I woke up with every inch of my body screaming in protest.
The sunlight pouring through the window was too bright—far too bright. I blinked against it, trying to orient myself. My room. My bed. Safe.
But when I tried to sit up, a sharp pain exploded through my torso, knocking the breath out of me. I collapsed back against the pillows with an involuntary groan.
The door opened immediately.
"Daniel!" My mother rushed in carrying a tray, fully dressed but with deep dark circles under her eyes that suggested she hadn't slept. "Slow down. Don't push yourself."
"W-what day is it?" My voice came out hoarse.
"Tuesday. You slept for almost an entire day." She set the tray on my bedside table—a steaming mug filled with a dark liquid, small jars of what looked like ointments, and clean bandages.
Tuesday. My first day of school.
"I have to go to school," I said automatically, trying to sit up again and instantly regretting it as my body protested violently.
"Absolutely not." My father appeared in the doorway, dressed for work but clearly not going anywhere. "You almost died less than twenty-four hours ago."
"That's exactly why." I managed to prop myself up on my elbows, breathing hard through the pain. "If I miss my first day, people will ask questions. They'll want to know why. That draws attention."
My parents exchanged that look again—the silent communication couples develop after years together.
"He's right," my mother admitted reluctantly. "But Daniel, you're badly injured. Even with the regeneration—"
"I can handle it." It wasn't bravado. It was necessity. "Just… help me get ready. Please."
Another look passed between them.
"Alright," my father conceded. "But first, we need to talk. Really talk. No more secrets."
Finally.
Fifteen minutes later, I was carefully seated on the living room couch, a pillow supporting my back. My mother had helped me down the stairs, each step a small agony.
My parents sat across from me—my mother in the armchair, my father perched on the arm of the couch beside her. Both looked exhausted, but there was determination in their faces.
"Where do we start?" my mother asked gently.
"At the beginning," I said. "What I am. What you are."
My father took a deep breath.
"Lupaztlán," he began. "Bone Wolves. That's what our kind is called. We're… hybrids. Created centuries ago through rituals that combined werewolf bloodlines with berserker warriors, using druidic magic and Aztec knowledge."
Magic. Rituals. The words should have sounded insane. But after everything I'd seen—Teen Wolf, werewolves, and now my own wounds healing impossibly—they just made sense.
"Why create something like that?" I asked.
"Protection." My mother leaned forward. "The ancient druids needed guardians. Protectors of sacred lands, defenders against supernatural threats. Werewolves were strong, but vulnerable. Berserkers were fierce, but uncontrollable. Fusing the two created the perfect balance."
"Balance," I repeated bitterly. "Then why are we hiding? Why are we so rare?"
My father's expression darkened.
"Because other druids feared us. They saw what they had created and decided we were too powerful. Too dangerous. Abominations." He spat the last word. "They organized a hunt. Systematic. Brutal. Entire families were slaughtered. Our ancestors were hunted nearly to extinction."
"Nearly," my mother emphasized. "Some families survived. Hidden. Scattered. Living in secrecy. We're direct descendants of one of those families."
I processed that slowly. Genocide. My species had been targeted for genocide.
"And the abilities?" I asked. "The bone armor, the regeneration… how does it work?"
They spent the next hour explaining.
The bone armor was reactive—it activated automatically in response to danger, but with training it could be summoned consciously. It covered key areas of the body, incredibly durable but not invulnerable. Mystic weapons and druidic rituals could pierce it.
The regeneration was accelerated compared to humans, but slower than that of pure werewolves. Severe injuries took time to heal fully.
The senses were enhanced—sight, hearing, smell—superior even to those of normal werewolves.
And then there was the hybrid roar—a combination of the werewolf howl and the berserker roar. It could paralyze, disorient, intimidate. But mastering it would take extensive training.
"And weaknesses?" I asked.
"Aconite affects us, but it isn't as lethal as it is to pure werewolves," my father explained. "Druidic rituals are extremely effective—they can seal powers, cause severe damage. Mystic weapons hurt us more than ordinary ones. And the new moon… weakens us slightly, but not drastically."
"When did you awaken?" The question came out softer than I intended.
My mother smiled sadly.
"I was fifteen. I was attacked by a group of human boys—they wanted to do more than just hurt me." Her voice hardened. "The bloodline woke up to protect me. I sent them to the hospital."
"Sixteen for me," my father added. "Someone tried to rob my family. My dad was away—it was just me, my mom, and my sisters. When one of them pulled a knife…" He paused. "Well. I found out I could do more than just take a beating."
