Ronan remained in the clearing long after the hikers had passed through. He stayed perfectly still, letting their whispered conversation replay exactly as he'd heard it from the shadows above them.
"—they already moved the body—"
"My uncle said the sheriff shut the whole trail down—"
"I swear, it wasn't a mountain lion—something ripped it apart—"
"Dude, don't talk about it! I can still see it!"
They were terrified.
They weren't lying.
They didn't even know he was there listening.
But every word confirmed what his senses had already told him:
A young wolf had been found torn apart in these woods.
A small wolf.
A hesitant wolf.
A wolf who disappeared two days into a vacation he never should have taken.
His scout.
Dead.
Ronan didn't need a corpse.
Didn't need blood.
Didn't need confirmation from anyone else.
The scent trail ended too sharply.
The soil was disturbed too deliberately.
Human fear and bleach clung to everything like fingerprints.
His scout had been killed, and the town had cleaned up the aftermath.
Ronan straightened slowly, the muscles in his shoulders tightening as the truth settled inside him like a weight.
A member of his pack—even a stray, even a young one—had been taken from him.
That was unacceptable.
His wolf surged forward inside him, claws pushing at the surface, jaw tightening with instinctive fury. Ronan inhaled deeply, lifting his head toward the treetops.
Then he roared.
The sound exploded out of him with the force of a shockwave, vibrating the ground beneath his feet, sending birds scattering in chaotic waves. Branches trembled. Dust lifted. The air itself seemed to recoil from the intensity.
It was not a challenge.
It was not a warning.
It was not a claim.
It was an Alpha's grief, sharpened into raw fury.
A single message carried across Beacon Hills:
**I have lost one of mine.
And someone will answer for it.**
The roar faded slowly, its echo rolling deep into the preserve.
Ronan lowered his head, eyes burning bright Alpha red before fading back to human.
He whispered into the silence:
"You were mine. And this won't go unanswered."
Then he walked deeper into the forest without looking back.
⸻
SCOTT'S PACK
Scott McCall felt the roar before he fully heard it.
He had been walking the border of the preserve with Stiles and Isaac, talking quietly about the strange energy Derek mentioned earlier, when a shockwave of sound and emotion slammed through his chest so hard he stopped breathing for a second.
He gasped, gripping a tree trunk for support.
Stiles stumbled back. "What was THAT?! Scott—what the hell just happened?!"
Isaac stiffened, eyes wide. "Scott… that wasn't Derek."
Scott's eyes glowed gold involuntarily. He swallowed hard. "No. Not even close."
Stiles ran a hand through his hair. "Okay. Cool. Fantastic. Just what we needed—another growling nightmare in the woods."
Isaac shook his head. "That wasn't rage. Not the kind we've felt before."
Scott nodded slowly. "It wasn't territorial. It wasn't a challenge."
Stiles blinked. "Then what was it?"
Scott exhaled heavily.
"It felt like… someone lost a member of their pack."
Isaac looked unsettled. "You can tell that?"
Scott looked down at his hands. "An Alpha's roar can project emotion. The stronger the Alpha, the clearer it hits."
Stiles stared out toward the trees. "Well that's great. Perfect. A grieving Alpha roaming around Beacon Hills. What could possibly go wrong?"
Scott didn't answer.
Because inside, he felt something he didn't want to admit:
Whoever roared was stronger than any Alpha he'd ever felt.
And they were close.
⸻
THE ALPHA PACK
On the other side of town, the Alpha Pack felt it too.
Kali froze mid-step, turning her head sharply toward the woods. "That was an Alpha."
Aiden smirked. "A loud one."
Ethan's expression tightened. "Not Derek."
Ennis straightened. "Too strong to be Hale."
Deucalion rose slowly from his seat, his expression unreadable as the echo faded.
"Grief," he murmured. "That was grief."
Kali crossed her arms. "So someone's mourning."
Aiden cracked his knuckles. "Should we go welcome him to Beacon Hills?"
Deucalion smiled lightly. "No. Someone emotional enough to roar like that is unpredictable."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Unpredictable like dangerous?"
"Unpredictable," Deucalion repeated, "like someone who did not come here by accident."
The room fell silent.
Then Deucalion turned his head toward the preserve.
"Let's watch," he said. "If he is a threat, he will reveal himself soon enough."
⸻
RONAN
The forest eventually fell quiet again.
Not peaceful—never peaceful—but watching him now with a wary kind of respect.
His roar had carried across Beacon Hills exactly the way he intended. Strong enough for every wolf to feel. Strong enough to declare his presence without giving away his purpose.
He wasn't hiding.
He wasn't running.
He wasn't scared.
Someone in this town killed one of his wolves.
And Ronan Vael always answered violence with violence.
He stepped deeper into the trees, posture steady, aura controlled, senses open.
Beacon Hills didn't know him yet.
But it would.