiles couldn’t entirely blame him. After all, his inventions didn’t exactly have a spotless track record. There was, for instance, the incident with the device meant to store magical energy, which instead exploded and left a crater in the lab. Not to mention the contraption that was supposed to work as a light trap but ended up serving as an excellent paperweight—a fact Scott delighted in bringing up whenever possible.

Still, this time would be different. He knew it.

Or at least, he hoped so.

“This one’s going to work, Scott. Trust me.”

The stablehand arched an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a doubtful smile.
“Like the others did?”

“Ha-ha. Very funny.” Stiles rolled his eyes, though a small smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth all the same.

The two of them rode side by side along the sandy road that wound away from the Stilinski estate, heading toward the dense forest that marked the border with the Hale domain. The tree canopy wove tightly overhead, casting the road into a murky gloom, broken only by timid shafts of sunlight piercing through the leaves.

Stiles worked hard to keep his posture loose and easy, but there was something about the shadowed woods ahead that made his skin prickle. They were now officially in Hale territory.

“Beware the forest deep,
Where the Hales their revels keep.
Wolves prowl where the path turns wrong,
In the dark of night, you won’t last long.
They tear the flesh, they feast and bite,
And toss the bones out of sight.”

The childish rhyme echoed in his mind like a mocking whisper. He snorted softly, trying to push the foolish words away. But the forest wasn’t helping. The thick darkness, the distant snap of branches, and the restless rustle of leaves in the wind all seemed determined to make him believe in the verses.

And, of course, there was the undeniable fact that the Hales could shift into wolves—giant wolves at that. That little detail made the song feel slightly less ridiculous.

The Hale family’s reputation did nothing to ease his tension. They were infamous for their reclusiveness, rarely appearing at festivals or balls in Beacon Hills, and almost never setting foot in the House of Arcanum. The only thing that kept them from fading entirely into myth were their exploits on the battlefield. Heroic, yes—but wrapped in a shroud of mystery that made them as fascinating as they were unsettling.

Stiles shook his head, willing the thoughts away as he urged his horse forward. Focus, Stilinski, he told himself. He needed to get to the city of Beacon Hills as quickly as possible.

The road kept winding, but the distant murmur of rushing water signaled they were nearing the Frost River. As they crossed an old wooden bridge, the trees finally began to thin out, and sunlight poured down to greet them. Ahead, a vast green field stretched under a gentle breeze, rippling like waves. And in the distance, Stiles saw what he’d been searching for.

There stood the stone fortifications protecting the city. Closer now, sounds of life reached them—laughter, music, and the steady clamor of a busy town.

Relief—maybe even a flicker of happiness—washed over him as they approached the outer wall of Beacon Hills. Here, at least, he might find a brief pause from the tension he’d left behind. The city was a place where Stiles could disappear for a few hours, far from the weight of family responsibilities and their endless web of intrigue. He enjoyed visiting the local taverns, browsing the central library… and, well, sneaking the occasional glance at the brothels, though he’d never dared set foot inside. Purely sociological research, he told himself with a wry smile.

As he passed through the massive stone gates of Beacon Hills, Stiles lifted his gaze to the imposing plaque bearing the crown of Caeloria. The emblem of a phoenix, carved in high relief and painted in gleaming gold—almost as if it were real gold—shimmered brilliantly under the sunlight. It was a grand sight, designed to awe anyone entering the city.

But Stiles had no time for artistic contemplations, nor for the lively bustle of the market spilling across the wide cobbled thoroughfare. He urged his horse down a side street, deftly weaving past carriages, wagons, and the throngs of people who seemed to have come from every corner of the kingdom.

Leaving the main streets behind, he led Scott through a maze of narrow, winding alleys until they finally emerged in front of a massive building near the city’s northern wall.

The structure stood out like a brooding sentinel amid Beacon Hills’s vibrant architecture. Built of dark stone, it loomed three stories tall, supported by thick columns that held up a polished marble roof. Its windows, fashioned from deep green glass, reflected their surroundings with an eerie, almost secretive opacity.

This was the infamous Snake’s Nest, as Stiles liked to call it—officially known as the House of Arcanum. Here, the nobles of the region gathered to negotiate, debate, and, more often than not, scheme and compete with one another.

The façade projected an air of rigid formality, almost to the point of menace. But Stiles knew better. Inside, the building served a far less noble purpose. Within its walls lay an exclusive tavern and a lounge filled with leather armchairs, where nobles sat smoking pipes and boasting of their latest triumphs. The walls were lined with portraits and paintings of the region’s most prominent families—as if the entire space were a silent battlefield, each frame fighting for more inches of wall space, a testament to power and influence.

To Stiles, it was a festival of frivolity, duplicity, and a diplomacy so fragile it could barely hold itself up under the weight of its own lies.

He dismounted smoothly, and almost at once a small, nimble girl dressed in the dark uniform with gold accents of the royal servants stepped forward to take the horse’s reins. Stiles handed over his mount without hesitation but noticed the girl falter slightly as she reached for Scott’s horse, a faint crease forming between her brows.

Catching on to the moment, Stiles shot Scott a mischievous look before quipping,
“If you’re going to play the babysitter, as you like to call yourself, then you’ll have to follow me straight into the Snake’s Nest.” He gestured dramatically toward the massive wooden door that marked the entrance to the building.

Scott let out a resigned sigh, handing his reins to the girl before trailing after Stiles, keeping a few paces behind.

“Lord Stilinski… What an honor to see you here.”

The man’s voice echoed through the entry hall the moment Stiles stepped across the imposing dark wooden door. The speaker was an austere-looking butler, his thick glasses magnifying his eyes like bottle bottoms, and a meticulously trimmed gray beard framing his face.

Stiles had barely had time to close the door behind him before the man intercepted him. The hall was narrow, its stone walls adorned with the phoenix crest of Caeloria carved into the ceiling above. Ahead, several doors stood firmly shut, guarding the building’s inner chambers—and no doubt, its intrigues and secrets.

“An honor, is it?” Stiles arched a brow, letting the faintest trace of irony slip into his voice. He knew perfectly well the butler wasn’t genuinely thrilled to welcome an inert like him, even if he was the son of Duke Stilinski. Especially given that he hadn’t arrived accompanied by a “true noble”—in other words, someone with Arkanis.

“Of course.” The butler cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses as he struggled to recover his composure. “I presume you’re here to see your grandfather. Shall I send a servant to announce your arrival?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll find him myself.”

Stiles stepped forward, but the butler moved quickly to block his way—a gesture teetering on the edge of insolence.

“Sir, I must insist. It is my duty to act as an intermediary in such circumstances. Moreover, you won’t know where to find the current head of House Stilinski.”

Stiles caught the deliberate emphasis on current head. Ah. So this was going to be one of those conversations. He folded his arms across his chest, a lazy smile curving his lips.

“My father brought me to this house so many times when I was a boy that I could draw its floor plan blindfolded. I won’t get lost. In fact, I know exactly where the nobles ‘gather’ when they want to do things they shouldn’t… if you catch my meaning.”

He shot the butler a quick wink, savoring the man’s horrified expression—it was almost a work of art. Few dared speak so openly of noble hypocrisy, least of all within the hallowed halls of the House of Arcanum.

“Even so, Lord Stilinski, this house is reserved exclusively for nobles possessing Arkanis. No offense intended, of course.” The butler’s polished tone did little to mask the pointed insult. His beady eyes gleamed with barely concealed malice, and Stiles felt his blood start to boil.

Scott, a few paces behind, looked ready to intervene, but Stiles stopped him with the slightest shake of his head. He knew exactly what to do.

“Ah, so what you want is Arkanis, isn’t it?” Stiles said lightly, reaching into the leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

“Stiles…” Scott began, his voice tight with concern.

But it was already too late.

Stiles pulled out a small metallic sphere, intricately etched with bronze filigree and pulsing faintly with the glow of a crystalline core.

Before anyone could object, he dropped the device onto the floor.

The impact triggered a controlled burst of light and sound. A cloud of colored smoke erupted, swirling with sparks and shimmering like a flurry of dancing stars. The air thickened with the sharp scent of magic mingled with metal, and the butler erupted into a fit of coughing, flailing his arms as if he could wave the smoke away.

A perfect demonstration of arcanomechanics at work.

“Well,” Stiles muttered under his breath as he slipped through one of the doors in the chaos, “looks like we’ve got Arkanis here now. Happy?”

Scott followed quickly, his expression a mixture of resignation and exasperation, disappearing behind Stiles as the butler continued coughing and sputtering in their wake.

Chapter Text

The narrow corridor opened into a second hall, where the walls were adorned with the crests of the six noble houses that ruled the lands of Beacon Hills.

Stiles’s eyes were immediately drawn to the first crest: a gray falcon in mid-flight against a white background, accented with silver and pale blue. Below it, the motto “Sight guides the blade” gleamed in gold lettering.

A wry smile tugged at his lips. House Argent, of course. The greatest snobs in all of Beacon Hills. Masters of gossip, always eager to dictate what was proper for nobles and what was not. “Sight guides the blade,” he mused. Sure—but their tongues are sharper than any blade I’ve ever seen.

Next came the crest of House Whittemore: a crimson dragon with golden eyes, roaring atop a black field licked with gold and orange flames. The motto “With fire, we conquer” left little doubt about their arrogance. Stiles nearly laughed, remembering how the Whittemores believed their destructive power was the key to bending everyone else to their will. Perhaps that was why he so loved provoking them whenever the chance arose.

Below that, he recognized the sigil of House Dunhaven: a dark brown stag set against a moss-green background, framed by stylized branches. Their motto, “Strength lies in harmony,” perfectly matched the house’s peaceful, diplomatic nature. Beside it stood the crest of House Marwood: a golden griffin with outstretched wings on a field of royal blue trimmed in white. Their motto, “Wisdom guards the throne,” reflected their reputation as advisors and mediators.

Stiles knew these two houses were considered “friendly,” though far from glorious. Dunhaven, with their healing magic, and Marwood, gifted with prophetic visions, were hardly celebrated on the battlefield. In some circles, this lack of martial renown made them targets of quiet disdain.

At the opposite end of the hall, his eyes landed on the crest of his own house: a golden fox set against a deep red field, encircled by oak leaves.

“Cunning is power…” he murmured, recognizing the words at once. Impossible to forget—the motto of House Stilinski. His home, his responsibility… and, at times, his greatest burden.

At last, on a wall set apart from the others—almost as if mirroring the reclusive nature of its owners—hung the crest of House Hale: a silver wolf poised to strike against a black field accented with deep blue. The motto, “With the pack, we are invincible,” always made Stiles wonder if the Hales saw themselves more as wolves than humans.

He shook his head, brushing the thought aside. There was no time to linger on crests. With a quick gesture, he pointed to one of the staircases and began ascending, Scott following close behind.

“Did you see how well my device worked?” Stiles asked, breaking the silence as they climbed the spiral stairs.

“Was it actually supposed to release smoke?” Scott shot back, raising a skeptical brow.

“Well… yes.” Stiles hesitated, adjusting the strap of his satchel. He wasn’t about to admit that the contraption had been originally designed to levitate using the Arkanis crystal’s stored energy. A minor miscalculation, however, had caused it to discharge that energy in a burst of colorful smoke instead. Still, a mistake that turned out to be surprisingly useful, he thought.

Scott’s gaze flicked to the satchel, nodding toward it.
“If you’ve got more of those things, they might come in handy against the nobles.”

Stiles neither confirmed nor denied it. He knew all too well that it had been his only functional sphere—or mostly functional, anyway.

They reached the second floor, which opened into a spacious oval chamber. Leather armchairs were scattered throughout, while a long buffet table in the center displayed silver trays of delicate hors d’oeuvres. A few nobles lingered in small groups, conversing in low tones. Stiles recognized some of the faces, though none belonged to the heads of the great houses.

Before he could make it far across the room, a female voice called out behind him.

“Stiles? What are you doing here?”

He turned to see Allison Argent springing to her feet from one of the armchairs. She closed the book in her hands and stepped toward him, her simple blue dress swaying softly as she moved. Her warm brown eyes flicked to Scott, and the faintest blush rose to her cheeks.

“Hey, Allison!” Stiles waved casually before pointing toward the opposite door.
“Bye, Allison!”

He didn’t wait for a reply before striding off, determined to reach his destination before anyone else decided to intercept him.

Wishful thinking.

Stiles found his path blocked by a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a smug smile like it was part of his uniform. Jackson Whittemore stood rooted in place, clearly savoring the satisfaction of being an obstacle.

“If your goal is to impersonate a statue, Jackson, congratulations.” Stiles arched a brow, his tone dripping with theatricality. “Immovable, inconvenient to most, admired by a select few… and, of course, maintaining that signature lack of brain activity statues are so famous for. Truly, you’ve nailed it. Statues don’t think, after all.”

Jackson’s self-assured grin evaporated instantly.

“Stilinski, you don’t belong here,” Jackson growled, his irritation seeping through every word.

“Oh no! Statues don’t talk!” Stiles gasped in mock horror, clutching his chest dramatically. “What will become of your bright future as the big, beautiful brute who’s all brawn and no substance?”

Jackson’s expression darkened further, his face flushing red—and that’s when Stiles noticed something fascinating: wisps of dark smoke curling from Jackson’s nostrils. Literally.

“He’s right!” a younger man at Jackson’s side chimed in, no doubt a cousin or some other Whittemore relative, wearing the same brand of arrogance etched into his features. “You’re nothing but a Shadowborn! You shouldn’t even be allowed in here!”

The word rang in Stiles’s ears like a blade sharpened for insult. Shadowborn—one who lives in the shadow of their family’s glory, someone born without powers, reduced to insignificance by their own bloodline.

But if the jab stung, Stiles didn’t show it. He only shrugged, a cynical smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah, I guess someone’s to blame for that.” He gestured lazily toward the door. “Maybe you should take it up with the butler. You know, the one with the thick glasses guarding the entrance. I’m sure he made some grievous mistake letting me in.”

“Someone did make a mistake, and I’ll find out who. But first, you’re coming with me.”

Jackson lunged forward, his hand outstretched to grab Stiles.

With a quick pivot, Stiles slipped neatly out of reach, dodging with practiced ease. Jackson’s patience, however, was fraying fast. Snorting—now with embers flickering in his breath—he charged again, this time with far more force.

But before he could reach Stiles, Scott stepped between them, planting himself firmly in Jackson’s path.

“And you dare bring a commoner with you…” Jackson snarled, his skin beginning to glow faintly with the rising heat of his inner flames.

But before the situation could spiral further, a sudden gust of wind tore through the hall. The blast was so strong it sent all three of them sprawling to the floor—along with chairs, glasses, and even the buffet table.

Dazed, Stiles lifted his head, searching for the source of the power.

Allison Argent stood calmly amid the chaos, one hand still pressed lightly to her nose.

“Oops… I think I sneezed,” she said with a mischievous smile, winking at Stiles.

He couldn’t help but smile back. Well played.

Before he could thank her, a harsh voice rang out across the hall:

“This is why women with Arkanis are dangerous!”

The speaker was an elderly man, unmistakably of House Marwood, clad in an immaculate blue-and-white suit and brandishing a long silver cane at Allison as if she were a criminal.

“Look at what she’s done!”

Allison gave a slight shrug, as though accepting the accusation, but Stiles caught something in her eyes—she wasn’t intimidated. In fact, she made a subtle hand gesture toward him, signaling for him to keep moving.

Thank you, Stiles murmured silently as he pushed himself to his feet. Allison, he knew, was one of the few Argents he could count as an ally. She wasn’t a snob, nor a gossip—both rare qualities in her family.

Scott hesitated, glancing between Allison and Stiles, clearly torn between his instinct to play the hero and his loyalty to his friend.

