The alarm never went off.
I was already awake, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling in the pre-dawn darkness. It was 4:15 a.m. on a Saturday, and my body was tense with anticipation.
Or fear.
Probably both.
I got up and walked to the window. I pulled the curtain aside and looked up at the sky.
The moon was there. Huge, bright, almost completely full.
Eight days.
Eight days until the full moon. Until Scott McCall transforms for the first time, without control, without understanding. Until everything in Beacon Hills accelerates toward chaos.
And I still couldn't fully control my own transformation.
Two weeks, I thought bitterly. Fourteen days since Peter attacked me. Since I awakened. And I still can't manage the basics.
I got dressed quickly—sweatpants, a thermal shirt, a jacket. It was going to be a long day.
I went downstairs quietly, but voices were coming from the kitchen. Lights were on.
My parents were already awake.
"Good morning," my mom said when I walked in. She was making coffee, still wearing her robe. "Couldn't sleep?"
"Not really."
My dad was sitting at the table, already dressed for training. That was unusual—normally he stayed home while Marcus trained me.
"We're all going together today," he said, as if reading my unspoken question. "We want to see your progress in person."
The back door opened and Marcus stepped inside, bringing the cold morning air with him.
"Ready?" he asked, looking straight at me.
"As ready as I can be."
"Good." He took a mug of coffee my mom handed him. "It's the weekend. No school distractions. We're going to work seriously today and tomorrow."
Something in his tone—firm, determined—told me this wouldn't be a normal training session.
---
The clearing Marcus took us to was different.
Deeper in the forest, far from any trails I'd seen before. We walked for nearly thirty minutes, and by the end, even I was slightly out of breath.
"Here," Marcus announced when we arrived.
It was perfect for training—an open space surrounded by dense trees, the ground covered in soft leaves, completely isolated.
My dad immediately began walking the perimeter, stopping at certain trees. He pulled something from his pocket—a small knife—and began carving discreet symbols into the bark.
"What is he doing?" I asked.
"Protective markers," my mom explained. "They'll alert us if anyone gets close."
"Like alarms?"
"Something like that. Old druid magic." She smiled faintly. "Your grandmother taught us."
Marcus was stretching in the center of the clearing, watching as my dad finished.
I looked around—the trees, the symbols, my family preparing with practiced efficiency.
Two weeks, I thought again. Fourteen days since my life was turned upside down.
And today that changes. It has to.
My dad finished the last symbol and returned to the center.
"Done," he said. "We're isolated. Protected."
Marcus nodded.
"Then let's begin."
---
The first two hours were pure physical brutality.
"Run!" Marcus ordered. "Through the forest. I set the pace. You follow. Go AS FAST AS YOU CAN."
He partially transformed—just enough for his eyes to glow amber and his muscles to become more defined—and shot off between the trees.
I ran after him.
Not human-slow. Not holding back. Fast.
Lupaztlán-fast.
I leapt over fallen logs, dodged low branches, my feet finding purchase instinctively. Air burned in my lungs, heart pounding, muscles screaming.
But my body held.
Faster than any human could go. Faster than I'd allowed myself to move since awakening.
Marcus stayed ahead, but not by much. And he was genuinely trying.
We returned to the clearing twenty minutes later, both of us breathing hard.
"Better," Marcus said between breaths. "But you're still holding back."
"I'm not—"
"You are." His eyes—still amber—locked onto mine. "You can go faster. Your body can. You're stopping yourself mentally."
My dad, watching from the side, nodded.
"He's holding back," he agreed. "That's the problem."
"I know," I snapped, frustration leaking out. "But I don't know how to stop."
"You'll learn today," Marcus said simply. "Again. Run. Faster this time."
---
After the running came combat drills.
Marcus transformed more fully—eyes, claws, bone plates forming along his forearms. Not full combat form, but enough to be intimidating.
"Attack and defense," he instructed. "I attack. You defend. Use your instincts."
"But—"
He didn't wait. He lunged, fast, claws slashing toward my shoulder.
Instinct took over. I blocked with my forearm, feeling the impact reverberate.
"Good! Again!"
Another attack. Blocked.
And another. And another.
But I stayed human. Completely human. Just reflexes, just technique.
No transformation.
Marcus stopped, stepping back.
"Do you see?" he said, frustration creeping into his voice for the first time. "You are fighting to stay human. Even when it would be easier—safer—to partially transform."
"Because I can't control—"
"Then learn!" He didn't shout, but the intensity was the same. "You won't learn by avoiding it. You learn by doing."
Heavy silence settled over the clearing.
My mom stepped forward, placing a hand on Marcus's arm.
"Pause," she said gently. "Everyone. Pause."
---
We sat at the edge of the clearing, drinking water, no one speaking.