"Our parents trained us afterward," my mother continued. "Control, history, how to live in hiding. We wanted to do the same for you, but…" Her voice faltered.
"But you wanted to give me a normal childhood first," I finished for her.
"Yes." Tears shimmered in her eyes. "We wanted you to have time. Time to just be a kid, without the weight of knowing what you were, the danger that would always be there. We planned to tell you when you turned eighteen."
"Why Beacon Hills?" I asked—the question that had been bothering me since I learned where we were. "Out of all places, why here?"
My parents exchanged another look.
"It's a small town," my father said carefully. "Quiet. Far from major cities where hunters tend to operate. A place to start over."
There was something in his tone—too careful, too measured—that told me it wasn't the whole truth. But before I could press him, my mother stood.
"You still need to get ready for school," she said firmly. "We're going to take proper care of those wounds."
"Proper care" involved a bitter tea that made me grimace with every sip, but my mother insisted it would speed up my Lupaztlán regeneration. It was a recipe from my great-grandmother, passed down through generations.
Then came the poultice—a thick, pungent-smelling paste she applied directly to my wounds after removing the old bandages. It burned like fire at first, then settled into a deep, penetrating warmth.
"Specific herbs," she explained as she worked. "Some only grow in certain regions of Mexico. Your grandmother used to cultivate them."
I watched, fascinated, as she drew symbols around the edges of the wounds with the ointment before applying clean bandages. The symbols looked vaguely Aztec, but there were druidic elements too.
"Protection," she said when she noticed me staring. "And accelerated healing."
My father helped me into a loose shirt that would hide the bulk of the bandages. Every movement still hurt, but the pain was dull now, not the sharp agony from before.
"If anyone asks," he instructed, "you fell off your bike on a forest trail. Took a bad spill, got scraped up, but nothing broken. Understood?"
"Understood."
Before we left, my mother pulled me into a careful hug.
"We're so sorry," she whispered. "For everything. For not telling you sooner, for not protecting you better."
I hugged her back, ignoring the twinge of pain.
"You couldn't have known," I said. "No one could."
But even as I said it, part of me wondered: if they had told me sooner, would I have avoided the forest? Or would I have gone anyway, thinking I could change things?
There was no answer. Just regret and endless what-ifs.
I arrived at Beacon Hills High during second period, armed with a hall pass and a deliberately vague medical excuse about a "minor accident, nothing serious."
The halls were empty, everyone already in class. My footsteps echoed as I walked toward my first class—U.S. History, according to my schedule.
Every step was a reminder of my injuries. Not agony, but constant discomfort. I kept my posture as straight as possible, trying not to favor one side.
I was about to turn the corner when I heard fast footsteps behind me.
"HEY! New guy!"
I turned to see Stiles Stilinski jogging toward me, eyes wide with either concern or shock—hard to tell which.
"DUDE!" He skidded to a stop in front of me, eyes scanning me from head to toe. "What the hell happened to you?!"
I forced a casual smile despite the pain.
"Oh, this? Bike accident. No big deal."
"No big deal?" Stiles gestured at me. "You're moving like you got mauled by a bear! Where did this 'bike accident' happen?"
"Trail in the woods near my house," I said lightly. "Still learning the area. Didn't see a drop-off. Took a bad fall."
Stiles' eyes narrowed.
"In the woods. Which trail?"
"I don't know the name." I shrugged—a mistake, pain shooting through my injured shoulder. I covered it by adjusting my backpack. "Just moved here, remember?"
He studied me for a long moment, and I could practically see the gears turning in his head. He was sharp. Suspicious by nature. And something about my story clearly wasn't fully convincing him.
"Okay," he said slowly. "Mysterious trail. Dangerous fall. Same weekend there were… other incidents in the woods."
My stomach tightened, but I kept my expression neutral.
"Other incidents?"
"Nothing." He shook his head too quickly. "Just—forget it. Look, you should be more careful, okay? The woods around here can be dangerous."
"I'll remember that."
"And you?" I deflected. "How was your weekend? Do anything interesting?"
The change was subtle, but it was there—Stiles tensed, discomfort flickering across his face.
"Nothing much," he said, echoing my earlier words. "Just… normal weekend stuff."
Normal things. Like finding half a body in the woods and watching your best friend get bitten by an Alpha werewolf.
"Cool," I said, letting the subject drop. "Well, I should get to class. Don't want to be any later."