“Let’s go,” Stiles said firmly, already striding forward and seizing the opportunity while Jackson was still too stunned to react.

Scott followed reluctantly, though Stiles didn’t need to look back to know his friend wanted to stay. But Allison could handle herself—of that, Stiles was certain.

And he had bigger problems to deal with.

“Lord Stilinski, if you’ll just sign here, we can conclude this meeting and perhaps enjoy a nice cup of tea… what do you say?”

Gerard Argent’s voice was smooth, yet carried the quiet authority of a man who wielded words like weapons. He leaned slightly over the table, his impeccable figure radiating control. What little remained of his white hair contrasted sharply with the meticulous cut of his navy suit, accented in crisp white. A silver brooch bearing House Argent’s crest gleamed on his lapel, and his cufflinks looked every bit as valuable as his persuasive tone.

Kazimierz Stilinski, however, seemed wholly indifferent. His silver eyes—distant yet laced with irony—drifted lazily over the documents spread before him, ignoring the elegant fountain pen Gerard pointed in his direction. The patriarch of House Stilinski was a paradox: his dark attire was clearly expensive and refined, yet the shirt collar hung open, his tie was loosened, and his coat sat crooked on his shoulders. His thick, platinum beard and equally pale hair, tied back carelessly in a loose ponytail, added to the air of disheveled defiance.

“Father…” Bartosz Stilinski intervened softly, leaning over the old man’s shoulder. With his chestnut hair slicked neatly back and a face etched with fine lines, Bartosz cut a figure of weary elegance. His silver-trimmed suit was immaculate, a carefully folded pocket square peeking from his breast pocket. The well-groomed goatee and almost desperate expression gave him the look of a man who had long ago accepted exhaustion as a permanent companion.

“Remember what we discussed? Why hold on to so much land? The burden of managing it all… We could survive on less. When my brother returns, I doubt he’ll even notice a few hectares missing.”

Kazimierz raised an eyebrow, as though only just realizing someone was speaking to him.

“Land? Hm? Signing? Ah…”

He took the pen with a deliberate slowness, all eyes in the room locking anxiously on him. The small chamber was warm with the soft crackle of the fireplace, but the tension in the air felt sharp enough to cut. Kazimierz studied the pen with a faint, knowing smile—the smile of a man who already knew exactly what he intended to do but enjoyed pretending otherwise.

“Ah!” The sudden brightness in his expression was almost comical. “Would you like to see a trick?”

Before anyone could respond, Kazimierz flicked his wrist. As if pulled by invisible threads, the pen’s shadow seemed to coil around it—and in the next instant, the pen vanished from the table.

A beat of stunned silence followed, then soft murmurs and surprised exclamations rippled through the room.

“He’s a Marzinski… before he’s a Stilinski,” observed Alan Dunhaven, a middle-aged man with warm brown skin, a polished bald head, and a genial smile. His earth-toned attire, accented with subtle embroidery on the lapels, reflected the diplomatic sobriety of his house.

“Oh yes. Shadow manipulation—such an intriguing gift,” added Adrian Marwood, a young and elegant man whose long black hair draped smoothly over his shoulders. He rested a hand on an ornate cane crowned with a golden griffin. Though his voice carried a note of interest, it lacked any true warmth.

“Damn spy!” Markus Whittemore growled, his voice as heavy as his broad shoulders, which barely fit into his black jacket trimmed with red and gold. His graying beard, streaked with blond, nearly obscured his chiseled jawline. “How fitting. Marrying into a fox’s den… Another marriage of power, only deepening suspicion.”

“Oh yes, because burning everything and everyone is the classic sign of trust, isn’t it?” Alan replied lightly, though his tone was laced with biting sarcasm.

“Shut your mouth! My house sacrificed everything to expand the kingdom’s borders. My father, surrounded by enemies across the sea, called upon fire and—”

“Here we go again…” Adrian sighed, rolling his eyes with almost theatrical disdain.

“Gentlemen, please. Let’s remember why we are here.”

Gerard’s voice cut through the exchange like a blade, calm but edged with authority, halting Markus before he could summon an actual display of flames.

“Lord Stilinski, the pen—if you would.”

“Father!” Bartosz’s voice cracked with near desperation. “Here, use this one.”

With fumbling hands, he pulled another fountain pen from the inside pocket of his coat and placed it before the old man.

“Ah, Zim!” Kazimierz exclaimed cheerfully. With another casual flick of his hand, the new pen vanished as well, swallowed by the shadows curling around his fingers.

“Wonderful trick, isn’t it?” he said with a broad, almost childlike smile, while the room regarded him not with amusement but with a mix of apprehension and exasperation.

“Don’t worry!” Bartosz blurted, his voice quivering slightly. “He’ll bring the pens back, and he will sign…”

Gerard Argent’s gaze fell on Bartosz like a blade of ice, sharp and merciless. He spoke slowly, each word heavy as judgment.

“I sincerely hope so. The agreement we negotiated depended entirely on you persuading your father’s signature.”

Bartosz swallowed hard, shrinking under the collective weight of the nobles around him—each radiating extraordinary power, while he felt like a small, frightened mouse trying not to be crushed.

“Father… stop with the tricks!” he insisted, almost pleading now, his expression strained as he threw an exasperated glance at the old man.

Before Kazimierz could respond, a young, vibrant voice cut through the thick air:

“No, Grandpa, keep going! You know I love your tricks. Why not do the same with the paper?”

Everyone in the room turned toward the door, where Stiles Stilinski stood, a mischievous grin lighting up his face. His brown hair was cropped short and slightly tousled, sticking up as if it had been combed in a hurry. His dark eyes gleamed with a mix of boldness and humor, standing out sharply against his fair skin. His attire—a worn brown coat over a plain white-collared shirt, paired with gray trousers and scuffed leather boots—looked more like something a city laborer would wear than that of a noble heir.

Behind him stood Scott McCall, his servant. Scott’s warm brown skin, cropped hair, and solid, muscular build contrasted with Stiles’s leaner frame. His clothing was neat though modest: a crisp white long-sleeved shirt, a gray vest, and boots that, unlike his master’s, were polished to perfection. His posture was alert, dark eyes scanning the nobles in the room with quiet caution.

“Young Stilinski…” Gerard began, his tone sharp.

But Kazimierz interrupted him, his expression breaking into an almost childlike enthusiasm.
“Brilliant idea, my clever grandson!”

With a flourish, Kazimierz laid his hand on the table. Instantly, its surface was swallowed by shadows that spread like black water, devouring not only the contract but also the glasses, the lamp, and every other object atop it.

The nobles recoiled in alarm, some nearly tripping over their chairs as they scrambled backward, clearly fearing the infamous power of the Marzinski bloodline.

Kazimierz let out a deep, delighted laugh that echoed through the hall, and Stiles joined in, laughing openly.

“Well, it looks like your meeting wrapped up a little earlier than planned,” Stiles remarked, his half-smile edging into provocation.

“Tea time, perhaps?” Kazimierz said brightly, as though nothing at all was out of the ordinary.

“I’d say so. And hopefully with scones,” Stiles replied, striding confidently past the nobles as if he owned the place. He placed a hand on his grandfather’s arm, ready to guide him out.

The stares that followed ranged from irritation to disbelief, but none were more furious than that of Bartosz Stilinski. His face flushed red, a storm of rage and humiliation brewing in his expression.

Before they could reach the door, Markus Whittemore stepped in front of Stiles, his hulking frame blocking the way.

“How did you get in here?” he demanded, his deep voice thick with anger.

Stiles tilted his head slightly to the side, that mischievous smile creeping back onto his lips.
“Interesting… your son asked me the very same question. The two of you really are alike. In more ways than one.”

“Indeed, young Stilinski, you shouldn’t be here,” Gerard Argent continued, his tone almost paternal—but steeped in condescension. “Not just in this house, but more precisely, in this very room.”

“Oh! Is it forbidden?” Stiles replied, raising his brows in mock surprise. “I didn’t see any sign on the door. My deepest apologies.”

His voice dripped with irony as he held Gerard’s gaze, unwavering, his dark eyes locked on the head of House Argent.

“This chamber is reserved exclusively for the heads of the noble families—the Arcanum, as they should properly be called,” Adrian Marwood interjected, his polite tone at odds with the glint of malice in his eyes.

“Heads of the families and their heirs,” Stiles emphasized, leaning back slightly with a smile that was equal parts challenge and provocation. He remembered the times his father had brought him here as a boy, sitting him on his lap during these very meetings.

“Ah, but your house, little fox, has no heir,” Markus Whittemore sneered, the corner of his mouth curling in a mixture of amusement and triumph.

“That’s what you say—” Stiles began, but Gerard cut him off.

“That’s what the law and tradition dictate, young Stilinski,” Gerard said sharply, his gaze heavy with disapproval.

Before Stiles could answer, Adrian spoke again, his voice silkier now, his smile one Stiles could only describe as predatory.

“Perhaps… if young Stilinski—or say, his cousin Zofia—were to marry into one of the families present here, this little ‘heir problem’ could be so easily solved. Don’t you agree?”

Adrian stepped forward, inclining his head ever so slightly, his long black hair sliding over his shoulders like liquid night. A chill ran down Stiles’s spine.

“My father didn’t die for you to stand here and speak like that,” Stiles snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. He gripped Kazimierz’s hand tightly.

The old man watched the exchange with a distant, almost placid smile. Though still powerful, Kazimierz no longer had the clarity or strength to lead—and the nobles in the room knew it. They could smell weakness, and they didn’t hesitate to exploit it.

“Zofia is underage!” Stiles shot back, his voice laced with indignation.

“But you will be of age soon, won’t you?” Adrian stepped closer, his height casting a long shadow over Stiles. “Your coming-of-age ball is in a week, if I’m not mistaken.”

“This wasn’t part of the arrangement!” Bartosz Stilinski interjected abruptly, his voice quivering with frustration. “Without a signed contract, nothing we discussed can be upheld!”

Stiles turned sharply to his uncle, irritation flaring.
“Uncle, what the hell kind of arrangement did you make with them?” he demanded, his voice just a little too loud to pass as a whisper.

Bartosz shot him an exasperated glare.
“The safety and future of our house, you idiotic boy!” he growled back.

Before Stiles could fire back, Kazimierz broke the tension with a completely out-of-place question:
“Now, what about tea? And scones?”

Stiles drew in a deep breath, fighting to keep his composure. His eyes swept over the nobles before him, who now stood like a human barricade, blocking any chance of escape. The weight of the moment pressed on his chest as his free hand—the one not gripping his grandfather’s arm—slid into his satchel, fingers searching for a solution in arcanomechanics.

“Gentlemen, perhaps we should give House Stilinski some space,” Alan Dunhaven offered, his calm voice edged with discomfort. “We are nobles of Caeloria, after all—not barbarians.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Dunhaven,” Markus cut in with a mocking grin. “You’re just as interested in Stilinski land. Not to mention the prospect of an alliance… perhaps forged through marriage.”

“That’s not exactly—” Alan faltered, clearly embarrassed but unwilling to outright deny it.

“There will be no marriage,” Stiles declared firmly, his voice steady despite the tension thickening around him, “and we will not sell our lands.”

“Oh, really?” Markus let out a guttural laugh that seemed to reverberate through the hall. “You’re not the head of your house, boy. That old man is. He’s the one who decides.”

He pointed rudely toward Kazimierz, and something inside Stiles ignited like a spark catching dry tinder.

“Watch your mouth when you speak about my grandfather!” Stiles snapped, his hand darting into his satchel in one swift motion.

Scott, standing beside him, tensed with worry, his eyes narrowing in sharp alertness.

“And what exactly are you going to do?” Markus sneered, lifting his hand. With a snap of his fingers, flames flared to life in his palm, their light flickering across his face and accentuating his arrogant smirk.

Chapter Text

The rectangular device in his hands thrummed with an energy that felt almost alive. Stiles could sense the internal springs and gears whirring, fueled by the Arkanis crystal embedded at its core. He could also feel the threatening heat radiating from Markus Whittemore’s flames, now mere inches from his face.

None of the other nobles moved to intervene. It was clear—they wanted to discipline him. To remind him, and everyone watching, why the kingdom had granted noble titles to these families. The power they wielded was meant to inspire adoration, respect, and above all… fear.

But Stiles despised this dynamic. Power didn’t make anyone inherently better. And power didn’t have to belong exclusively to the Arcanum. Ordinary people—those born without magical gifts—could access Arkanis through arcanomechanics. He was living proof of that.

Still, the weight of the decision pressed on him. If he deployed his invention now, what would happen? Could it spark an outright conflict between the noble houses of Beacon Hills? A direct clash would be nothing like their usual games of barbed words, gossip, and scheming. War was another matter entirely.

But retreating wasn’t an option. Whether they liked it or not, he was the son of Duke Stilinski. He was the heir of House Stilinski. And he had to prove that, with or without magic, he still had strength.

“Careful, Markus. The fox has claws,” Adrian Marwood teased, a faintly amused smile playing on his lips.

“Claws mean nothing against fire,” Markus scoffed, stepping forward with deliberate menace.

Before Markus could close the distance, Scott moved to step between them—but with a flick of Gerard Argent’s hand, a gust of wind sent him crashing into the opposite wall. Scott let out a sharp groan as he hit the floor hard.

“Scott!” Stiles’s eyes flashed with fury as he glanced at his friend.

Bartosz Stilinski’s eyes widened, sheer terror etched across his face at the display of raw power.

Stiles turned his glare on Gerard, irritation burning in his dark gaze. But the patriarch of House Argent merely brushed a speck of imaginary dust from his pristine coat, as if nothing significant had just occurred.

Enough! I’ll show them, Stiles thought, resolve hardening as he prepared to activate his invention.

But before Stiles could act, the sound of slow, deliberate clapping echoed through the room. The sharp rhythm cut through the tension like a blade.

Everyone froze and turned toward the door—now standing open.

No one had noticed a new figure entering.

The man who stepped forward was tall, and his appearance clashed entirely with the formal atmosphere. He wore clothes better suited for an afternoon in the countryside or a fencing session than for an official meeting. His coat hung open, revealing a crisp white shirt with several buttons undone, exposing a chest marked by scars.

But the most striking detail was his eyes—piercing green, as if they could read the soul of every person in the room. His face was an unsettling mix of charm and danger, accentuated by a sly, almost predatory smile and tousled dark hair.

“Well, well. I finally decide to pay a visit to the House of Arcanum, expecting nothing but utter boredom… and instead, I stumble upon something so…” He paused, his eyes sweeping the room as though searching for the perfect word. “...entertaining.”

With casual ease, he dragged a chair toward himself and sank into it, lounging as though he owned the place. Then he propped his boots on the edge of another chair nearby.

Stiles remained frozen, the device still thrumming in his hand. Who is he? he wondered, eyes widening slightly as he noticed the subtle shift in the room’s energy.

Unlike the reception he himself had received, none of the nobles seemed inclined to challenge the newcomer.

At last, Gerard broke the silence, his voice low and measured:
“Peter Hale.”

The name was spoken with the kind of gravity reserved for invoking something dangerous.

“We weren’t expecting your visit.”

Stiles’s jaw went slack. A Hale?

His gaze flicked back to the man, a mixture of surprise and caution tightening in his chest. Here was someone from the enigmatic House of Wolves, a family whose reputation was as intriguing as it was terrifying.

“You didn’t expect me?” Peter Hale arched a brow, his expression dripping with mock surprise. “Well then, why were we notified? I distinctly remember the letter that arrived at our door: ‘Urgent meeting!’”

“We’ve sent other letters marked with the same level of urgency…” Adrian Marwood began, but his voice faltered as Peter’s piercing green eyes locked onto him.