The sun was higher now, filtering through the trees. It had to be midday, maybe later.
My dad finally broke the silence.
"Marcus is right," he said calmly. "You're blocking it. Holding back."
"I don't want to," I said, more defensive than I meant to sound. "I just… I can't make it happen when I want to. Only when I panic."
"Then maybe," my mom said, "we're approaching this the wrong way."
Marcus looked at her.
"We've been pushing you to transform through force," she continued. "Through pressure and stress."
"Because that's how it happens in real situations," Marcus replied.
"Yes. But he's not in a real situation right now." She looked at me. "He's in a safe place, with family. Maybe… maybe we need a different approach."
"Like what?" I asked.
She thought for a moment.
"When I awakened," she began, "it was violent. Like you. An attack, near death, instinctive transformation. And afterward, when I tried to control it, I couldn't. I fought it like an enemy."
"And?" Marcus pressed.
"And my mother—your grandmother," she said to me, "taught me something. She said, 'You can't fight yourself. You can only accept yourself.'"
"I don't understand."
"You see the transformation as something external," my mom explained. "Something that happens to you. A curse. A monster that has to be contained."
Her words hit closer to the truth than I liked.
"But it isn't," she continued. "It's you. It always has been. From the moment you were born, you were Lupaztlán. The transformation isn't the monster. It's just… you."
I processed that.
"So how do I stop fighting it?"
My mom smiled sadly.
"You accept it. Not as a curse. As who you are."
Marcus was silent, watching the exchange. Then he nodded slowly.
"Your mother's right. We change our approach."
---
The afternoon brought something completely different.
"Sit," Marcus instructed, pointing to the center of the clearing. "Cross-legged. Hands on your knees."
"Meditation?" I asked skeptically.
"Meditation," he confirmed.
I sat down, feeling ridiculous. My parents sat nearby, watching.
"Close your eyes," Marcus said, his voice becoming softer, almost hypnotic. "Breathe. Deeply. In… out…"
I closed my eyes, following his instructions.
"Feel your body. Every part. Start with your feet, move upward."
I focused—my toes, feet, ankles, calves. Slowly upward.
"Now go deeper," Marcus continued. "Past the muscles. Past the bones. There's something there—a presence. An energy."
I could feel it. That familiar pulse beneath my skin. Always there. Always waiting.
"That is your wolf. Your berserker. Fused. That is you, Daniel. Not separate. Not external. You."
The words echoed.
"It's always been there," Marcus said. "Since your first heartbeat. Since your first breath. You were never just human. You were always Lupaztlán."
Something shifted at those words—an acceptance I hadn't realized was missing.
"Now," Marcus said, "don't force the change. Don't fight it. Just… ask. Gently. Like you would ask a friend."
I visualized my eyes. Brown. Normal.
Change, I asked silently. Please.
And something answered.
Warmth spread through my eyes. Not painful—more like recognition. Like waking up.
"Open your eyes," Marcus said gently. "Slowly."
I did.
My mom gasped. My dad leaned forward.
"Golden," my mom whispered. "Your eyes are golden."
Amber. Like captured fire. Like sunlight through honey.
I held it for three seconds before feeling the change slip away.
When they faded back to brown, I was shaking.
"I… I did it?"
Marcus was smiling. A real, genuine, rare expression of pride.
"Yes. Now do it again."
---
I practiced for another hour.
Attempt after attempt, each one getting a little easier. Eyes shifting from brown to amber and back.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
But only the eyes. When I tried to call the claws, everything else followed—fangs, the beginnings of armor, loss of control.
"One step at a time," Marcus reminded me. "Eyes first. Claws later."
The sun was starting to dip when Marcus changed tactics again.
"Real control," he said, "doesn't happen in peace. It happens in chaos."
Tension flooded my muscles instantly.
"I need you to transform under pressure," he continued. "Real defense. Real instinct."
"How?"
Marcus transformed—fully this time.
Glowing amber eyes. Fully extended claws. Bone armor covering his forearms and shoulders. Increased height, denser muscles.
Lupaztlán combat form.
And he looked dangerous.
"I'm going to attack," he said, his voice slightly distorted by the transformation. "And you're going to react. But controlled. Just eyes and claws. Nothing else."
"Marcus—" my dad began, warning in his tone.
"He needs this," Marcus said without taking his eyes off me. "Ready?"
I wasn't. But I nodded anyway.
Marcus attacked.
Fast.
One second he was meters away, the next he was on me, claws coming toward my shoulder.
Instinct exploded.
DANGER.
I tried to retreat, but Marcus was faster, gripping my shoulder, claws stopping millimeters from my skin.
And my body reacted.
Burning pain through every nerve. Bones shifting, muscles expanding, skin stretching.