"Yeah, right. Me too." Stiles started to walk away, then paused and looked back. "Hey, Daniel? Seriously. Be careful with the woods. Especially at night."
There was something in his eyes—genuine concern, but also… fear? Knowledge?
"I'll stay away," I promised.
He nodded and continued down the hall. I watched him go, my mind racing.
Stiles was suspicious. Of me, of the woods, of everything. And if he was investigating Scott's attack, how long would it take him to connect the dots?
I shook my head and continued toward History class.
History was… strange.
Mr. Harris—a middle-aged man with glasses and a perpetually irritated expression—stopped lecturing when I walked in.
"Ah, Mr. Moreno, I presume. How generous of you to join us."
"Sorry," I murmured, handing him my pass. "Medical issues."
He glanced at the pass, then at me, clearly noting how carefully I moved.
"Take a seat. Back row—there's an empty one."
I walked down the aisle between desks, aware of every eye on me. Whispers followed—who's that?, what happened to him?, looks like he got beat up.
The empty seat was next to a girl with strawberry-blonde hair and an air of sophisticated boredom. Lydia Martin, I recognized from fragmented memories. Dormant banshee, though she didn't know it yet.
She looked at me as I sat down, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arching.
"Car accident?" she asked quietly as Harris resumed teaching.
"Bike," I replied just as quietly.
"Hm." She turned her attention back to her nails, clearly uninterested.
I scanned the room, cataloging faces. Most were strangers—just other students. But three rows ahead, I spotted a familiar profile.
Scott McCall.
He was sitting sideways, and even from behind I could see the tension in his shoulders. His hand kept drifting to his side, just below his ribs—where Peter had bitten him.
As I watched, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His pencil rolled off the desk, and when he bent to pick it up, our eyes met briefly.
He frowned, like he was trying to place me. Then his nose twitched slightly—sniffing.
Shit. His senses were already sharpening. Could he smell me?
Scott quickly turned back around, but I saw his head tilt slightly toward Stiles, who was sitting next to him. He whispered something I couldn't hear.
Stiles looked back—straight at me.
I focused intensely on my notebook, pretending not to notice.
The rest of the class passed in a blur of dates and events I barely processed. My mind was too busy with more immediate concerns.
Scott was changing. His senses sharpening, his body transforming. The first full moon would come soon, and he'd lose control.
And I was here—injured, barely able to move without pain, with my own newly awakened powers I barely understood.
The bell rang, and relief washed over me. One class down.
Only five more to survive.
Lunch was when everything unraveled.
I'd managed to avoid most interactions during the morning classes, keeping quiet and not drawing attention. But the cafeteria was a different story—loud, crowded, impossible to hide in.
I grabbed a tray—something vaguely resembling lasagna and an apple—and scanned for a quiet corner.
"Daniel! Over here!"
Stiles was waving from a table near the windows. Scott was beside him, along with another guy I vaguely recognized from the halls.
Shit.
But refusing would look more suspicious than accepting. I took a deep breath, ignored the twinge in my chest, and walked over.
"Hey," I greeted, carefully sliding into a seat.
"Guys, this is Daniel," Stiles said. "Daniel, this is my best friend Scott, and this is Danny."
Scott nodded, smiling in a friendly way while studying me closely. "Hey, man. Heard you had an accident?"
"Bike versus trail," I said simply. "The trail won."
Danny nodded sympathetically. "Rough, dude. Welcome to Beacon Hills, where even the trails try to kill you."
Light laughter circled the table.
But Scott was still watching me, that faintly puzzled expression back on his face. His nose twitched again—a movement so subtle I would've missed it if I hadn't been paying attention.
"You smell…" he started, then stopped, looking confused. "Sorry, this is weird, but do you use some kind of… lotion? Or medicine?"
Stiles kicked Scott under the table. "Dude, you can't just smell people! That's creepy!"
"It's not like that!" Scott protested. "It's just… a strong smell. Like herbs or something."
The poultice. Of course. My mother had said it smelled strong, but it shouldn't have been noticeable to normal human senses.
Scott didn't have normal human senses anymore.
"My mom's kind of a hippie," I improvised quickly. "She makes homemade herbal remedies for cuts and bruises. That's probably what you're smelling."
Scott relaxed, accepting it. "Oh, cool. My mom's a nurse—she does weird natural medicine stuff sometimes too."
The conversation drifted—Danny talking about the lacrosse team, Stiles complaining about a teacher, normal high school stuff.