“Ah, but those other letters weren’t about a meeting concerning lands that border ours.” Peter smiled—a sharp, unsettling curve of his lips that carried anything but cordiality. “If something were to happen to my dear neighbors of House Stilinski, that would, naturally, affect us as well. Fragile borders, after all, tend to lead to… complicated problems.”

Stiles watched Peter’s smile closely, an uneasy chill crawling down his spine. There was something peculiar about it—perhaps it was the faint impression that Peter’s teeth seemed just a little too sharp, like those of a predator. Must be my imagination, he thought. But he wasn’t so sure.

“There’s nothing for you to concern yourself with, Lord Hale,” Gerard Argent interjected, his voice slick with sarcasm. “No one here has the slightest interest in the forests your family holds so dear. So full of animals, moss, and… other irrelevant things.”

Stiles didn’t miss the flash of danger in Peter’s eyes—like a wolf provoked one too many times. The air thickened, and for a moment it felt as though everyone in the room was holding their breath, bracing for an attack.

But instead, Peter leaned back and let out a deep, booming laugh, punctuated by a casual slap to his thigh.

“Argent, as always, you’re quite the comedian.”

The laughter cut off as suddenly as it began. Rising slowly to his feet, Peter’s expression darkened, and the weight of it seemed to press down on the entire room. Stiles felt another shiver run down his spine.

“But if what you say is true,” Peter said, his voice now low and edged with steel, “then I suggest you keep your falcons well away from my forest. It would be such a shame to see them… plucked. Or perhaps roasted. I’ve heard fried falcon, properly marinated, is quite the delicacy. Even we Hales know how to appreciate fine cuisine, did you know that, Argent?”

Gerard’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He merely adjusted the collar of his suit with a restrained motion, as if clinging to the last threads of his dignity.

“Peter… you didn’t come here just to make threats, did you?” Alan Dunhaven interjected, his calm voice trying to ease the atmosphere. “Either way, I’m glad you’re here. It’s been months since a Hale has graced the House of Arcanum! That alone should be cause for celebration.”

“Are we finally having tea? I’m thirsty!” Kazimierz Stilinski’s impatient voice cut through the lingering tension as he shot a grumpy glare at the others.

Stiles opened his mouth to respond to his grandfather, but Peter was quicker. In the blink of an eye, he was standing before Kazimierz—his movement so fluid and fast it made Stiles stiffen.

“Master Kazimierz, it would be an honor to share a cup of tea with you,” Peter said, offering his arm to the elder Stilinski.

Stiles stepped forward, ready to intervene, but to his surprise, his grandfather took Peter’s arm gladly.

“There’s nothing fun here, you know! They didn’t even enjoy my tricks!” the old man grumbled as Peter guided him with surprising gentleness.

“Say it isn’t so! That’s an outrage. The great Kazimierz, and they ignored your tricks?” Peter exclaimed, his tone laced with mock offense that somehow sounded utterly genuine. “I still remember a few of them. On the battlefield, they were legendary. There was that time you made an entire army vanish into shadows… or when you slipped through enemy lines unseen. Those were memorable victories. I’ve always been a great admirer.”

Peter’s words struck something deep in Stiles. No one seemed to remember his grandfather’s past glories anymore. To most, Kazimierz was little more than an eccentric, senile old man. But Peter spoke with respect—even admiration—something Stiles hadn’t expected to hear in that room.

As Peter walked alongside Kazimierz, he cast a quick glance at Stiles. A look that said, without words: “Are you going to stand there like an idiot?”

It was enough to snap Stiles out of his thoughts. He hurried to help Scott to his feet and, with a sharp tug, dragged Bartosz along as they left the room.

“What’s going on?” Scott whispered as he hurried after Stiles, acutely aware of the eyes following their every move.

“I think we’re being rescued.”

“By a Hale?”

Stiles shot a wary glance at Peter but didn’t answer. The truth was, he didn’t yet know what to think of it himself.

The oval hall was noticeably emptier than it had been when Stiles crossed it earlier. Still, the traces of Allison’s earlier “intervention” were plain to see: the remnants of the buffet were scattered across the floor, now the focus of several servants working diligently to clean up the mess.

Stiles had expected to find more nobles lingering here—drawn by curiosity, eager to turn the meeting’s fallout into fresh gossip. But no. Perhaps the reason for their absence was leaning casually against the wall.

A young man, with a perpetually surly expression, stood against a wall adorned with a multitude of paintings—landscapes and depictions of the noble families’ heroic deeds. One particularly grandiose canvas portrayed a massive wolf tearing through an army with its enormous claws.

The servants kept their distance, casting nervous glances at the young man and whispering in hushed tones. Even the few nobles who remained seemed uneasy, their gazes flicking away or their movements jittery in his presence.

The young man, with short dark hair and sharp, angular features, might have been described as handsome—if not for the ever-present look of someone profoundly irritated with the world. His green eyes, as piercing as Peter Hale’s, landed on Stiles, and to his dismay, Stiles felt his heartbeat quicken.

“Derek! I see you’re making new friends, just as I imagined you would!” Peter Hale’s voice broke the silence as he helped Kazimierz settle into a comfortable armchair near the window.

Derek shrugged, clearly unimpressed by the jab, and pushed himself off the wall to approach.

Stiles tried not to look—but couldn’t help himself. He’d never seen a Hale in person before. Now there were two. And there was something magnetic about them, an exotic energy that seemed to radiate from even their smallest movements.

It didn’t help that their clothing was loose, disheveled, and revealed far more skin than the rigid noble fashions allowed. Derek, for instance, wore a beige shirt hanging open almost to his navel, exposing a broad, muscular chest dusted with a light trail of hair leading down to—

Stop it, Stiles, he scolded himself, wrenching his gaze away with effort.

“What’s that?” Derek’s voice snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Stiles blinked, momentarily lost, before realizing Derek was pointing at the arcanomechanical device still clutched in his hand.

“Oh… this? Just an invention of mine,” Stiles stammered. Normally, he was the most talkative person in any room. But in Derek’s presence, the words seemed to evaporate before they even reached his lips.

“Oh, look at that! Is this some kind of… arcane… trinket?” Peter interjected, already settling comfortably into a chair across from Kazimierz, who was humming a cheerful, off-key melody, blissfully unaware of the tense atmosphere around him.

Bartosz, on the other hand, seemed intensely focused on procuring tea and biscuits for the group—a task Stiles suspected had less to do with hospitality and more to do with escaping the proximity of the Hales.

“Arcanomechanics,” Stiles corrected almost automatically.

“Ah, that’s right!” Peter beamed. “I’ve heard it’s becoming quite the trend in the capital, though I haven’t the faintest idea how it works.”

As he spoke, Peter reached out as though to take the device from Stiles’s hands, but Derek’s voice cut in, firm and controlled:
“Uncle. Manners.”

So he really is a Hale, Stiles thought, catching the faint trace of irritation flickering across Derek’s face.

Peter chuckled, leaning back in his chair.
“Ah, of course! You must think we’re little more than wild beasts, incapable of grasping even the simplest rules of civility, don’t you?”

He laughed again, and before Stiles could reply, Peter rose smoothly to his feet and extended a hand in greeting.
“Peter Hale. As I’m sure you gathered from my little performance in the meeting room. And this glowing ball of sunshine here”—he gestured toward Derek—“is my nephew, Derek Hale.”

Before Stiles could decide whether to accept the handshake, Peter clasped his hand firmly and, with a sudden tug, pulled him into the chair beside his own.

Scott, ever watchful, immediately stepped closer, his posture tight and protective as he positioned himself at Stiles’s side. The movement didn’t go unnoticed. Derek’s sharp green eyes tracked the servant’s every step, his expression hardening into something decidedly unfriendly.

Derek remained standing, his presence coiled and predatory, filling the room in a way that made it impossible to ignore him.

“Thank you for what you did back there…” Stiles began, slipping the device back into his leather satchel. “But I should say—I had everything under control. No offense, of course.”

Scott let out an audible sigh, running a hand over his face in a clear gesture of disapproval. Classic Stiles—biting the hand that had just saved him. And especially bold, considering those hands could, with a single thought, turn into razor-sharp claws. Even so, Stiles couldn’t afford to look weak. He couldn’t let himself grow dependent on others swooping in to rescue him. How could he protect his family if he couldn’t stand on his own?

A low, guttural sound made Stiles glance up—straight into the sharp green gaze of Derek Hale. The man had growled. Actually growled. Stiles wasn’t exactly afraid, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking: Humans aren’t supposed to make that sound. And… should growling be considered rude?

“Oh yes… I noticed how you had everything under control,” Peter Hale cut in, waving his hand with a flourish that was both theatrical and faintly mocking. “But alas, I had to step in, young Stilinski.”

“Please, call me Stiles.” He frowned. “’Young Stilinski’ is what Gerard calls me—and it drives me insane.”

Peter smirked, the kind of smirk that hinted at secrets and hidden intentions.
“May the gods strip me of my powers if I ever act like old Argent. Very well then, Stiles,” he said, deliberately emphasizing the name with a teasing lilt. “I stepped in because what I said back there was true. If they’re scheming to snatch up Stilinski land, you can be certain House Hale will be next.”

“So… it was a strategic move,” Stiles replied, nodding slightly, his tone feigning casualness.

“And also because good neighbors should help one another, don’t you think?” Peter said smoothly. “A little mutual support.”

“Good neighbors?” Stiles arched a brow. “You didn’t even show up for my grandfather’s eightieth birthday. Or for my mother’s funeral to offer your condolences. Forgive me if I find it hard to believe that House Hale has suddenly developed a passion for neighborly relations. What is it that you really want?”

Scott nudged Stiles discreetly, clearly suggesting he should shut his mouth. Bartosz, meanwhile, nearly dropped the tray of biscuits and tea he was carrying when he heard the question.

Peter, however, laughed—seemingly amused—while Derek let out another low growl. This time, Stiles merely shrugged in response.

“I know how the nobles around here operate,” Stiles continued, crossing his arms. “There’s always a price. My father used to say I’d never make a good diplomat, and he was probably right. I don’t have the patience for all the double talk.”

“Oh, Stiles, don’t lump us in with the rest of the nobles,” Peter replied smoothly, lifting a teacup and offering it first to Kazimierz, who accepted it with a carefree smile. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed by Stiles, who mentally filed it away.

“But yes,” Peter went on, turning his sharp green gaze back to Stiles, “there is a reason we’re here. Believe it or not, our houses are allies—even if we’ve been absent from public gatherings. Hale and Stilinski have always stood together.”

“You don’t say…” Stiles’s tone dripped with skepticism. He had never heard a single word about this so-called alliance. Then again, his father had a frustrating habit of keeping him in the dark about the inner workings of House Stilinski—especially in recent years, as Stiles approached adulthood.

“Oh, but I do say,” Peter replied, flashing another enigmatic smile that only deepened Stiles’s suspicion. “And, I should add, we came here at your father’s request.”

“My father?” Stiles interrupted, his brow furrowing in confusion. It had been months since they’d heard from him. Ever since he’d been sent on a mission by the Crown to one of the kingdom’s borders, his absence had left a gaping void—one that seemed to suffocate House Stilinski. It was, after all, the main reason they were now in such a precarious position.

“Indeed,” Peter said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping as though about to share a secret. “Would you like to know more about that?”

Peter’s green eyes locked onto Stiles’s face, their intensity almost hypnotic. For a moment, Stiles felt the air around him grow heavy, the world itself holding its breath in anticipation of his answer.

Chapter Text

The fair was in full swing, an explosion of scents, sounds, and colors filling Beacon Hills’ central square. The aroma of spices mingled with that of fresh fruit, warm bread straight from the oven, and fragrant drinks, while in the background, a troupe of performers delighted the crowd with a vibrant show. A violinist plucked out lively notes, accompanied by a flutist, as a young woman amazed the children with acrobatics and juggling.

The city seemed to pulse with energy and joy, every corner brimming with voices, laughter, and animated chatter. But for Stiles, all that celebration felt like a distant, blurry backdrop.

He stood in front of a sweets stall, the smiling vendor offering cookies and assorted confections, but his mind was elsewhere—restless, replaying Peter Hale’s words over and over.

“I can’t believe they left us empty-handed… I mean literally empty-handed!” Bartosz grumbled, gripping Kazimierz’s arm tightly. The old man, however, seemed far more interested in the performers than in his son’s complaints. His silver eyes sparkled with curiosity, and Stiles could swear his grandfather was seriously considering pulling one of his shadow tricks right there in the square—something that would likely cause more confusion (or outright panic) than wonder.

“And how does Peter Hale have the nerve to say he has news about my brother, only to announce he’ll share it only at the Hale manor? That makes no sense at all!” Bartosz went on, waving his free hand in exaggerated frustration, his voice practically vibrating with indignation.

“If it bothered you that much, perhaps you should’ve said so directly, Lord Stilinski,” Scott suggested with a faintly teasing smile as he steadied Kazimierz’s other arm, sharing the responsibility of keeping the elder under control.

Bartosz shot the young servant a sharp glare, clearly ready to fire off another indignant retort—but Stiles cut in first.

“Well, on this point, I have to agree with you, Uncle. Peter dangled the bait, and now he’s waiting to see if we’ll bite,” Stiles remarked distractedly, his eyes flicking to a tray of cookies shaped like the crests of the region’s noble houses. The fox-shaped one—representing his own family—looked like it had been made with carrot dough.

“And what are we going to do? Obviously, we’re not going to take the bait… are we?” Bartosz asked, his tone almost seeking approval.

Stiles arched an eyebrow, a sharp smile curling on his lips.
“Oh, now you want my opinion, Uncle Bart? Funny—I thought you’d already jumped at another attempt to strike a deal with some noble house without consulting anyone…” He pointed the fox-shaped cookie at Bartosz as if it were a literal accusation.

“Stiles… well…” Bartosz cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean any harm! We had to do something! Your father’s been gone for a year! Trade contracts require his signature, and… well, my father isn’t exactly reliable when it comes to signing documents. In fact, the other houses have started spreading rumors…”

“What rumors?” Stiles asked, his brow furrowed, though he could already guess the answer.

“That the Stilinski shouldn’t be trusted in business. That a house without its duke isn’t a house worth dealing with. Our trade partners have begun ignoring us, and the debts… well, they’re piling up.”

Stiles pressed his lips together, the fox cookie forgotten in his hand as he processed his uncle’s words. He’d known things weren’t great—his grandmother’s sudden austerity measures over the past few months had been a clear sign. But hearing the situation laid out so plainly tied his stomach in knots.

“And your solution was to suggest selling off our lands?” Stiles asked, his voice tight with barely contained indignation.

Bartosz averted his gaze, shame written all over his face.

Stiles drew in a deep breath, fighting to steady the rising tide of anxiety within him. He knew his father’s absence was the primary reason for House Stilinski’s downward spiral. But the thought of selling even a fraction of their territory—the foundation of the Stilinski legacy—was something he simply couldn’t accept.

“If things were this bad, why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Stiles demanded, his voice edged with frustration.

Bartosz exhaled sharply, glancing away as though summoning patience.
“I’m still your uncle, Stiles. Criticize me all you like, but until next week, you’re still underage. Your father left this responsibility to me and your grandmother—to fix things. After all, my father… in the state he’s in… well, we both know he’s not truly capable of it anymore.”

Bartosz hesitated, clearly debating whether to continue, but at last, he sighed and pressed on:
“I know I’m inert, but in this kingdom, even a man without Arkanis is still treated with more respect than women with magic. So I stepped into this role—to help my father, to negotiate with the other nobles, to do what had to be done. I know how much the lands mean, but selling part of them would buy us time. It’s not as if I planned to sell everything.”

“Buying time until my father returns,” Stiles finished, glancing sidelong at his uncle. His eyes gleamed with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. “So you really think Duke Noah Stilinski is still alive?”