Instinctive transformation.
Everything came at once.
Eyes changing. Claws emerging. Fangs lengthening. Bone armor beginning to form across my torso and arms.
I screamed—part pain, part terror, part fury.
"NOW!" Marcus's voice cut through the chaos. "Hold only eyes and claws! ONLY THAT! Push the rest back!"
I can't—
"YOU CAN! YOU ARE IN CONTROL!"
Shaking, agonized, I tried. I reached into the transformation, that pulsing presence that had taken over.
Back, I ordered. Not everything. Just… just what I need.
The fangs hesitated. Then, painfully, began to retract.
The bone armor—still only partially formed—started to dissolve.
But the eyes stayed amber.
And the claws—curved, sharp, lethal—remained extended.
Controlled.
"Ten seconds," Marcus said, still holding me but with less force now. "Hold it for ten seconds."
I counted mentally, each second an eternity of concentration.
One. Two. Three.
My muscles trembled with the effort.
Four. Five. Six.
Strange sounds—bones creaking, adjusting, finding a new configuration.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Almost.
"…Ten."
I let go.
The transformation receded like a wave, leaving me fully human again.
And I collapsed.
I literally dropped to my knees, exhausted, shaking, sweat soaking my shirt despite the cold.
But smiling.
"I… I did it."
---
My mom was at my side instantly, dropping to her knees and pulling me into a tight hug.
She didn't say anything. But I felt wet tears against my neck.
My dad joined us, a large, calloused hand gripping my shoulder.
"You did it, son," he said hoarsely. "You really did."
Marcus transformed back to normal and knelt in front of us.
"Two weeks," he said, something close to awe in his voice. "Two weeks from awakening to controlled partial transformation. That's… incredible."
"It was only ten seconds," I said, still trying to catch my breath.
"It was the first step," Marcus corrected. "And the hardest one. Now you know you can. The rest is just practice."
We stayed there in the clearing for a long moment, my family around me, the sun setting through the trees.
Relief. That's what we all felt. Heavy, tangible relief.
"Now," my dad said eventually, helping me stand, "you can start practicing in small doses. Partial transformation when necessary. Defense, not exposure."
"But carefully," my mom added quickly. "It's still new. Still unstable."
Marcus was scanning the clearing, his expression growing serious.
"There's something else you need to know," he said.
We all looked at him.
"Transformation leaves… a trail."
"A trail?" I repeated.
"Energy. Presence." He looked at each of us. "Other supernatural beings can feel it."
---
My dad took over the explanation, using the voice he reserved for important lessons.
"Supernaturals mark territory. It's instinctive—scent, energetic presence. Werewolves leave obvious marks. Alphas even more so."
"Lupaztlán are different," my mom continued. "Our signature is… unique. Older. Deeper. Some say more powerful."
"That's why druids feared us," Marcus added. "Not just because we were strong. But because our presence was… dominant. Hard to ignore."
"So when I transformed…" I began.
"Peter and Derek Hale may have felt it," Marcus confirmed. "Not necessarily seen it. But felt it. A wave of supernatural energy that wasn't normal werewolf."
My stomach tightened.
"They'll come investigate?"
"Eventually," Marcus said. "But they won't know what we are. Not right away. Lupaztlán are supposedly extinct—most modern werewolves have never encountered one. They'll know something is different. Something powerful. But not exactly what."
"Beacon Hills is technically Hale territory," my dad said. "But with the family dead, it's… unsettled."
"Peter is trying to claim it," Marcus said. "Derek too, presumably, though he's subtler about it."
"And then there's us," I said slowly, understanding. "Three adults. One teenager. All Lupaztlán."
"Exactly," Marcus nodded. "That's a significant presence. Impossible to miss."
My mom looked at me, worry clear in her eyes.
"It's not just werewolves," she said. "Beacon Hills attracts all kinds of supernatural beings. The Nemeton ensures that."
"The Nemeton?" I asked.
"The sacred tree," my dad explained. "A druidic nexus of power. It was cut down years ago, but its roots remain. And so does its power."
"Banshees, kanima, kitsune," my mom listed. "They're all drawn to Beacon Hills. Some consciously, some not. The Nemeton pulls them in."
"Is that why you came here?" I asked. "Because of the Nemeton?"
"Partly," my dad admitted. "The Nemeton offers… protection. Camouflage. Its energy masks other supernatural presences, making it harder for hunters to track."
"But also danger," Marcus said darkly. "Because it attracts everyone. Predators and prey. Hunters and hunted."
Silence fell over us.
"Your transformation today was strong," Marcus said finally. "Clear. Any supernatural within miles felt it."
"So they'll come," I said. Not a question.