But I noticed Scott still sneaking glances at me, confusion clear on his face. More than once, I saw his nose twitch, like he was trying to decipher something he couldn't quite understand.
He knew something was off. He just didn't know what.
The rest of the day was pure exhaustion.
By sixth period, the pain had settled into a deep, constant throb. My mother's remedies were wearing off. All I wanted was to go home, take off the tight bandages, and sleep for a week.
But I made it through. Kept my head down, avoided questions, played the part of just another new student.
When the final bell rang, I almost cried with relief.
I walked home slowly, each step deliberate. The afternoon sun was warm but not uncomfortable. A few leaves were already starting to change color—fall creeping into Beacon Hills.
The house was empty when I arrived. A note sat on the fridge:
"Went out to take care of a few things. Back for dinner. Rest. – Mom"
Take care of a few things. Probably related to the attack. Maybe investigating who the Alpha was.
I climbed the stairs slowly and collapsed onto my bed, not even bothering to take off my shoes.
I fell asleep instantly.
I woke to the sound of voices.
They weren't loud, but they were urgent. Coming from outside.
I checked my phone—6:30 p.m. I'd slept for nearly three hours.
I dragged myself out of bed and went to the window, pulling the curtain aside slightly.
My parents were in the backyard near the tree line. And they weren't alone.
There was a third person with them—a man I didn't recognize. Tall, broad-shouldered, with graying hair despite looking to be in his forties. Even from a distance, there was something about him—a presence, an intensity.
And when he turned his head, catching the light of the setting sun, his eyes flashed amber for just a second before returning to normal.
Lupaztlán.
My father gestured toward the forest, saying something I couldn't hear. The man nodded in response. My mother looked shaken, hugging herself.
Who was this man? And what were they discussing?
I was about to head downstairs when I saw my mother suddenly step forward and hug him. Not a polite hug—a real one. Tight. Emotional.
He returned it, one hand rising to rub her back comfortingly.
My father joined them, clapping the man on the shoulder.
Family. They knew this man—intimately.
The conversation continued for a few more minutes. Then, to my surprise, all three started walking toward the house.
I stepped away from the window quickly, heading downstairs as quietly as possible. I was in the kitchen, pretending to get a glass of water, when the back door opened.
"—so it's best we keep this discreet," the unknown man was saying. His voice was deep and rough, like gravel. "Especially with the Argents active."
"I agree," my father replied. "But Daniel needs to know. He—"
They stopped when they saw me in the kitchen.
"Daniel!" My mother looked briefly guilty. "You're awake. How was school?"
"I survived," I said, eyes fixed on the stranger. "Who is that?"
The man studied me with unsettling intensity. His eyes—dark brown, almost black—seemed to see right through me. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Marcus," he said, extending a hand. "Marcus Mendoza. Your mother's brother. Your uncle."
Uncle.
My mother had never mentioned a brother. Not once in sixteen years.
I shook his hand automatically. His grip was firm, calloused—the hand of someone used to hard work… or fighting.
"Nice to meet you," I said cautiously. "I didn't know I had an uncle."
"That," Marcus said, glancing at my mother, "is something we definitely need to talk about. Along with a lot of other things."
My father gestured toward the kitchen table.
"Sit down, son. We have a lot more to tell you. And this time…" He looked at Marcus. "…this time, you're getting the full story."
They sat around the kitchen table—me on one side, my parents and Marcus on the other. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken tension.
Marcus studied me for a long moment before speaking.
"You were attacked," he said bluntly. "Saturday night, in the forest. By an Alpha werewolf."
It wasn't a question.
"How do you know?" I asked, even though I already suspected the answer.
"Because I was there."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to feel.
"You… were there?" My voice came out sharper than I intended. "You saw me get attacked and you didn't do anything?!"
"Daniel—" my mother began, but Marcus raised a hand.
"No. He has a right to be angry." Marcus leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Let me explain what happened. The whole picture."
I crossed my arms—carefully, still aware of my injuries—and waited.
"I came to Beacon Hills five years ago," Marcus began. "Shortly after the fire that killed the Hale family. Your mother and I had… lost contact for a while. Security reasons. But when I heard about the fire, about an Alpha territory being left vacant, I thought it might be an opportunity."
"An opportunity for what?" I asked.
"For our family to have a real home." His voice carried weight. "You don't know what it's like, Daniel. Growing up always looking over your shoulder. Moving every few years because hunters picked up our trail, or because someone asked the wrong questions. Beacon Hills… with the Hales gone, we thought it could be a sanctuary."