Bartosz looked taken aback by the question, but his expression quickly hardened, settling into a confidence Stiles found difficult to share.
“And you don’t? My brother is not weak, Stiles. You know how powerful our mother is, and even Zofia is already showing remarkable abilities. I have no doubt he’s alive and well.”

Stiles pressed his lips together, absorbing the words. He wanted to believe that—desperately so—but the prolonged silence about his father’s whereabouts was a weight he carried every single day. Still, if there was even the slightest chance of learning something…

“Then we do take the bait,” Stiles murmured, more to himself than to the others.

If this was an opportunity to find out about his father, he couldn’t let it slip by. The Duke wouldn’t have left them exposed to Beacon Hills’ political vultures without a plan. He couldn’t have.

“Lord Hale gave us time to think,” Scott interjected, his voice as calm and practical as ever. “We should use that time to our advantage.”

“I can’t shake the feeling that the wolves are toying with us,” Bartosz muttered bitterly. “Like a predator playing with its prey before the final strike.”

Stiles turned to him, a sly grin tugging at his lips.
“But we’re not just any prey, Uncle. We’re foxes. And a wolf should never underestimate the cunning of a Stilinski fox.”

Bartosz exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face. He looked utterly drained—physically and emotionally.
“And what are we even doing here, anyway?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to the fair, the market stalls, and all the commotion swirling around them.

By then, Stiles had already purchased an impressive assortment of fox-shaped cookies and was approaching a stall selling candied fruits rolled in vibrant sugar crystals.

“What are we doing?” Stiles echoed, pausing to pluck a skewer of sugared fruit from the stand. “Uncle, even with the best of intentions, you’ve committed quite the affront to the family. And, well… so have I. You, for not telling Grandma about your brilliant little plan—I’m absolutely certain she wouldn’t have approved. And me, for skipping lunch.”

He paused dramatically, pointing the skewer of candied fruit at Bartosz as if delivering a final verdict.
“In fact, Uncle, you’re in a far worse position than I am. Not only did you keep your little scheme from Grandma, but you also missed lunch. And you know how meticulous she is about family meals…”

Bartosz’s brows shot up, then he let out a nervous chuckle.
“Maybe we should bring her something more substantial… Mother’s always had a weakness for something smoked or fried, hasn’t she? Look over there! That stall’s selling sausages. We should get at least ten!”

Stiles nearly laughed. Apparently, House Stilinski’s looming financial ruin could wait—the more urgent dilemma now was ensuring they returned with a proper haul of treats for their fearsome matriarch.

He barely had time to process that thought before he heard someone calling his name.
“Stiles!”

He turned toward the voice and froze in surprise. Allison Argent was running toward him, her dark hair slightly tousled, her breath coming in quick bursts as if she’d sprinted across half the city.

Stiles glanced around, expecting to see another Argent trailing behind her, but to his astonishment, she was alone.

“Allison!” Scott exclaimed, stepping forward with concern etched across his face. “Are you alright?”

Technically, as a servant, Scott should’ve addressed her as “Miss Argent” or something equally formal—but, of course, he didn’t seem to care about such conventions. Bartosz rolled his eyes at the lack of propriety but looked far too exhausted to scold him about how one should address a noblewoman.

“I…” Allison hesitated, a faint blush rising to her cheeks as she avoided meeting Scott’s eyes. Finally, she turned her focus to Stiles. “I should be asking you that. I heard about what happened—well, part of it. The meeting… and the Hales.”

“So the gossip’s already spreading, huh?” Bartosz muttered with weary resignation, though he didn’t sound surprised.

“You weren’t in the hall when we left,” Stiles noted, arching a brow.

“Nope. I got kicked out after that… sneeze,” she replied, a small, slightly proud smile tugging at her lips.

“But are you okay?” Scott pressed, the concern in his voice unmistakable.

Stiles rolled his eyes discreetly. Scott couldn’t hide how much he liked Allison. It was an odd mix of genuine concern and what Stiles could only describe as “excessive sappiness.”

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking, Mr. McCall,” Allison replied, a shy smile curling her lips as her eyes finally met Scott’s.

She quickly shook her head, as if to dispel whatever thoughts were lingering there, sending her dark hair tumbling into even more disarray. Her rosy cheeks stood out against her fair skin, betraying her unease.

“I really am fine,” she reassured, glancing briefly at Scott before continuing. “It’s just… women aren’t usually allowed in the House of Arcanum, unless they’re powerless and working as maids—”

“Sometimes they bring in the girls from the brothel too… or so I’ve heard,” Bartosz remarked casually, fiddling with the cookies he was carrying.

Allison ignored the comment, but Stiles’s eyes went wide, caught between disbelief and morbid curiosity at that little nugget of information.

“Getting kicked out wasn’t that big of a deal,” Allison went on, turning her attention back to Stiles. “Honestly, I was only there because my grandfather insisted. It was… strange. Maybe it had something to do with the meeting.”

Her voice wasn’t searching for answers so much as voicing an obvious conclusion. Stiles, catching the weight of her gaze, quickly pieced it together.

So that’s it, he thought. The meeting had made one thing abundantly clear: the noble house leaders—the ever-proud Arcanum—were keen on forging alliances with House Stilinski. Or rather, on controlling it. And what’s the most effective way to do that? Marriage.

The image of Gerard Argent offering up his only granddaughter’s hand in exchange for an alliance made Stiles’s stomach churn. Allison was his friend, someone with whom he’d built a genuine connection forged in the crucible of suffocating social events, endless balls, and long afternoons at Lady Brightlight’s select (and, in Stiles’s opinion, infernal) school for nobility. The thought of them being forced into a political marriage was beyond absurd.

And of course, there was Scott. The poor guy’s feelings for Allison were so obvious even a blind man could see them. For Stiles, agreeing to such a marriage would feel like a betrayal worse than any ill-conceived political contract.

“The meeting—and whatever they were plotting—was completely thrown off when the Hales arrived,” Stiles said, trying to reassure her, though he knew the truth was far more complicated.

“But not for long, right?” Allison sighed softly. “I’m sorry about all of this… Stiles… for whatever my grandfather might be plotting.”

“Hey!” Stiles cut her off, placing one hand lightly on her shoulder while clutching the packet of sweets tightly in the other. “You don’t need to apologize for that old bird of prey you call a grandfather. The Stilinskis are resilient. We don’t go down that easily.”

He flashed her a mischievous grin, trying to lighten the mood, and added:
“In fact, instead of apologizing, you should accept my thanks! That little whirlwind you unleashed back there was glorious. Jackson looked even more like an airhead thanks to your Arkanis!”

A small but genuine smile tugged at Allison’s lips, slowly blossoming into something she almost seemed proud of.

“You’re welcome,” she replied with a playful wink, as though they were sharing a private secret.

Suddenly, the sharp cries of raptors pierced the sky. Stiles glanced up and spotted massive, regal falcons swooping low over the fair, drawing startled “ohs” and “ahs” from the crowd. The birds were elegant, magnificent even, but their presence was impossible to ignore: everyone knew to whom they belonged.

“At least you can see something good in my power,” Allison said, her smile fading as she released a long breath. She had noticed the falcons too. She knew exactly what they meant.

“I have to go,” she announced, stepping back and giving a small wave. “I’ll see you later. Maybe at your birthday ball, Stiles? You are having one, aren’t you?”

Stiles rolled his eyes.
“As if I had any say in the matter… My aunt and grandmother would never allow my coming-of-age ball to be forgotten,” he muttered, but gave her a resigned wave in return.

Allison smiled softly before turning and jogging away, the falcons circling above her like vigilant sentinels. But just before she vanished from view, she sent one last wave over her shoulder—one Stiles realized was meant for him.

He almost raised his hand to wave back, but was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of Scott enthusiastically waving like an idiot, grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh, Scott,” Stiles thought with an exasperated sigh. “You really are hopeless.”

Chapter Text

The sun had long since set, and a deep navy blanket seemed to have been carefully spread across the sky, darkening further as night settled in. Starlight began to pierce the celestial fabric in delicate pinpricks, slipping through invisible seams, while a waning crescent moon hung overhead, casting a pale, fragile glow that did little to illuminate the travelers below.

As they passed once more through the shadowy Hale forest on their return journey, Stiles felt something different this time. Where fear and apprehension had gripped him before, there was now a restless curiosity—an almost eager pull. His eyes darted to the spaces between the trees, searching for any sign of watchful eyes hidden in the darkness, for some silent answer to Peter Hale’s earlier invitation.

He could still hear Peter’s words, smooth and deceptively casual, echoing from the oval hall of the House of Arcanum:

"Well, we certainly can’t discuss such things here…” Peter had said, as if confiding a personal secret. “Too many eyes and, more importantly, far too many ears. But if you’re truly interested, come to Hale Manor. We can have tea and… chat.”

Chat. Tea and a chat. The suggestion felt disarming somehow—too casual for a family so notoriously reclusive, dwelling deep within a forest that seemed to breathe shadows. And how exactly was he supposed to find this manor? Aside from the main road he’d always taken to avoid trouble, Stiles hadn’t noticed any other paths branching off into the Hale domain. Would he be expected to venture into the forest alone? The thought sent a shiver crawling down his spine.

But he forced those worries aside—for now. As they left the forest behind and reached the vast hills draped in tall, whispering grasses, Stiles felt something familiar and comforting stirring in his chest. The rhythmic clatter of horse hooves and the gentle creak of the carriage carrying his grandfather and uncle signaled they were nearing home—the place he knew better than anywhere else.

And then it appeared: the imposing Stilinski Manor, perched atop a gentle hill, framed by low trees and clusters of wildflowers now folded tight in their nocturnal slumber. The grand structure was a fascinating blend of history and innovation, as if it embodied the very spirit of the Stilinski lineage.

Built over a century ago, the manor blended the old and the new in perfect harmony. Its stone fortifications, sturdy and austere, evoked a sense of security, while the warm, orange-hued bricks lent the structure a softer, almost welcoming air. Wide glass-paned windows glimmered with the flickering light of candelabras within, like watchful eyes keeping vigil over the night.

Two main floors, along with a third reserved for the family’s most private quarters, rose proudly beneath a roof of dark slate tiles. Flanking either side of the manor stood twin castle towers, looming like sentinels guarding a once-glorious past. Green ivy crept across the stone façade, curling around the walls in a rustic yet graceful embrace.

At the base of the entrance, a wide stone staircase led to the grand double doors of dark oak, carved with intricate patterns of oak leaves and subtle arcane symbols—a quiet tribute to the ancestral power of the house. On either side of the stairs stood silent guardians: two marble fox statues, their poised and watchful expressions seeming to challenge every visitor daring enough to meet their gaze.

As the horses slowed and the carriage came to a gentle stop before Stilinski Manor, Stiles felt a strange mixture of relief and unease welling inside him. He knew precisely who would be there to greet them—and the thought offered little comfort.

Sliding down from his horse, Stiles hesitated for a moment, glancing toward the stables. Scott, ever patient, seemed to pick up on his friend’s intention before he even spoke.

“I’ll take care of the horses,” Scott said with a small, knowing smile.

“But you might need help,” Stiles protested, clinging to the faint hope of avoiding the inevitable.

“I’m pretty sure your grandmother won’t appreciate you being any later for dinner… considering you already skipped lunch,” Scott replied, leading the horses away and leaving Stiles standing there, thoughtful and tense, wearing the expression of a man quietly calculating his odds of survival.

“Hey, Stiles, give me a hand here!” Bartosz’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. His uncle stood beside the carriage, where the coachwoman—a stocky, middle-aged woman with fiery red hair pulled into a painfully tight bun—was helping a drowsy Kazimierz climb down. Bartosz, meanwhile, was struggling to balance an armful of parcels and sacks overflowing with sweets, clearly intended as offerings for the family matriarch.

Stiles hurried over to grab part of the load, catching the exhausted look on his uncle’s face.

“Ready?” Bartosz asked, though the tone of his voice made it sound far more like a rhetorical question.

Without replying, Stiles followed along the gravel path leading to the manor, walking beside his uncle and grandfather, guided by the coachwoman. The chirping of crickets in the fields and the faint hoot of distant night birds provided an almost ironic contrast to the weight of tension settling over them. The lanterns lining the entrance flickered with warm light, their glow casting dancing shadows across the manor’s stone walls.

For a fleeting moment, Stiles dared to hope that maybe—just maybe—his grandmother hadn’t noticed their prolonged absence.

That illusion shattered in an instant.

Before they could so much as touch the massive oak door, it swung open, revealing a sight that made Stiles stumble back on reflex.

What was supposed to be the manor’s entry hall was gone, replaced instead by the heart of an erupting volcano. Beneath their feet, an island of blackened stone floated above a lake of bubbling lava that stretched across the entire room. The heat was nearly tangible, and within seconds, sweat began to bead on Stiles’s brow.

“Well,” Bartosz muttered with a resigned sigh, “I’d say Mother is… upset.”

A scorching gust swept over the group like a wave of fire, carrying with it a voice sharp enough to cut through stone:

“Upset, my dear son? That’s putting it mildly.”

Their eyes snapped to the far side of the molten lake. There, atop a glowing rise of molten rock, an imposing figure emerged, descending a staircase that seemed to mold itself from the burning stone.

Halina Stilinski advanced with a majesty that was equal parts awe-inspiring and terrifying.

The dress she wore seemed to be spun from pure fire, flames dancing around her figure without ever consuming the fabric. Her white hair fell in loose waves, though streaks of black still lingered—remnants of a youth that had never fully abandoned her. Her eyes were dark, piercing, glowing with an intensity that felt as though they could strip bare the secrets of anyone daring enough to meet her gaze. Her pale skin reflected the light of the flames, giving her an almost otherworldly aura, as if she were less human and more an entity forged in fire.

“Hi, Grandma,” Stiles greeted, forcing a smile. “What a… lovely welcome you’ve prepared for us.”

His voice floated above the bubbling, hissing sound of the lava that churned like a living sea around the little island on which they stood.

Halina arched an eyebrow, a mixture of disapproval and faint amusement flickering across her expression.

“Mieczysław, sarcasm? Now? Do you really think this is the appropriate time for that?”

She descended the final steps, and the lava around her seemed to react to her presence, rising in restless waves that licked closer to the edge of their stone platform. Kazimierz, completely indifferent to the chaos, looked bored—like a man who’d witnessed this spectacle far too many times before.

“N-no… I mean—sorry, Grandma,” Stiles replied, struggling to keep the growing panic from showing in his voice as the heat pressed down on him.

He knew it was all an illusion—a masterful trick born of the Stilinski family’s Arkanis. The ability to weave illusions so vivid they overwhelmed the senses and manipulated perception was one of their signature gifts. But knowing that didn’t help. His eyes saw fire, his skin felt the oppressive heat, and every instinct screamed that this was real.

His heart hammered in his chest, and he had to force himself not to take a step back. “It’s not real,” he repeated silently. “It’s not real.”

Halina, however, seemed thoroughly entertained by the tension in her grandson’s face. A faint, knowing smile curved her lips.

“I do hope you have an excellent explanation for all this, Mieczysław. And somehow, I doubt the sweets you brought will be enough.”

“Oh, we do,” Stiles said quickly, shooting his uncle a meaningful glance, hoping Bartosz would take the lead and explain.

But instead, Bartosz sent him a pleading, almost childlike look—as if begging Stiles to take responsibility.

Stiles rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“Yes. We do,” he repeated, his voice firmer now. “There was… an incident. And it’s been resolved. No need to worry.”

Halina tilted her head ever so slightly, and the flames swirling around her seemed to respond to her mood, flaring and crackling with heightened intensity.

“A rather succinct explanation. I thought you were more eloquent than that, my grandson,” she remarked, striding toward them. The lava surrounding the island now bubbled violently, and with each step she took, the heat grew more oppressive, pressing down on them like a physical weight.