"So you came to check it out," I said slowly. "And sent word that it was safe."
"Yes. But I was wrong." Marcus rubbed his face tiredly. "A family of hunters arrived almost at the same time you did. The Argents. They were… investigating. Making other supernatural creatures nervous. I was trying to manage the situation, keep things calm, get them to leave town."
"And that's why you never reached out to us," my mother said quietly. "When we arrived, you were already too involved."
"I couldn't risk exposing you," Marcus said. "If the Argents discovered another supernatural family in town—especially Lupaztlán…" He shook his head. "So I stayed in the shadows. Watching. Waiting."
"Until Saturday night," I finished.
"Until Saturday night." Marcus looked directly at me. "I was patrolling the forest. I'd heard rumors of werewolf activity—dead animals, strange sightings. I was investigating when I felt… an Alpha presence. Strong. Dangerous."
He paused, as if reliving the memory.
"I followed the scent. I saw two boys running—one of them smelled of fresh blood and a werewolf bite. Then I saw the Alpha chasing someone else. You."
My stomach tightened at the memory. The chase. The terror. The claws.
"I didn't get there in time to stop the attack," Marcus continued, his voice hardening. "When I reached the clearing, you were on the ground. Bleeding. The Alpha was standing over you, checking if you were dead."
My mother let out a soft sob. My father took her hand.
"I couldn't confront him directly," Marcus said. "Not without risking you in the crossfire. So I created a distraction. Threw a rock, made noise in the opposite direction. The Alpha went to investigate—his instincts were on high alert after biting two boys in the same night."
"You distracted him," I breathed.
"Just long enough to get you out of the immediate kill zone. I carried you to a safer area, closer to the edge of the forest. Then…" He hesitated. "I called your parents. Anonymously. Told them there was an injured boy in the woods and gave them the approximate location."
My mother looked at him with tears in her eyes.
"That was you. We thought it was just… instinct. That we felt something was wrong."
"You felt it," Marcus agreed. "But I gave things a push in the right direction."
"Why didn't you just stay?" I snapped. "Why didn't you reveal yourself then?"
"Because the Alpha was still nearby," Marcus said calmly. "And I needed to track him. Figure out who he was, where he was hiding. Information your family would need to stay safe."
"And did you find out?" My father leaned forward.
Marcus nodded grimly.
"Peter Hale."
The name hung in the air like a death sentence.
"I thought he died in the fire," my mother whispered.
"Almost. He's been in a coma for six years. In the same hospital where your wife works," Marcus said, looking at my father. "He woke up recently. But he's not… right. The trauma, the rage, six years trapped in his own mind. He's unstable. Dangerous."
"He killed those people," I said, remembering the bodies the police had found. "The serial victims. This has already started."
"Yes." Marcus studied me carefully. "You seem to know a lot about this."
Damn it. I needed to be more careful.
"I heard Stiles talking," I improvised. "He was researching local crimes. Mentioned animal attacks."
Marcus accepted that, though I could see speculation in his eyes.
"Peter isn't just an Alpha," Marcus continued. "He's a deranged Alpha. He's building power, creating betas. The boy he bit before you—Scott McCall—will turn during the next full moon."
"Which is less than two weeks away," my father said tensely.
"Exactly." Marcus stood and began pacing. "And now we have a complicated situation. An unstable Alpha. An untrained teenage beta. A family of hunters in town. And…" He stopped, looking at me. "A young Lupaztlán who awakened violently and far too early."
"What do you mean, 'too early'?" I asked.
"The bloodline usually awakens at fifteen or sixteen," my mother explained. "But under controlled circumstances. With family present, guidance, preparation. Not during a near-fatal attack by a raging Alpha."
"Your awakening was traumatic," Marcus said gently. "Your body activated Lupaztlán regeneration to save you, but it was an emergency trigger. Like breaking glass in case of fire. Functional, but messy."
"Messy how?" I asked nervously.
"Your control will be unstable at first," my father explained. "Transformations may happen involuntarily when you're stressed, scared, or angry. Your senses will be hypersensitive until you learn to regulate them. And the bone armor…"
"May appear without warning," Marcus finished. "Especially if you feel threatened. That can be… problematic in a school environment."
Great. As if high school wasn't hard enough.
"You need training," Marcus said firmly. "Proper control. And you need it fast."
"Will you train him?" my mother asked hopefully.
Marcus hesitated.
"I can teach him the basics. But there are complications." He returned to the table, bracing his hands on it. "The Argents are still in town. And they're not just ordinary hunters—they're organized, well-equipped, connected. Chris Argent is pragmatic, even reasonable to a point. But his sister, Kate…"
"She's the one who killed the Hales," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Everyone stared at me.
"How do you know that?" Marcus asked slowly.
"I… heard rumors," I stammered. "At school. People talk about the fire sometimes."
Not entirely a lie. People probably did talk about it. It just wasn't where I'd learned it.
Marcus studied me for a long moment, then let it go.
"Kate Argent is a problem," he continued. "She lacks her brother's… moral nuances. If she finds out about you—about Daniel specifically—she'll attack first and ask questions never."
"So what do we do?" My father looked tense.
"We keep our heads down," Marcus said. "Daniel goes to school, acts normal, doesn't draw attention. I keep monitoring the Argents and Peter. You stay home, safe and discreet."
"And the training?" I asked.
"Early mornings, before school. In the forest, far from curious eyes." Marcus looked at me firmly. "It'll be hard. Painful. But necessary. Especially if you want to avoid accidental transformations during algebra class."
Not a pleasant image.
"When do we start?" I asked.
"Tomorrow morning. Five a.m." He smiled at my grimace. "Welcome to Lupaztlán life, nephew."
Marcus stayed for dinner—my mother made enchiladas, and for the first time since the attack, I actually felt hungry. Regeneration apparently burned a lot of calories.
Conversation was lighter during the meal. Marcus told stories about when he and my mother were younger, growing up in a hidden Lupaztlán family in Mexico. Some stories were funny—pranks using supernatural abilities on unsuspecting humans. Others were darker—close calls with hunters, midnight relocations when someone picked up their trail.
"You look like your grandfather," Marcus said at one point, studying my face. "Same eyes. Same stubbornness, I bet."
"Did I ever meet my grandfather?" I asked.
"No. He died before you were born," my mother said softly. "But he would've loved you. He would've been proud."
"How did he die?" The question slipped out before I could stop myself.
Silence fell over the table.
"Hunters," Marcus said finally. "A group that tracked us to where we were living. Your grandfather… he distracted them. Bought time for the rest of the family to escape."
"He sacrificed himself," I translated.
"He protected his pack," my father corrected gently. "That's what we do. We protect our own."
After dinner, Marcus got ready to leave.
"I live on the other side of town," he explained in the backyard, where he'd parked an old but well-kept pickup. "Small apartment, nothing special. But it gives me a good view of downtown. Good for keeping an eye on things."
"Were you really alone for five years?" my mother asked.
"It wasn't that bad." Marcus smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "And now I have family here. That makes a difference."
He looked at me.
"Five a.m., Daniel. Bring water. And expect to sweat."
"Can't wait," I said dryly.
He laughed—a deep, rich sound.
"You'll do fine, kid. You've got good blood." He clapped my father on the shoulder, kissed my mother's cheek, and climbed into the truck.
We watched him drive away, taillights disappearing into the darkness.
"He's… intense," I commented.
"He had to be," my mother said. "Surviving alone for so long, in a town full of dangers. But he has a good heart. And he'll teach you well."
We went back inside. My parents helped me change my bandages once more—the wounds were visibly better, edges closing cleanly and evenly. A few more days and they'd be completely healed.
Lupaztlán regeneration. It still didn't feel real.
That night in bed, my mind too restless to sleep right away, I reflected on everything I'd learned.
I was Lupaztlán. Bone Wolf. Part of a nearly extinct species, hunted almost to annihilation. My parents had hidden that from me for sixteen years, trying to give me a normal life.
Marcus had been in Beacon Hills the whole time, watching me without my knowledge. He'd saved me after Peter's attack.
Peter Hale was the Alpha. Unstable. Dangerous. Building power. And Scott McCall was about to become a werewolf, dragged into a world he didn't understand.
And me… I was stuck in the middle of all of it.
I knew the future—or at least, the version of it I'd watched on TV. But it was already changing. I shouldn't have been here. I shouldn't have been attacked. My presence was creating ripples, altering events.
The question was: how much would I let change? And how much would I try to keep on track?
I had no answers. Only more questions.
Eventually, exhaustion won out, and I slipped into sleep.
I dreamed of bones glowing under moonlight, of wolves singing ancient harmonies, and of red eyes watching from the darkness.
My alarm went off at 4:30 a.m.