“What problem? And how, exactly, was it ‘resolved’?” she pressed, her tone sharp as steel. At that very moment, the ground beneath their feet trembled, as though an earthquake were rumbling beneath the black stone island that held the group.

Stiles cleared his throat, fighting to maintain his composure while silently repeating to himself: “It’s not real. It’s not real.”

“Well…” he began carefully, choosing his words with deliberate precision. “Uncle Bartosz attempted to broker a deal with the other noble houses of Beacon Hills—to keep them, like the vultures they are, from further preying on our family in my father’s absence. The deal, however, was never signed. And despite my uncle’s good intentions, the Stilinskis are not about to bow their heads or hand over pieces of our land to feed those carrion-eaters.”

Halina’s dark eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the entire chamber seemed to constrict, the air growing hotter and heavier. Her gaze then shifted to Bartosz, who was half-hidden behind an armful of provisions, as if hoping to shield himself from his mother’s piercing judgment.

“I understand our situation is precarious, my dear Bartosz,” she began, her voice deep and cutting, each word like the edge of a blade. “But that does not mean we must act out of desperation or behave like fools. If you were so concerned, you ought to have sought my counsel before throwing yourself into the lions’ den. That decision was nothing short of disgraceful, my son.”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Bartosz murmured, his voice small and contrite, like a boy of ten caught in some terrible mischief—even though he was nearing forty.

Halina, however, remained unsatisfied. Her dark, penetrating gaze shifted to Stiles, who stood his ground, forcing himself to meet her eyes even as the weight of her disapproval bore down on him.

“And you, my grandson? Did it never occur to you that it might be wise to seek my opinion before dashing off to rescue your uncle and grandfather?”

Stiles squared his shoulders, determined to hold his ground.
“I had to act, Grandma. The situation didn’t allow time for a formal audience. I had to step in.”

Halina arched a single eyebrow—barely a movement, yet more than enough to convey her deep dissatisfaction with his response.

“Act?” she echoed, her tone deceptively calm. “And how, exactly, did you act, Mieczysław, standing before the heads of the noble houses?”

The unspoken meaning in her words was crystal clear. She wasn’t asking about what he said; she was questioning how he—a powerless inert—had dared to face nobles wielding Arkanis. It was always the same with her. For all her wisdom and strength, Halina still seemed to believe he needed to be wrapped in glass and hidden away from the world.

That mindset had always infuriated Stiles. He drew in a deep breath before answering.
“By using cunning, Grandma,” he said, a half-smile tugging at his lips, sharp and just shy of insolent. “That is still our family’s motto, isn’t it?”

Halina’s eyes narrowed, and a fresh wave of heat rippled through the air around them.
“Was that sarcasm, Mieczysław?”

“N-no… or maybe yes… but that’s not the point. The point is, I acted! Even without powers, I did what needed to be done.”

“We did have the Hale’s assistance, of course,” Bartosz interjected quickly, his voice laced with nervousness as he tried to defuse the brewing storm.

Stiles shot his uncle an irritated look. He’d wanted his own contribution to be acknowledged—not overshadowed. Not out of ingratitude, but because he was tired of everyone assuming he couldn’t hold his own. Still, he couldn’t deny the truth: without Peter Hale’s intervention, disaster would have been inevitable.

Halina’s brow furrowed slightly as she considered Bartosz’s words. Around them, the oppressive heat began to dissipate, and the bubbling lava lost its menacing intensity, fading into little more than faint echoes of the power she wielded so masterfully.

“The Hales?” she repeated slowly, her voice carrying a note of veiled curiosity. “That is… interesting. Very interesting indeed.”

“Yes, the Hales helped us,” Stiles admitted at last, though his tone carried the faintest edge of reluctance. “In fact, Peter Hale implied their help might have something to do with my father…”

At those words, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. The illusion of the volcano melted away like mist swept by the wind. In its place, the Stilinski mansion’s entrance hall reappeared—warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of moments ago. The polished wooden staircase rose gracefully in the center, flanked by wallpaper adorned with delicate floral patterns. Paintings of pastoral landscapes lined the walls, and side tables decorated with vases of fresh flowers completed the scene.

The cool evening breeze wafting in through the partially open windows brushed against Stiles’s damp forehead, grounding him with a sense of normalcy that felt almost surreal after the infernal spectacle they had just endured.

Halina, meanwhile, turned her sharp gaze from her grandson to Bartosz, her dark eyes widening ever so slightly, as if some significant realization had dawned on her. Her appearance had changed along with the room: the blazing gown of fire was now replaced by an elegant, flowing dress in soft shades of orange—perfect for the evening. It was airy and graceful yet still carried an unmistakable air of authority.

“He mentioned Noah?” she asked at last, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper.

Before Stiles could answer, Halina continued—and what she said next caught him completely off guard:
“Well, it’s about time the Hales honored our alliance… those mangy wolves.”

Stiles shot a glance at Bartosz, who looked just as stunned as he felt.

“So… Peter Hale was telling the truth? Our families really are allies?” Stiles demanded, his tone tight as he fought to keep the edge of rising indignation from fully slipping into his voice. How had they kept this from him all these years?

The deep chime of the old wooden clock tucked into a corner of the hall echoed softly through the air, marking the late hour.

“Oh! Would you look at the time? Is it really this late already?” Halina exclaimed, her tone brisk as she straightened her posture. Then, as smoothly as if she’d been rehearsing the pivot all along, she changed the subject with the ease of someone well-practiced in dodging unwelcome questions.
“Dinner must be served!”

At that moment, the household staff began rushing in, their hands outstretched to relieve Stiles and Bartosz of the bags and parcels they were carrying.

“Wait, Grandma! About the Hales—” Stiles tried to press on, but Halina raised a hand in a sharp, commanding gesture that brooked no argument.

“Dinner first, Mieczysław!” she declared, her voice carrying a weight of authority that made even Bartosz straighten his back instinctively. “This day has already been disastrous enough—but dinner… dinner will be salvaged.”

There was an almost disarming spark of enthusiasm in her tone, as if restoring the ritual of the evening meal could somehow impose order on the chaos of the day. She seemed wholly intent on this mission, deliberately ignoring the tight coil of anxiety and curiosity on her grandson’s face.

Without leaving room for further protest, Halina swept toward the dining hall, her steps brisk and decisive. Stiles was left standing behind, frustration written plainly across his features, while Bartosz exhaled a deep sigh of relief, silently grateful that any further confrontation had been postponed—at least for now.

Chapter Text

“Oh! You survived?” was the first thing Aunt Agnieszka Stilinski said as Stiles, Bartosz, and the drowsy Kazimierz stepped into the dining room.

The room was long and tastefully decorated. One of its walls featured a wide window overlooking the mansion’s back garden, where rosebushes and exotic trees intertwined, some adorned with delicate night-blooming flowers—pale petals unfurling as if to greet the moon. Fireflies danced among the branches, dotting the darkness with their faint, flickering lights.

At the center of the hall, a long table draped in a finely embroidered cloth—its intricate design depicting foxes mid-leap—dominated the space. Above it, an antique crystal chandelier cast a soft golden glow, catching on the polished silverware and porcelain plates arranged with flawless precision.

“My, Agni! The way you say it, one would think I’d gone overboard with my... demonstration of displeasure,” Halina replied with a faint huff, her eyes narrowing in pointed reproach at her daughter.

Agnieszka, however, merely smiled mischievously as she adjusted the numerous layers and ribbons of her flowing blue gown, clearly chosen for a grand social affair that, as it turned out, was not to be. The airy fabric shimmered in the warm light, catching shades of silver that mirrored the moonlight spilling through the windows.

“Well, it was just my way of saying you were furious,” Agnieszka teased, her eyes glinting with amusement. “We could see your little display from here in the dining room.”

“I, for one, thought the volcano was a brilliant touch. Quite the striking bit of symbolism…” Marlene chimed in with a warm smile, though there was a trace of playful provocation in her tone.

Unlike her sister-in-law, Marlene Stilinski wore simple garments of lightweight fabric in deep green hues, which contrasted beautifully against her rich dark skin. Her afro-textured hair was neatly braided into an intricate style that framed her face, drawing attention to her bright green eyes that seemed to sparkle beneath the chandelier’s glow.

“Even you, Marlene?” Halina muttered as she swept gracefully to the head of the table and seated herself with the poise of a matriarch who had not yet finished passing judgment on the night’s events.

Before the conversation could continue, a cheerful little voice echoed through the hall:
“Fire! Fire!”

Young Zofia Stilinski—who shared her mother’s rich dark skin but had inherited the onyx eyes of the Stilinski line—threw her arms up with delight. Instantly, tiny illusory flames began to dance in the air around her. It was an infinitely more harmless—and far more adorable—version of the volcano and lava lake Halina had conjured minutes earlier.

“Zofia…” Bartosz began in a warning tone, but the little girl only let out a gleeful squeal and darted forward, hurling herself into her father’s arms. The flickering flames transformed into a flurry of luminous butterflies that fluttered throughout the hall. One of them passed right through Stiles, dissolving into smoke before it could reach the floor—a perfect reminder that this too was nothing but an illusion born of the Stilinski bloodline.

“You all look slightly disappointed we survived, I must say,” Stiles remarked, arching an eyebrow at the two women as he folded his arms.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Stiles,” Marlene countered smoothly as she stepped closer, giving him a playful pat on the cheek. “I knew you’d find a way out of it.”

“Thank you for your unwavering faith in me, my dear wife,” Bartosz muttered, still holding Zofia snugly in his arms.

“You’re welcome, my love,” Marlene shot back with mock sweetness, her lips curving into a mischievous smile as she leaned in to kiss his cheek. Their daughter erupted in giggles between them, her small hands tugging at her father’s collar.

Stiles let out an amused laugh and strolled over to the long table, pulling out a chair and sinking into it. But his lightheartedness faltered slightly when his gaze met Halina’s. She was watching him intently from the head of the table, her expression sharp and unreadable, as though she were still weighing every decision he had made that day.

If she had anything to say, however, she chose to keep it for another time.

“Kazimierz, sit up straight and try not to drift off during dinner!” she ordered her husband crisply. At the far end of the table, the elderly man was already starting to tilt sideways, his eyelids drooping in the telltale rhythm of sleep’s impending victory.

“About the Hales…” Stiles started, but once again his grandmother silenced him with a firm flick of her hand.

“Let’s sit and eat,” Halina said, her voice carrying that unassailable authority that brooked no argument. “We can discuss that later. For now, there are… other matters requiring our attention.” She gestured for the servants to begin laying out the evening meal.

Stiles exhaled sharply. He really should have seen this coming. Halina Stilinski wasn’t just skilled at changing the subject—she could bury a conversation under so many artful distractions that it might as well have never existed.

With a resigned sigh, he watched his plate being filled with a steaming rabbit stew, rich with fresh vegetables likely harvested from the family’s own gardens. The rabbits, no doubt, had been caught by the servants in the nearby fields. Frugality. The Stilinski household wasn’t one for lavish feasts—not with their precarious finances—but Stiles didn’t mind. He preferred rustic meals, free of unnecessary flourishes or extravagance.

“And what could possibly be more urgent than other nobles circling our lands like vultures, my father’s continued absence, and the Hales implying that—” he began, trying to steer the conversation back to what mattered.

“Your coming-of-age ball, obviously!” Halina cut him off without the faintest hint of apology, pointing her spoon at him as though passing judgment from on high.

“Exactly!” Aunt Agnieszka exclaimed, her voice bright with delight, as if she’d been waiting all evening for this moment. “It’s only a week away, and you haven’t even tried on your suit yet! And we still haven’t finalized the theme for the ball. I was thinking of something quintessentially Stilinski: orange tones throughout the hall, foxes adorning the décor… And the food! Orange must be the centerpiece! Pumpkin tarts, of course, and Marlene—don’t you still have that recipe for peach pastries? Oh! And apricot ones too!”

“Yes, my family has plenty of excellent recipes. I’ll make sure everything is taken care of,” Marlene replied with a playful smile, sipping her soup with effortless elegance.

Stiles pulled a face. Beside him, little Zofia instantly mimicked her cousin’s expression, letting out a soft giggle. Bartosz, attempting to maintain his dignity, barely managed to hide a smile as he lifted his spoon to his lips.

“I thought we were saving money…” Stiles ventured, his voice carrying the faint, desperate hope of someone trying to avoid the inevitable.

“So what?” Halina retorted, dabbing her lips delicately with a monogrammed linen napkin. “A coming-of-age ball happens only once, and as you well know, the House of Stilinski must appear strong—especially now. The ball isn’t just a celebration; it’s a statement. We must show them all that, despite their attacks and attempts to weaken us, we remain unshaken. And more than that, this is your birthday, my grandson. That should never pass unmarked. Your father wouldn’t have wanted that, and neither would your mother.”

Stiles swallowed hard, a tight knot forming in his chest. She had struck a nerve.

He might not have been a great enthusiast for balls, but… it was his birthday. And more than that, hosting such an event would be like a slap in the face of the other noble houses’ arrogance. A declaration that the Stilinskis were still standing, still ready to fight.

“By the way, we’ve already started receiving letters…” Aunt Agni added with a mischievous little laugh that immediately put Stiles on high alert.

“And what’s so special about that?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

“A coming-of-age ball for a noble means many things, including…” Halina began, her tone deceptively casual.

“Marriage offers!” Agnieszka interrupted, practically bouncing in her seat with excitement.

Stiles, who had been about to take another spoonful of soup, froze mid-motion.

Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

He should have fled to the stables with Scott when he had the chance.

“They even mentioned it during the meeting…” Bartosz added, dabbing soup off his daughter’s already sticky face. “The other nobles tried to wedge a marriage proposal into the contract. And look at that… they’ve already started sending letters here.”

“Of course they mentioned it,” Halina said, her voice sharp with irritation. “And you were naïve, Bartosz, not to anticipate that they’d sneak that clause into your foolish negotiations. For years, these houses have longed to forge an alliance with ours—or more precisely, to slip a leash around the fox.”

“It’s true! When I had my coming-of-age ball, I received so many proposals from these nobles I actually lost count,” Aunt Agnieszka said with a laugh, absentmindedly fidgeting with the lace at her sleeve.
“One of them even came from the current head of House Whittemore… though at the time, he was just a teenager,” she added, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“You should’ve read the syrupy nonsense he wrote! Things like ‘My heart burns for you, brighter than a thousand suns’ or ‘You are the fairest rose in the garden of my soul.’”

Stiles couldn’t stop himself from laughing. Markus Whittemore—the same Markus who’d tried to roast him alive at the meeting earlier—had once been a hopeless romantic? Knowing this was a golden weapon. He would absolutely keep it in his back pocket for future use.

“I need to see that letter!” Stiles demanded between chuckles.

“Oh, of course! I’ll show you later. I kept all my proposals,” Agnieszka said, winking. “They’re hilarious. Especially since I didn’t accept a single one. I chose to be an independent woman, beholden to no one. No offense to Marlene and Mother, of course.”

“None taken!” Marlene laughed, clearly enjoying the scene. “Besides, I didn’t have to write a single love letter to snare my dear Bartosz…”

“That’s because he ran off before his own ball,” Halina remarked dryly, arching a brow. “He set sail for the Southern Sea and only returned once he was already married.”

Bartosz choked on his soup, coughing furiously as his face turned a shade redder than the table’s fox embroidery.

“I was on a business mission for the family,” he sputtered in defense. “Refining my training in trade and management. I was even accompanied by Father!”

“Oh, of course…” Halina said, her tone steeped in sarcasm as she crossed her arms. “Because it was such a successful commercial venture—we returned with more debts than profits. The only ‘treasure’ you brought back was your lovely wife.”

Marlene smiled sweetly at her mother-in-law, clearly amused by the memory, while Bartosz stared into his bowl of soup as if hoping to sink into it and disappear entirely.

Stiles had always found it somewhat paradoxical that his uncle—the same man now meekly trying to broker deals with nobles over land—had once been a rebellious young Stilinski who’d escaped his own coming-of-age ball by stowing away on Kazimierz’s ship as it set sail on a diplomatic mission commissioned by the Crown.

The Bartosz of today flinched at the idea of bold decisions, yet the Bartosz of years past had defied every noble convention, running from the expectation of an arranged marriage and ultimately returning with a wife… and not just any wife, but a woman with no title or noble lineage whatsoever.

The stories of the chaos his grandmother caused at the time had become legendary. Halina Stilinski had been furious—so furious, in fact, that she ordered Noah—then a promising young man—to go out and track down his runaway brother. No one had known where Bartosz disappeared to, and when he finally returned, he hadn’t come alone. He’d brought with him a young bride from the southern realms, which only fueled the scandal.

An exotic wife, of course, and with no claim to nobility.

The memory still drew amused smiles from some and long-suffering sighs from others.

“But Noah… now he had a spectacular ball,” Aunt Agnieszka mused dreamily. “Almost better than mine! He used his Arkanis to craft an illusion so vivid it felt as though we were standing in a field of flowers atop a mountain ridge. The entire court was left speechless.”

“And he didn’t even reveal himself immediately,” Bartosz added, a small smile tugging at his lips. “He disguised himself as another noble within his own illusion, mingling with the crowd and leaving everyone bewildered.”

“That was a flawless display of the fox’s cunning,” Halina said, taking a measured sip of water, her satisfaction evident in the gleam of her dark eyes.

Stiles couldn’t help but smile. It only reinforced why his family was feared. The Stilinskis were not warriors for the front lines—they were masters of illusion, deception, and strategy. Spies and infiltrators par excellence: if there was one thing the foxes excelled at, it was hiding in plain sight.

His ancestors had crossed borders in disguise, deceived enemies, infiltrated courts and war councils. While the Argent, Hale, and Whittemore houses crushed battalions with sheer power, the Stilinskis collected secrets and won wars without ever raising a blade.

And then, a thought struck him.

“Was it at the ball that he received the proposal from House Ravenspyr? My mother’s letter?” Stiles asked, his voice catching slightly.

There was curiosity there, yes, but also a quiet ache—one that always surfaced when he spoke of his mother.

Halina’s expression hardened just enough to be noticeable, but she gave a measured nod.
“Yes. But he didn’t marry Evelyne until years later.”

The silence that followed was brief but heavy.

It was Aunt Agni who broke it, her voice light, as though trying to cut through the tension in the air.
“Speaking of which… do you think the Ravenspyrs will attend the ball? If so, we’ll need to prepare additional chambers. They’re coming all the way from Caeloria’s capital, and… well, they’re likely to find our little Beacon Hills terribly provincial.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that…” Stiles murmured, his tone shifting to something more animated. “I’ll ask Lydia.”

Lydia Martin Ravenspyr.
His cousin.

The mere thought of her presence at his coming-of-age ball was enough to guarantee the night would turn into a dazzling spectacle of intrigue and carefully orchestrated chaos.

The nobles of Beacon Hills already looked down their noses at the Ravenspyrs, much as they did the Stilinskis. The Argents, Whittemores, and even some of the Marwoods regarded that family with thinly veiled suspicion.

The Ravenspyr crest came to Stiles’ mind: a silver raven with outstretched wings, set against a deep violet background and encircled by ancient runes. Below it, their motto:
“The Word and Fate Walk Together.”

The Ravenspyrs were no military house, but their influence in Caeloria’s political and magical affairs was undeniable. They were famed for their dominance in the academy, in magic, and in diplomacy, respected not for brute force but for intellect and enigma.

Yet there were those who feared them. Their power was subtle, silent, and—at times—lethal.

It was his mother’s family who first introduced Stiles to arcanomechanics. It was with the Ravenspyrs that he learned power could reside as much in words as in the blade.

And as for the peculiar gift of their bloodline?
The Enchanted Voice.

Stiles remembered vividly how Lydia could coax a confession out of someone without them even realizing it. How his mother, Evelyne Ravenspyr, could soothe—or manipulate—crowds with nothing more than the tone of her song.

The truth was, the Ravenspyrs were dangerous.

“See? Your ball might turn out to be interesting after all. I bet you’d prefer something a little chaotic over the usual pomp,” Bartosz remarked, spearing a piece of tender carrot with his fork before popping it into his mouth.

“Oh, we don’t want anything too chaotic,” Halina countered, fixing Stiles with a sharp look. He didn’t bother replying; instead, he dipped his spoon back into his soup with the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“And what if the Hales show up at the ball?” Aunt Agnieszka ventured, glancing sideways at her mother. “I mean… we sort of overheard the conversation in the entry hall. If they come, will we need to make adjustments? They’ve never attended a—”

“They came to your ball.”

The raspy, unexpectedly lucid voice of Kazimierz startled the entire family. For a moment, they’d all assumed the Stilinski patriarch had nodded off at the table. But no—he was very much awake, methodically tearing his bread and dipping it into his soup.

Halina watched him carefully, as though trying to decipher exactly how anchored to the present he was.

“You remember, my love?” he went on, turning to his wife with a nostalgic gleam in his silver eyes. “I even thought old Augusto Hale—Peter and Talia’s father—was going to ask for your hand right there in the ballroom. I had to pull a few shadow tricks to make my point...”

“And nearly ruined my ball in the process!” Halina huffed, though a small, mischievous smile played on her lips. “You two brawling in the middle of the hall, shattering everything… I had to step in.”

“Step in?” Stiles arched a brow.

“I conjured an illusion of their deepest fears,” Halina said with a satisfied, slightly wicked smile. “I swear, Hale nearly pissed himself… and you, my dear, cried like a baby.”

Stiles held his breath, eyes wide. He couldn’t begin to imagine his formidable grandfather crying—let alone a Hale on the verge of a breakdown.

“It was rather seductive,” Kazimierz murmured with a knowing nod, seeming startlingly lucid for a fleeting moment. Then, as quickly as it came, the clarity slipped away; he began humming softly to himself, distracted, as he dipped another piece of bread into his soup.

Halina watched her husband for a long moment, and the smile she’d worn earlier faltered—just slightly—turning into something softer, almost wistful.

“So… the Hales used to attend balls and social gatherings?” Bartosz asked, his voice tinged with genuine surprise.

“Yes… before the fire,” Halina began, but she stopped herself abruptly, as though catching words she’d nearly let slip.

Stiles froze. There was something there—some untold detail. The fire.

But before he could press her, his grandmother lifted her glass of water and, in a tone deliberately lighter than before, changed the subject without so much as a pause:

“Well, I’ll be needing dessert. Where are the treats you two picked up at the Beacon Hills fair?”

Stiles wasn’t fooled.

This was classic Halina Stilinski: a masterful diversion, perfectly executed.

That was fine. He was learning to play her game too.

If he couldn’t get answers tonight, there would always be tomorrow.
And tomorrow, she wouldn’t slip away so easily.

Chapter Text

Stiles meticulously adjusted the device on his bedroom workbench, the flickering candlelight dancing across the polished metal and embedded crystals. The machine—an arcanomechanical projector he had brought from the capital—was a box of brass and bronze, adorned with intricate runic engravings that channeled Arkanis energy. At the top, a set of gears sat motionless, waiting for the signal to spring into motion. A circular lens, reminiscent of a telescope’s eye, was designed to project an image onto a stretched paper screen mounted on an iron frame shaped in a gentle arc.

He had made several improvements to the original design, adding finer adjustments to the internal mechanisms and refining the fittings for the crystals that powered the contraption. Arcanomechanical crystals—rare minerals capable of storing and channeling Arkanis—were the projector’s power source. Each crystal possessed unique properties, and the device required four of them to operate at full capacity.

Stiles opened a small side panel on the box and retrieved the first crystal: Luminis, the Eternal Flame. A pale, almost translucent stone that pulsed with a faint bluish glow. Its purpose was clear—storing and emitting intense light, essential for projecting sharp, defined images.

He slotted the crystal into the first chamber, hearing a soft click, a sign that the connection had locked into place.

The second crystal, amber-hued with golden undertones, was Resonium, the Voice of the Aether. It was responsible for amplifying and transmitting sound waves through Arkanis, allowing words to be captured and sent across long distances. Stiles placed it carefully beside the Luminis, feeling a faint vibration as it settled into the arcanomechanical circuitry.

Two more to go.

He opened one of the drawers beneath the bench, cluttered with colorful crystals in various cuts and sizes. Pushing aside tools and scraps from other experiments, he finally found what he was looking for: Nexusite, the Arcane Conductor. This crystal held a shimmering silver vein within, faintly pulsing as if carrying an electric current. Its role was critical—it enabled communication between arkanomechanical devices, ensuring the projector could interface with other machines of its kind.

He slotted the Nexusite into place and glanced around. One more to go. Where the hell had he put the last crystal?

After a few more seconds of frantic searching, he finally found it—under the bed, of course. Stiles sighed. He really needed to work on being more organized.

The final crystal was Illusoryn, the Veil of Dreams. Soft pink in hue with a diffused inner glow, it was perhaps the most vital component for this particular experiment: its function was to project holographic and illusory images, allowing for the visual replay of captured scenes or transmitted messages. It was, in many ways, a mirror of his own family’s gift—the Stilinski lineage, masters of illusion.

Now, with all four crystals securely in place, Stiles rubbed his hands together, a flicker of excitement bubbling in his chest. This—this was the true magic of arcanomechanics: the union of arcane power and human ingenuity, making the impossible tangible. Even without Arkanis in his own blood, he could still manipulate its flow, still shape it into something new—something useful.

He grasped the brass crank at the side of the machine and gave it a firm turn.

There was a metallic snap, followed by a low hum as the internal gears whirred to life. The blue glow of the Luminis flared at the projector’s core, focusing through the lens and casting forward toward the paper screen. At first, only a hazy mist filled the projection space, the crystals still aligning with the energy flow.

No image yet.

Stiles leaned closer and gave the side of the box a gentle tap, as if coaxing it to cooperate.

“Lydia? Are you there?” he called out, voice laced with anticipation.

If everything was working properly, his cousin’s machine—located miles away in the capital city of Solmeria—would be active and ready to receive his signal.

He held his breath, waiting.

And then... the image began to take shape.

It wasn’t a perfect projection, more like something dreamlike—flickering and ethereal, a pale illusion of light and shadow shaped by arcanomechanics. Yet it was mesmerizing. Once again, Stiles had successfully connected with his cousin Lydia, despite the great distance between them.

Gradually, her features came into focus: tousled red hair, a tangle of waves that tumbled over her shoulders with calculated nonchalance. Her honey-colored eyes, sharp and expressive, radiated a mix of boredom and mild disapproval. Lydia Ravenspyr possessed a striking beauty and the kind of poised self-assurance that came either from noble blood—or the unwavering certainty that she was always right.

“Oh heavens, you startled me!” she complained, blinking a few times and placing a hand dramatically over her chest. “I thought it was my college professor calling to demand that report…”

Stiles let a half-smile tug at his lips.

“The great Lydia Ravenspyr failing to meet an academic deadline? Surely this marks the beginning of the end for humankind.”

Lydia huffed and rolled her eyes.

“Darling, there’s a theater festival happening in the capital right now. Magnificent plays, breathtaking dance performances, stunning art exhibitions... How am I supposed to lock myself in a room to write a paper when there’s culture waiting to be absorbed?”

Stiles raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.

“Culture. Right. And I suppose the charming gentlemen and exotic cocktails are just... scholarly bonuses?”

Lydia flipped her hair with deliberate flair and smiled.

“Well, I am a multitasker. I can expand my cultural repertoire and enjoy myself at the same time.”

She looked as though she had just woken up, even though it was well past ten in the morning. Still, she was already beginning to get ready with the precision of someone who knew exactly how she wanted the world to perceive her. She picked up a silver brush and ran it through her hair, detangling it with a kind of elegant disdain.

“You’d love it here, Stiles... Actually, when do you plan on visiting us?” she asked, leaning a little closer to the projection as she began to apply a fine layer of powder to her face. “I miss having someone around to make acidic remarks about the nobility here in the capital. Your sarcastic, slightly malicious observations are the only thing that actually make me laugh until I cry.”

“I don’t make malicious remarks, only inconvenient truths,” Stiles replied, feigning indignation. “And I would like to visit Solmeria—but not right now…”

Lydia paused for a beat, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her expression shifted from playful to sharply judgmental.

“Oh yes, of course not right now,” she said, her voice dripping with dangerously sweet sarcasm. “Because this week happens to be your birthday, doesn’t it? Your grand coming-of-age ball!”

A chill ran down Stiles’ spine.

“And I presume this call isn’t just a casual chat, but your belated attempt to finally extend a formal invitation to me… Something that, might I remind you, should’ve been done months ago!”

She pointed her makeup brush at him like it were a sword, leveling her accusation with flair.

“Because, as you well know, a last-minute invitation to a noble’s ball is absolutely unacceptable. These things require planning, Stiles. The capital isn’t exactly next door to Beacon Hills!”

Stiles ran a hand behind his neck, feeling a creeping wave of guilt. He had put off the decision for as long as humanly possible—not because he didn’t want the Ravenspyr to attend (quite the opposite), but because he’d been mentally avoiding the very idea of the ball itself.

Lydia noticed. Of course she did. Her gaze softened slightly, with a gleam of self-satisfaction.

“You’re lucky I went ahead and invited myself a month ago,” she declared, turning her attention back to the mirror as she traced her lips with a subtle shade of carmine. “I knew you’d procrastinate until the last second.”

She shot him a triumphant look.

"You know me too well..." Stiles laughed, finally allowing himself to relax.

“Father won’t be able to attend in person,” Lydia announced casually. “Dull council matters, endless palace meetings, politics, blah, blah, blah…” She sighed, clearly bored. “But our uncles will be accompanying me. Yes, I took the liberty of extending the invitation to your birthday and ball to the entire Ravenspyr family. No need to thank me, of course.”

She paused, flashing a feline smile.

“Well… maybe just a little. I’ll be collecting a few favors when I arrive, obviously.”

Stiles huffed, already anticipating the elaborate traps Lydia would no doubt lay out for him.

“Obviously,” he echoed with resignation. Trouble followed him like a loyal dog—and Lydia always knew how to make it more... entertaining.

But then, she set down her makeup brush and narrowed her eyes at the flickering projection.

“But…” Lydia tilted her head, her tone shifting to something more serious. “What happens after?”

Stiles frowned.

“After?”

“Yes. After the ball. Are you still planning to move here?” Lydia drummed her fingers against the vanity. “That was the plan, wasn’t it? Aunt Alphonse has already been looking into enrollment for arcanomechanics programs at the capital’s universities… She’s very excited about having a nephew—and possibly a protégé.”

Stiles turned his gaze away from the machine, as if avoiding Lydia’s eyes—even in projection—could somehow distance him from the uncomfortable truth of her words.

“I’d love to... I dreamed of that,” he admitted with a sigh. “But that was before my father disappeared.”

The words came out sharper than he’d intended. Yes, he had always wanted to study in the capital, to dive deep into arcanomechanics, to prove to Noah Stilinski that even without Arkanis, he could be a leader—could be worthy of the legacy. But now… With his father missing and House Stilinski surrounded by wolves and vultures, leaving felt impossible.

Lydia fell silent for a moment. For the first time, she seemed unsure of what to say—and that was rare. Stiles knew that look well; she was carefully choosing her next words.