I shut it off with a groan, my body protesting the movement. The wounds were better, but they still hurt—especially after a full day at school.
But I'd made a promise. And Marcus would be waiting.
I dressed quickly—sweatpants, a T-shirt, running shoes. I went downstairs quietly, not wanting to wake my parents.
But when I reached the kitchen, my mother was already there, preparing coffee.
"I figured you could use this," she said, handing me a thermal cup. "And this." A paper bag—breakfast sandwiches, judging by the smell.
"Thanks." I took both, touched.
"Be careful," she said, pulling me into a hug. "And listen to Marcus. He knows what he's doing."
"I will," I promised.
I slipped out the back door. The sky was still dark, only the faintest hint of gray in the east suggesting the coming dawn. The air was cold and damp, carrying the scent of dew and pine.
Marcus was waiting at the tree line, dressed in dark training clothes. He waved when he saw me.
"Punctual," he said approvingly. "Good quality."
"I didn't have much choice," I muttered, taking a sip of coffee. "You said five a.m."
"And I meant it." He turned toward the forest. "Come on. I've got a spot prepared deeper in. Private."
I followed him between the trees, using my phone's light to illuminate the path until my eyes adjusted to the darkness.
No—wait. My eyes were adjusting too fast. Faster than they should.
"Your senses are already sharpening," Marcus commented without looking back. "Enhanced night vision is one of the first signs. Useful, but disorienting at first."
He was right. I could see far more than I should have in the pre-dawn gloom. Not perfectly clear, but enough to move without stumbling.
We walked for about ten minutes before Marcus stopped in a small clearing. Trees formed a natural circle, the ground covered in soft leaves.
"Here," he said, setting down a backpack I hadn't noticed he was carrying. "Private. No nearby trails. No one will bother us."
I took off my own backpack, setting the coffee and sandwiches aside.
"So," I said. "What's first?"
Marcus studied me, circling slowly.
"First, I need to see where you're at. Transform."
I blinked. "Transform? Like—now?"
"Now."
"I… don't know how," I admitted. "It only happened when I was dying. It wasn't exactly a conscious decision."
"I understand." Marcus stopped in front of me. "Then we start with the basics. Close your eyes."
Hesitantly, I did.
"Breathe. Deeply. Feel your body—every part of it. The wounds healing. Your heart beating. Blood flowing."
I followed his instructions, breathing slowly, focusing inward.
"Now," Marcus continued, his voice low and steady, "reach deeper. Past muscle, past bone. There's something there—a presence. A part of you that's… dormant, but waking."
I could feel it. A pulsing warmth beneath the surface.
"That's your bloodline," Marcus said. "Your wolf. Your berserker. Fused into one. Reach for it. Touch it."
I extended my awareness toward that pulsing presence. The moment I made contact—
Pain.
Not the agony of tearing claws, but something different. Like muscles that had never been used suddenly being forced into action. Like bones shifting position.
I screamed and dropped to my knees, eyes flying open.
Marcus was at my side instantly.
"Breathe through it," he instructed. "The first conscious transformation is always the worst. But you can do it. You've already done it once."
Hands in the dirt, gasping, I felt my body change.
Fingers lengthening, nails thickening into claws. Muscles expanding, bones growing denser. And the strangest sensation of all—bone plates emerging beneath my skin. Not painfully, not exactly, but unmistakably there.
My eyes—I could feel them shifting, vision sharpening, colors intensifying.
And then it stopped.
Breathing hard, I forced myself to look down.
My hands were no longer fully human. Larger, fingers ending in short but sharp claws. Beneath the skin, I could see the faint outlines of bone plates—translucent, ghostlike.
"Good," Marcus said, satisfied. "Now stand up. Let me see."
I rose on shaky legs. My body felt… different. Heavier, but also stronger. Muscles I didn't know I had were taut and ready.
Marcus circled me, inspecting.
"Partial transformation," he diagnosed. "Not full Lupaztlán form yet, but a solid start. Your injuries are holding you back—the body's conserving energy for regeneration."
"How do I look?" I asked. My voice came out rougher, slightly distorted.
"See that tree?" Marcus pointed to a large tree whose trunk reflected like a natural mirror on the surface of a nearby pool.
I approached, staring at my reflection.
My face was… almost normal. Almost. My eyes glowed amber, intense and inhuman. My bone structure was slightly more pronounced, jaw sharper. And when I opened my mouth, my teeth were sharper, canines elongated.