"Stiles... you don't have to—" she began, then hesitated. He knew exactly what Lydia was thinking. "You're inert. Is your presence there really essential?"

He stifled a bitter laugh.

"Well... there's the entrance exam every year. You could always apply next time," Lydia offered, her voice tinged with hope. "And it’s not like Uncle Noah is going to disappear forever... I mean, his position as a Stilinski, working for the Crown, has always demanded long absences. My father explained that. Being a spy requires discretion."

Spy.

Stiles knew that. But his father had never been out of touch for this long. Even on extended missions, Noah had always found a way to send a message, a signal, a word. But now… the silence was unbearable.

He drew a slow breath.

"Would it be possible to ask Uncle Karl what my father’s mission actually was?"

Lydia exhaled deeply, as if she'd been expecting the question.

"You know my father doesn’t talk to me about those things," she said, rolling her eyes. "Because I’m a woman. And even though I have Arkanis, that doesn’t mean I’ll carry on the family’s glorious legacy. 'Leave the serious business to the men,' blah, blah, blah… You know the drill."

Stiles nodded. Yes, he did. House Ravenspyr might have been intellectually powerful and diplomatically influential, but it still bore the scars of the nobility’s outdated traditions.

"What about your mother—Aunt Lucila?" he tried.

Lydia bit her lip, thoughtful.

"Well… she might know something..." Lydia admitted slowly, twirling a red curl between her fingers. "But, Stiles… is this really necessary? I mean—do you think something serious is going on?"

There was a flicker of unease in her voice—rare for someone like Lydia Ravenspyr. She rarely showed concern so openly, but Stiles knew her well enough to catch the subtle signs.

He pressed his lips together, weighing his words. He couldn’t just unload every bit of intrigue currently plaguing Beacon Hills onto her. Lydia lived in the capital, surrounded by a different kind of chaos—faster, louder, more polished. Not that Solmeria was free of conspiracies—far from it—but its tempo was very different.

Here, the schemes were woven at lavish banquets, amidst clinking wine glasses and carefully chosen words. It was a game of diplomacy, disguised beneath layers of refined courtesy. But in Beacon Hills? Intrigue came hand-in-hand with far more direct threats and contracts sealed under flames conjured by some pompous noble.

Besides, Lydia was never one to enjoy getting tangled in noble conflicts, despite her lineage placing her squarely at their center. Her world revolved around festivals, the cultural pulse of the capital, theaters, and the modern inventions slowly reshaping society. There were museums, libraries that stretched on for endless corridors, elegant restaurants, and balls nearly every night…

Compared to all that, Beacon Hills felt like a province forgotten by time—trapped in old feuds between noble houses and their endless power struggles.

Stiles drew in a breath.

“I don’t know…” he finally admitted. “But I’m going to find out.”

And as he said it, his thoughts drifted inevitably back to the Hale proposal.

But he also knew that before anything else, there was one person he needed to interrogate that morning—his grandmother, Halina Stilinski.

***

Tea time, for Halina Stilinski, was practically a sacred ritual, strictly marked by scheduled hours. Eleven in the morning, before lunch, was one of them (another came at five in the afternoon, and sometimes a final round before bed, at nine).

Which was why Stiles knew exactly where to find her. Since dinner—and even throughout breakfast—his grandmother had been skillfully dodging the topic he most wanted to bring up: the Hales.
And, by extension, his father.
And, ultimately, the looming threat over the Stilinski family.

Hurrying through the manor’s corridors, he reached the second-floor veranda. Before he could even knock, Halina’s voice came from the other side.

“You may enter, Mieczysław.”

Stiles inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly. He really should’ve stopped being surprised by her uncanny intuition by now—but somehow, she always managed to catch him off guard.

As he opened the door, he was greeted by the full glow of morning light and the soft scent of flowers wafting from the garden below. The veranda was wide, furnished with white-painted wrought iron, the glass tabletop catching the sunlight in shimmering reflections. A climbing tree sprawled up the side of the house, its branches arching overhead like a leafy canopy, casting a gentle, dappled shade across the space.

Halina sat perfectly composed—as always. She wore a crisp white dress with delicate blue embroidery, elegant yet light enough for the summer heat. In her hand was an orange-tinted teacup, steam rising from it in graceful curls. Beside her, a plate of cookies and tea cakes was arranged with near-mathematical precision.

She was not alone.

Zofia, his young cousin, was absorbed in a peculiar game: creating illusions of small birds that fluttered around the veranda, confusing the real ones chirping from the branches above. Next to her sat her mother, Marlene, lounging with an air of practiced ease in a pale pink dress, her intricate braids coiled elegantly as always.

“Hello,” Stiles greeted with a slight smile.

“Hello, Stiles,” Marlene replied, already rising as she scooped Zofia up into her arms.

The girl let out a small protest.

“Oh, I think it’s time for us to go,” Marlene said.

“Oh, nonsense, Marlene!” Halina protested, tapping her spoon lightly against the rim of her teacup. “We’re still in the middle of tea! And we haven’t even finished the cakes…”

“Caaakes…” Zofia whimpered, pouting.

“Yes, yes, but we’ll come back later,” Marlene assured her, flashing Stiles a knowing wink. “You have an important matter to discuss with your grandson, Halina. And this time—no evasions.”

Stiles crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at his grandmother.

Halina let out a sigh, taking a long sip of tea before placing her cup back on the table.

The silence that settled between them was broken only by the chirping of birds and the delicate clink of porcelain as Halina poured a cup of tea for Stiles. He sat in the seat Marlene had vacated earlier, watching his grandmother closely.

“Your aunt and uncle went into town this morning…” Halina began, as if she were merely starting a casual conversation. “They’re picking up things for your celebration. Agnieszka, in particular, went to speak with the tailor about your suit for the ball.”

Stiles let out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair.

“I could wear my father’s suit. With a few adjustments, of course.”

Halina made a face of absolute disapproval.

“Absolutely not,” she said firmly. “That piece is from another era—completely outdated.”

She picked up a cookie from the plate and took a delicate bite. Stiles noticed it was one of the fox-shaped ones he had brought back from the Beacon Hills market the day before.

“You need to look formidable. Like a true Stilinski. No wearing hand-me-downs.”

Stiles stirred the silver spoon in his teacup, watching the amber liquid swirl as he inhaled the nutty scent before speaking:

“It would be a way to honor my father… since he’s not here.”

Halina lifted her gaze to him, the rigid formality in her posture softening, just slightly, with a flicker of tenderness.

“There are many ways to honor your father, Mieczysław.”

“Like going to the Hales for answers?” Stiles said, seizing the moment.

Halina sighed, setting the cookie down on the plate, as if the weight of the conversation had finally settled upon her.

“If I forbade you from going to Hale Manor… would you listen to me?”

Stiles held her gaze for a long moment before answering:

"Maybe a little... But I’d rather not go behind anyone’s back. You should want to know what they have to say too."

He leaned back slightly in his chair.

"Why did my father disappear? If the Hales know something, isn’t it worth at least trying to find out?"

Halina remained silent, her gaze fixed on him with quiet intensity.

"But before that... I think you could tell me a bit more about this alliance between our houses," he continued. "About the fire. About all the secrets no one ever mentioned—just because I was born inert."

Halina raised her hand in a firm, wordless warning, and Stiles fell silent, though it was clear he didn’t want to.

"I never kept those things from you because you’re an inert, Mieczysław Stilinski," she said, her voice steady but not cold. "I did it to protect you."

She paused, eyes sharp as they studied her grandson.

"Not even your aunt and uncle knew everything, as you probably realized yesterday. That information was kept among the active members of the family. The ones who went into the field."

"The ones with Arkanis," Stiles added, his tone tinged with bitterness. "And yet, you know about it."

Halina exhaled sharply, but gave a resigned nod.

"I won’t stop you from seeking answers, Mieczysław," she said at last. "I know you well enough to see how stubborn you are—you’ll pursue this to the end."

She took a deep breath, thoughtful.

"As for the answers you want... I can tell you a few things." Her fingers tapped lightly on the table. "But I believe the Hales have a more complete version of the story to offer you."

Her gaze dropped to her teacup, then returned to meet his.

"Even with Arkanis, I’m still a woman," she said, almost bitterly. "Which means I was excluded from many decisions. Some truths I learned through whispers... others, I had to wrest from people’s mouths."

Stiles leaned in slightly, attentive now.

"That doesn’t matter. I want to hear them."

Chapter Text

The afternoon stretched on slowly, painting the horizon in shades of gold and orange as the sun dipped toward the western mountains. Shepherds guided flocks of sheep and cattle down dusty roads, and in the distance, fields of wheat swayed gently with the evening breeze. The air was thick with the scent of warm earth and freshly cut grass.

Stiles walked away from the manor, following a dirt path lined with tall grass, lost in thought. His feet lazily kicked at small stones along the way, his mind echoing with his grandmother’s words.

“So? How did it go?”
Scott’s voice came out of nowhere, startling him.

Scott had just leapt over a wooden fence near the stables, where a few horses grazed peacefully. He approached with his usual laid-back demeanor, though his alert expression made it clear he was genuinely waiting for an answer.

“Gods, McCall! We need to put a bell on you like we do with the cows,” Stiles grumbled, placing a hand over his chest.

Scott just rolled his eyes.
“I just wanted to know if you talked to your grandmother… and what we’re doing about the Hales.”

Stiles let out a sigh and offered a half-smile.
“I did talk to her. And, surprisingly, she left the decision up to me.”

Scott raised an eyebrow.
“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I think she knew that with or without her approval, I’d do whatever I wanted anyway.” He shrugged casually.

“That does sound like you...” Scott chuckled, crossing his arms. “So? What did you decide?”

The two continued walking along the dirt road, drifting farther and farther from the manor, the setting sun casting long shadows in front of them.

“Well, obviously I’m going after answers,” Stiles said with determination. “Which means I’m going to the Hale estate. Which, honestly, I’m not even sure is a manor or some shadowy cave filled with giant wolves. But it doesn’t matter. I want to know more.”

“When are we going?”

Stiles stopped mid-step and looked at Scott with suspicion.
“We?”

“Stiles, you’re not walking into Hale territory alone,” Scott said firmly.

“Well, technically, they are our allies…” Stiles offered, as if trying to convince himself more than Scott.

“They’ve been really great allies so far...” Scott muttered under his breath.

Stiles opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by a voice calling out from the distance.

“Oh! Young master!”

Both he and Scott turned toward the fork in the road and spotted a mule-drawn cart approaching. Seated atop the vehicle was a stocky, gray-haired man with an uneven beard, waving enthusiastically. His grin stretched wide, revealing several conspicuous gaps where teeth once were.

“Mr. Smith! Good to see you!” Stiles called out, stepping forward.

Smith let out a raspy laugh, tugging the reins with one hand.
“Good to see you too, young master!” he shouted. “Came straight from the quarry. We found another one of those odd crystals you’re so fond of!”

Stiles’s eyes lit up with excitement.

The Stilinski quarry was one of the estate’s lesser enterprises, mainly dedicated to marble extraction for trade with nearby villages and towns. Located on the western slopes of the Gray Mountain, it had long been considered a minor asset—just a supplement to the family’s agricultural and livestock ventures. But to Stiles, with his growing obsession for arcanomechanics, the quarry held far greater potential.

That was because, every now and then, arcanomechanical crystals were unearthed among the stone. Often overlooked by the workers or discarded as rubble, these crystals were priceless treasures in Stiles’s eyes.

“Show me!” he demanded eagerly, already climbing into the cart as Smith gestured toward the cargo.

With an agile leap, Stiles grabbed the wooden edge of the cart and hoisted himself up, catching sight of a sack filled with rough stones glinting in the evening sun. Raw crystals lay embedded among the debris, like forgotten gems hidden in the wreckage.

Unfortunately, Noah Stilinski had never paid much attention to these discoveries. Other noble houses, however, had already begun to heavily invest in the mining of such crystals, recognizing the rising potential of arcanomechanics. The trade in these rare minerals was rapidly expanding, especially in the capital, Solmeria. Still, most of the population of Beacon Hills—and indeed, much of the kingdom of Caeloria—continued to regard arcanomechanics as little more than a scientific novelty, oblivious to its true value.

But Stiles didn’t care about market trends or noble politics. He wanted to understand it, to explore it, to unlock its secrets.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith!” he said, grabbing the sack and attempting to lift it.

Scott, ever the more practical—and noticeably stronger—of the two, stepped forward and hoisted the heavy load without effort, casting an exasperated look at his friend.

“No trouble at all, young master,” said Smith with another of his signature raspy laughs. “If you ever feel like visiting the quarry, be my guest... There’s plenty more of that stuff lying around.”

“Great! Perfect!” Stiles nodded eagerly, practically buzzing with excitement.

The servant tipped his hat in farewell and gave the mule a gentle tug, sending the cart creaking down the path. Stiles waved back enthusiastically.

Scott eyed the sack of stones with pure disdain.

“More rocks?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he adjusted the load on his shoulder.

“More crystals, you mean,” Stiles corrected with a satisfied grin. “And the best part? I was just on my way to the lab!”

He pointed toward the end of the road, where a wooden shed stood nestled within a small grove of low trees. It was a makeshift workspace, built by Stiles himself with the help of a few servants—and an extraordinary amount of stubborn persistence.

“And what about the Hales?” Scott asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the more pressing matter.

Stiles, already striding down the path, answered without slowing:

“My grandmother suggested we wait for the Hales to make the first move… The problem is, I have no idea how they’re going to do that.”

Scott frowned.
“I’ve never seen a messenger come out of that forest in all these years…”

“Exactly! But during the Arcanum meeting, someone mentioned that messages were sent to the Hales. So there must be some way to contact them.”

“You really think they’ll answer?”

“If they don’t… well, tomorrow we can explore the forest.”

Scott came to an abrupt stop.

“Explore the wolf forest?” he repeated, trying to sound unfazed, though he cast a wary glance eastward—toward the Darkwood, where towering trees loomed like a wall of shadows and secrets.

Stiles clapped a cheerful hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Relax, McCall! It’ll be fun!”

Scott muttered something unintelligible, but he didn’t get a chance to argue further—Stiles had already reached the shed and thrown the door open wide.

The inside of the lab was a controlled mess. Shelves overflowing with books, dismantled machines, toolboxes, scattered screws, and piles of gears all competed for space with sheets of paper scribbled over with invention blueprints. The scent of oil and metal mingled with the faint fragrance of wildflowers growing in the cracks between the wooden floorboards.

Before Stiles could take a step inside, a high-pitched yelp echoed through the room.

From the middle of the chaos, a small fox with vibrant orange fur darted out and ran straight to his feet.

“Hey there, Kit! How’ve you been? Took good care of my experiments?” he asked, crouching down to scratch the animal behind the ears.

The fox purred in a strange, rumbling way before letting out a sharp bark—directed squarely at Scott.

“He hates me,” Scott muttered, casting a suspicious glance at the small creature, who growled low in response.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic... Kit’s just a little territorial,” Stiles said, scooping the fox up and stroking his head. Kit, however, kept his sharp eyes locked on Scott, visibly unimpressed. Grumbling under his breath, Scott hauled the heavy sack of crystals onto the wooden workbench.

“A little territorial?” McCall grumbled. “I still have the scar from the last time he bit me.”

Stiles let out a chuckle, shooting him a mischievous look.

“The mighty Scott McCall… afraid of a fox?”

“I’m not afraid. I just have common sense.”

“Funny, Kit doesn’t seem to love you the way horses do…”

Scott only shrugged, refusing to rise to the bait. He pointed at Stiles—only to be met with another sharp, smug yap from Kit.

“Alright, go ahead and do your tinkering,” Scott said, gesturing toward the sack of crystals. “I’ll sort out the supplies for tomorrow—and prep the horses. Since someone insists on this insane idea of ‘exploring’ Hale territory…”

“Exploring, Scott?” Stiles raised an eyebrow. “I thought I was going alone…”

“Not even in your worst delusions,” Scott replied, crossing his arms with a more serious tone. “And wake up early, alright? We need to leave at dawn to make the most of the daylight. That forest is dark enough in the morning—I don’t even want to imagine what it's like at night. No dawdling!”

Stiles let out a dramatic sigh, watching as Scott already made his way toward the lab’s door.

“Remind me again, Kit…” he muttered, glancing at the fox. “Which one of us is the master and which is the servant in this story?”

Kit let out a short bark, almost like a chuckle, clearly amused by the scene.

Stiles gave a crooked smile, crouching down to set the fox on the ground. Then, finally, he turned his full attention to the real reason he was there: the crystals.

He couldn't quite pinpoint when he realized the sunlight had vanished. Maybe it was when he had to squint to make out the lines in his book and the illustrations. Or when he found himself bringing the crystal so close to his face that it nearly brushed his skin, trying to analyze its organoleptic properties—those characteristics of materials that can be perceived by the human senses.

Arcanomechanical crystals still hadn’t been fully catalogued. Research on them continued, slow and meticulous, hindered by the fact that many minerals were incredibly similar in color, texture, and weight.

Stiles lit a nearby oil lamp, but, unsatisfied with the dim glow, he reached for one of his experimental devices—a metallic sphere mounted on an ornate base. He selected a Luminis crystal, recently cut and faintly luminescent, and fitted it into the compartment beneath the sphere. With a simple flick of the side switch, the light flared to life—brighter than any oil lamp, though still flickering slightly.

“I’ll need to calibrate this later,” he thought, noticing the unsteady glow. But for now, a more intriguing mystery demanded his attention.

He was weighing a peculiar crystal on the balance scale, brow furrowed in concentration. The mineral felt dense, yet paradoxically light to the touch. Something about it didn’t align with any known patterns.

He consulted his notes and the list of known crystals and their properties—documents obtained from the capital. Likely outdated now, given the pace of new discoveries, but still a reliable reference. He had been adding his own observations in the margins, dreaming of the day he’d make a breakthrough of his own.

That day hadn’t come yet. Or maybe... it was about to.

“What are you?” he murmured to the crystal, as if it might respond.

At that exact moment, he felt a faint pulse.

Stiles blinked. Shook his head. “Just my imagination,” he thought.

Kit, the fox, let out a sharp, low bark.

“It looks like Orichalcum, doesn’t it, Kit?” Stiles said, grabbing a second crystal—one he’d ordered from the capital.

Orichalcum, known as the Veil of Gravity, was a prized mineral. It possessed the ability to manipulate weight and gravitational force, allowing objects to levitate. Stiles had been eager to finally get his hands on more than one—so many inventions could become reality with a steady supply of the crystal.

He brought the Orichalcum closer to the new crystal he’d recovered from the quarry and examined them side by side beneath the light.

Again, that pulse.

This time, Stiles was certain it wasn’t a trick of the shadows. Not exhaustion. Not his imagination.

Kit barked again.

"I don’t know, Kit... I’m starting to think this might not be Orichalcum," Stiles murmured, placing the mysterious crystal on the workbench.

Maybe it was time to test it.

Arcanomechanical crystals, by themselves, were inert—their properties only activated through friction, impact, or the deliberate use of Arkanis. Stiles took a deep breath and reached for the small hammer he used to shape stones.

Kit let out a sharp, warning yip.

"Don’t worry, Kit..." Stiles said reassuringly. "This won’t be dangerous. Just a little tap. That’s all it takes to tell whether it’s Orichalcum or not!"

"Dangerous? How can a rock be dangerous?"

The voice came from uncomfortably close.

Too close.

And it wasn’t Scott—who might have returned to pester him or drag him back to the manor before dinner.

No.

Someone else was there.

Stiles jumped, startled. The shock made the hammer slip from his hand and fall—right onto the unknown crystal.

And that’s when everything spiraled into chaos.

Chapter Text

First came the pulse.

At first, Stiles thought nothing would happen—which, honestly, would’ve been a relief. But the calm lasted only a heartbeat—just long enough for him to turn toward the voice.

Standing beside him, as if he'd appeared out of thin air, was a tall, broad-shouldered man. His green eyes glowed faintly in the shadows of the workshop, where the only light came from the device on the bench, casting flickering silhouettes over shelves crammed with books and scattered gears.

Stiles’ heart kicked hard in his chest before he could stop it.

He recognized that face.

"You’re Derek, aren’t you?" he asked, the pieces of the puzzle snapping together in his mind.

He was ready to launch into a barrage of questions—How the hell did you get in here? What do you want? And why, in the name of all the gods, are you shirtless? It was nighttime, and getting colder by the minute.

Not that Stiles was noticing the sculpted chest or perfectly carved abs of the Hale heir.

Obviously not.

But before he could say a word, Derek pointed to the workbench and asked in a dry, deadpan tone:

"Was that supposed to happen?"

Stiles turned quickly—and a shiver crept down his spine.

The unknown crystal was glowing violently, vibrating with sharp pulses that made the air itself ripple like heat above sunbaked stone. Kit, the small fox, gave a warning yelp and scampered away just as both Stiles and Derek took an instinctive step back.

It was the only warning they’d get before chaos hit.

The crystal drew the Orichalcum to it like a magnet, fusing the two together in a blink. A heartbeat later, it reacted—wildly.

Stiles didn’t even have time to shout before he felt his feet lift off the ground.

And then... everything floated.

Books. Tools. Gears.

The sack of crystals. An inkwell that exploded into streaks of black mist across the air.

The workbench itself.

And, of course, the two young men—and the little fox.

Kit spun helplessly, his little paws flailing as if trying to swim through the air. Stiles let out a startled yelp when he bumped into the ceiling, twisting awkwardly before grabbing onto one of the wooden beams for stability. Derek, on the other hand, looked more annoyed than impressed, arms crossed as he floated a few inches away from Stiles.

“This is incredible!” Stiles exclaimed, utterly ignoring the gravity—both literal and figurative—of the situation. “The crystal is amplifying the Orichalcum’s effect! Normally, levitation only occurs with direct contact, but here… the range has expanded! Derek, do you realize what we're witnessing? This is a completely new phenomenon!”

Hale clearly didn’t share Stiles’ scientific enthusiasm.

“How do you make it stop?” he growled, jaw clenched, visibly unimpressed by the experience of floating like a balloon inside the cluttered lab.

“Stop?” Stiles frowned, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

“Yes, stop!” Derek snapped, just as he intercepted a hammer spinning dangerously through the air, narrowly missing Stiles’ face.

“Thanks…” Stiles muttered, now starting to accept that maybe, just maybe, it would be a good idea to fix this before things escalated into full disaster.

Derek glanced around, visibly irritated.
“This ceiling’s not going to hold if everything keeps flying.” He gestured upward at the growing pile of books, gears, and loose tools pressing against the wooden planks above them.

And, well, Stiles had to admit—while he called the place a laboratory, in practice, it was more of a makeshift shack held together by nails that were... let’s say, questionably secured.

If the ceiling gave out… what would happen to them?

Logically, they’d keep floating until the crystal’s effect wore off. But what if the altered gravity field had a limited radius? Would they just plummet like rocks the second they drifted beyond its reach? The thought of being launched into the sky with no control, only to crash back down without warning... wasn’t exactly comforting.

“Okay... how do we stop this?” Stiles muttered to himself, brain already shifting into high gear.

Derek, still hovering nearby and clearly even more pissed, let out another low growl.

“Growling isn’t helping!” Stiles shot back, just as Kit bounced off a floating book and was sent spinning away, another casualty of the unpredictable zero-gravity.

“You mess with this stuff and don’t know how to shut it down?” Derek grumbled, narrowly dodging a wrench that tumbled past him. “And Peter’s actually interested in these crystals? This is complete insanity—”

“Inertia!” Stiles suddenly exclaimed, cutting him off.

“What?”

“An object at rest tends to stay at rest, and an object in motion tends to stay in motion unless acted upon by an external force.”

Derek stared at him like he’d completely lost his mind.

Stiles huffed and floated closer to Hale, grabbing his hand to get his attention.

"If an object is moving in a zero-gravity environment, it'll keep moving unless acted upon by an external force," he explained quickly. "There’s no friction or gravity to slow it down or change its path." He pointed to the crystal hovering at the center of the chaos, still pulsing faintly just above the floor.
"To get there, I need propulsion!"

Derek finally seemed to catch on. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"If all you needed was a push, you could’ve just asked."

Before Stiles could protest, Derek yanked him close—firm enough to make his cheeks flush—then shoved him downward with all the force he could muster.

The acceleration was so abrupt, Stiles couldn’t even scream. All he could think was: “Holy gods, Hales are strong!”

In a blur, the lab spun past him—and then—BAM!

“Nailed it!” Stiles shouted triumphantly as he landed squarely on the floor, right in the middle of the storm of floating debris.

With his feet now firmly on solid ground—since the effect in the center of the lab seemed noticeably weaker (something Stiles would definitely log for further study)—he was exactly where he needed to be.
Before him, the unknown crystal remained fused to the Orichalcum, vibrating with a pulsing energy, almost like a heartbeat.

One known method for deactivating arcanomechanical crystals was to simply wait until their energy ran out. They had a limited window of activity before reverting to inert minerals—although there were theories that some could be recharged.

But they didn’t have time to wait for it to burn itself out.

The other method? Induce a second impact to disrupt the energy flow, or channel Arkanis directly into it.
That last option was definitely off the table for Stiles.

“But if I can just...” he murmured, reaching for the fused crystals, trying to pry them apart.

He tried.
And failed.

His arms trembled with the effort—not a great sign. But worse yet, he wasn’t the only thing trembling.

The walls of the shack began to vibrate ominously. Tiny cracks split between the wooden boards. The ceiling groaned loudly, as if warning them that it couldn’t take much more.

“Stiles!” Derek shouted from above, still hovering near the ceiling.

"Almost there!" Stiles called out, strained, pulling on the crystal with every ounce of strength he had.

One final tug... and then—with a muffled snap—the crystals finally came apart!

The zero-gravity effect vanished instantly. Like a released spring, everything plummeted to the ground with a deafening crash.

Books, gears, tools, and metal parts rained from the ceiling in a downpour of chaos. Stiles barely had time to dodge a wrench that whizzed past his head. He stumbled over a chair in the process but—miraculously—managed to stay on his feet.

Derek, meanwhile, landed like a predator—graceful, composed, as if the whole ordeal had been no more than a mild inconvenience. To top it off, he somehow managed to catch Kit mid-air, cradling the tiny fox in his arms. The creature whimpered, clearly dazed and not at all happy with the turn of events.

Still gasping for breath, Stiles braced his hands on his knees, trying to recover.

"Well... that was... fun!" he panted out, grinning despite the disaster.

Derek turned to him slowly, eyes wide with unfiltered disbelief.

"Fun?" he echoed, his voice low and brimming with irritation. His gaze swept across the lab—now thoroughly trashed, littered with scattered parts and broken tools.
"I think our definitions of ‘fun’ differ. A lot."

"This arcanomechanics thing of yours seems more dangerous than useful," he added, arms crossed, voice heavy with judgment.

Stiles snapped upright, indignation flaring instantly.

"Excuse me?" he began, academic outrage bubbling in his chest.
"You just witnessed a very limited demonstration of the power and potential applications of arcanomechanics! And for the record, we made a groundbreaking discovery here!"

"We almost died."

"Almost being the key word, Hale!" Stiles shot back, pointing a finger at him. "But we didn’t! You’re being dramatic."

He picked up the unfamiliar crystal, still faintly pulsing, and carefully placed it inside a toolbox—well away from any other crystals. If there was one lesson to take from this whole experiment, it was that this particular mineral needed to be studied with far more caution.

Only then did he turn to Derek, narrowing his eyes.

"So, what exactly are you doing here?" he demanded, arms crossing in a clearly accusatory stance.
"Ever heard of knocking?"

Kit let out a sharp yip from Derek’s arms, as if echoing the complaint, before leaping down and darting over to Stiles’ feet like he needed protection from the intruder.

"I was sent to get your answer," Derek replied, folding his arms and giving Stiles that maddeningly superior look that was quickly starting to wear thin.

"Is sneaking into someone else's territory standard Hale protocol?" Stiles shot back, brow furrowing.

"Funny hearing that from a Stilinski," Derek countered with a half-smirk.
"You're the ones known for espionage and moving unseen."

Stiles opened his mouth to argue—then froze. Damn it. The guy had a point.

"In fact, I entered your property without the slightest resistance," Derek went on, his tone analytical, almost clinical.
"That’s... concerning. If I could get in, anyone could. Even nobles who aren’t as friendly."

"All right, all right! I get it!" Stiles cut in, clearly annoyed, a knot of unease tightening in his chest. If Derek had made it this far undetected, then the Stilinski defenses were definitely below standard.

“I need to talk to my uncle and grandma about tightening patrols…” he noted mentally, already drafting a plan.

"Well?" Derek pressed.

"Yes, I have an answer," Stiles sighed. "And tell your uncle his messenger has the manners of a wild boar."

Derek growled low in his throat, prompting a smug grin from Stiles.

"So, yes," he continued, arms crossed now with renewed purpose.
"I want to know more about this so-called alliance. About my father. I’ll go to Hale territory."

Derek simply nodded once, curtly.
"Perfect. Let’s go."

"Wait—what? Now?!" Stiles blinked, once, then again, as if his brain needed time to reboot.

"Unless you’d rather stay here and cause another catastrophe with your little experiments..." Derek raised an eyebrow, just shy of sarcastic.

Stiles huffed, annoyed.
"That’s not the point! I need to prepare! I have to let my grandma know, tell Scott... and, I don’t know, maybe make a plan? I can’t just run off into the forest in the middle of the night like some lunatic!"

Truth be told, he hadn’t planned for this. When he talked with Scott earlier, he imagined their venture into Hale territory would happen at dawn, with the glorious morning sun lighting their path. This? This felt way too sudden.

But Derek actually smiled this time—an arrogant, teasing smile that made Stiles want to punch it right off his face.

"Scared?"

Stiles narrowed his eyes.
"I’m a Stilinski. We don’t get scared."

"Is that so?" Derek tilted his head slightly, clearly amused.

"Very well then, Mr. Hale," Stiles said, chin up and tone defiant.
"Let’s go to your spooky mansion and settle this once and for all. I just hope your family has better manners than the messenger you sent."

Derek shrugged, completely unfazed.
"Don’t be so dramatic, Stiles," he replied, turning toward the exit.
"We’re not savage wolves ready to devour the first idiot who crosses our path."

Stiles frowned.
"I hope that 'idiot' isn’t a jab at me!" he muttered irritably, grabbing his leather satchel from among the wreckage. There was no way he was going to the Hale estate without some arcanomechanical backup. Without hesitation, he slipped the toolbox—the one with the unknown crystal—into the bag.

"Because I’ll have you know, I’m quite delicious!"

The second the words left his mouth, he froze.

Derek stopped.

Stiles felt his entire face go up in flames.

“I mean...” he stammered, scrambling for damage control.
“Not that I’ve ever, you know, tasted myself. That would be... kind of cannibalism. Or—auto-cannibalism? Is that even a thing? I guess it is, technically, but not in the way—ugh, never mind! Forget I said anything!”

Silence.

Derek glanced back at him, giving him a once-over that was far too amused for Stiles’ comfort. Then, with a dangerously entertained half-smile, he murmured:

“I’ll see for myself if that’s true.”

And with that, he walked off—leaving behind a stunned, bright-red Stiles who no longer knew whether he wanted to scream, faint, or dig himself a hole and vanish forever.