But the strangest part—through my shirt, I could see the outlines of bone plates. Across my shoulders, upper chest, down my arms. Not solid yet, just… potential. Waiting to fully manifest.
"This is," I breathed, "surreal."
"This is you," Marcus corrected. "Your true nature. Now…" He stepped back a few paces. "Let's see what you can do."
Training began.
For the next hour, Marcus guided me through basic exercises. How to consciously manifest and retract claws. How to sense when the bone armor wanted to emerge and guide it to specific areas.
"The armor is reactive," he explained as I struggled to bring plates to my forearm. "It responds to danger, instinctive protection. But with practice, you can direct it. Choose where to reinforce."
It took several minutes of concentration, but finally I managed it. Bone plates solidified along my left forearm—white, gleaming, surprisingly light but clearly durable.
"Good!" Marcus grinned. "Now the other arm."
Easier this time. My right forearm developed matching plates.
"Try hitting them," Marcus instructed.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. You need to know how much they can take."
Hesitantly, I struck my armored left forearm with my right fist.
A solid sound, like hitting bone—which, technically, it was. But it didn't hurt. The armor absorbed the impact completely.
"Harder," Marcus encouraged.
I hit harder. Then harder still. The armor held without cracking.
"It'll take a lot," Marcus said. "Small-caliber bullets, knives, werewolf claws. It's not invincible—heavy weapons, mystic arms, concentrated druidic power can break it. But against most threats, it gives you a significant edge."
We moved on to other exercises. Speed—I was faster than human, but not as fast as pure werewolves. Strength—enhanced, but again, not at Alpha level.
"Lupaztlán aren't the fastest or strongest," Marcus explained. "Our advantage is versatility. We can tank damage werewolves can't, we have both wolf and berserker capabilities, and in full form, we're balanced combat forces."
"Full form," I repeated. "What happens in it?"
"You grow. About seven feet tall, maybe a bit more. Full bone armor—torso, arms, legs, partial facial protection. Strength and speed both increase significantly. And…" He paused. "Your instincts get stronger. The berserker rage tries to take over. That's why control is critical. Full form without control, and you become a threat to everyone—enemy and ally alike."
"Reassuring," I muttered.
"It's reality," Marcus said flatly. "And that's why we're training. So when you need full form, you can use it without losing yourself."
We trained until the sky fully brightened—pink and gold washing over the horizon. Marcus finally called a stop.
"Enough for today. You need to head back, clean up, get to school."
I was soaked in sweat, muscles trembling with exhaustion. But there was something satisfying about it too. For the first time since the attack, I felt like I had some control.
"How do I change back?" I asked, looking at my clawed hands.
"Same process, in reverse. Reach your bloodline, but this time, calm it. Tell it to pull back."
It took a few tries, but eventually I felt the change reverse. Claws retracting, muscles shrinking, bone plates dissolving back beneath the skin.
When it was over, I was normal again. Or as close to normal as I'd be now.
"Same time tomorrow," Marcus said, packing his backpack. "And Daniel? Good work today."
Coming from someone so clearly experienced, the praise meant more than I expected.
I managed to get home, shower, and make it downstairs for breakfast before 6:45. My mother looked at me anxiously.
"How was it?"
"Hard," I admitted. "But good. Marcus knows what he's doing."
"He always did," she said with a small smile. "Even when we were kids, he was the one who kept us all in line."
School passed in a blur again. More classes, more curious looks at the bandaged new kid. Stiles tried to convince me to sit with him and Scott at lunch again, but I politely declined—I needed space to process everything.
Scott kept looking at me strangely, like he was trying to solve a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out.
And through it all, I maintained my new awareness—of the wolf and berserker coiled beneath my skin, waiting to be called.
When I got home that afternoon, exhausted and sore, my mother was waiting with more tea and remedies.
"Marcus called," she said. "He said you did well. He's proud."
"I barely did anything," I said, but I couldn't stop the small smile.
"You transformed," she corrected. "Consciously. Deliberately. On your third day since awakening. That's impressive, Daniel. Truly."
That night, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, I tried to process the last seventy-two hours.
I'd been attacked by an Alpha werewolf. Nearly died. Awakened supernatural powers I hadn't known I possessed. Learned I was in the Teen Wolf universe. Met an uncle I didn't know existed. Had my first Lupaztlán training session.
And through all of it, Scott McCall was becoming a werewolf, unaware that someone who knew his future was walking the same school halls.
The next few weeks were going to be… interesting.
The full moon was coming.
And with it, everything would change.
Again.