"Yes. Eventually." Marcus met my eyes. "Peter. Derek. Maybe others we don't even know exist."
"And when they do?"
"We don't react," my dad said firmly. "We don't provoke. We remain peaceful unless forced."
"But we defend ourselves if necessary," my mom added. "Always."
Marcus simply nodded.
---
The walk home was quieter than the trip out.
We were all exhausted—I especially so. The transformation had drained more energy than any physical training ever had.
But there was also satisfaction. Accomplishment.
I did it, I kept thinking. I finally did it.
We were about halfway home when I felt it.
A tingling at the back of my neck. Not painful. Just… awareness.
Like being watched.
I stopped and turned to look behind us.
The forest was silent. Trees swaying gently in the breeze. Long shadows from the setting sun.
Nothing.
Marcus had stopped too, looking in the same direction. His eyes—human now, but still sharp—scanned the trees.
He subtly scented the air.
My parents noticed, stopping as well.
"Daniel?" my mom asked quietly.
"It's just…" I hesitated. "I feel like we're being watched."
Marcus exchanged a look with my parents—silent communication born of years together.
"Keep walking," Marcus said calmly. "Talk normally."
We obeyed. We resumed walking, my dad starting a casual conversation about dinner.
But we all knew.
Someone was there.
Watching.
---
[POV: Derek Hale]
Derek Hale was crouched behind a rock formation on the hillside, completely still.
He'd felt the wave of energy an hour earlier. He'd been in town, following another of Peter's trails (always following Peter these days), when it hit.
Like atmospheric pressure shifting before a storm. Like the air charging before lightning.
Supernatural power. Massive.
But not werewolf. Or at least, not just werewolf.
There was something else. Something older. Something that made his instincts scream both warning and curiosity.
He'd come to investigate.
And found… a family.
Four people walking through the forest. Looking completely normal—parents, a teenage son, an older man. Training clothes, backpacks, casual conversation.
But the scent.
Derek scented the air again, even from his distance.
Wolf, yes. Definitely wolf. But also… something else. Something he couldn't identify. Something primal.
He'd arrived too late to see whatever had caused the surge of energy. The family was already heading back when he spotted them.
But the presence still lingered in the air. Strong. Undeniable.
Who are these people?
The older man—Derek focused on him through the binoculars he'd grabbed from the loft. Mid-forties, maybe fifty. Muscular build. Military posture. Ex-military? Or just trained?
The parents looked ordinary. Professionals, maybe. Suburban.
And the boy…
Derek blinked, adjusting the focus.
Wait.
He recognized that face. Beacon Hills High. The new kid who'd started a few weeks ago. The one who'd been bandaged, claiming some kind of accident.
Moreno, Derek remembered. Daniel Moreno.
The kid had briefly been on Derek's radar—new in town, interesting timing right after Peter awakened. But he hadn't smelled like a werewolf, so Derek had dismissed him.
But now…
What the hell is going on?
The family suddenly stopped. The older man turned his head, looking directly toward Derek's position.
Derek froze, not even breathing.
Does he know?
But the man—Marcus?—simply turned back and kept walking. No reaction. No alarm.
Maybe Derek was far enough away. Maybe the wind was right.
Or maybe they knew and were pretending not to.
Derek waited until they were completely out of sight before moving.
He slipped down the hillside, back toward where his Camaro was parked, his mind racing.
A family. Four Lupaztlán—he was sure of it now. Nothing else explained that signature. In Beacon Hills. Now.
Why?
With Peter loose and creating chaos. With the town becoming a magnet for trouble.
Why come here? Why now?
He got into the car but didn't start it. Just sat there, thinking.
He needed more information. Needed to know if they were a threat… or something else.
But he also needed to be careful. If they were what he thought they were, confronting them directly would be stupid.
Patience, Derek reminded himself. One of the last lessons his mother had taught him. Observe first. Understand. Then act.
He started the car and drove off, casting one last glance toward the forest.
I'll be back, he thought. And next time, I'll have answers.
---
[POV: Daniel]
That night at home, after dinner and a shower, I stood in my room staring at the mirror.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
Please, I asked gently, the way Marcus had taught me.
I opened my eyes.
Amber. Golden. Bright.
I held it for ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
Voluntary. Controlled. Mine.
I smiled at my reflection.
A knock on the door broke my concentration. My eyes faded back to brown.
"Come in."
Marcus opened the door, leaning against the frame.
"Practicing?"
"Yeah. I got to thirty seconds."
"Good." He stepped inside and closed the door. "You felt it too, didn't you? In the forest."
It wasn't really a question.
"Yeah. Someone was there."
"Werewolf," Marcus confirmed. "Derek Hale, most likely. He's the only other Hale survivor besides Peter."
"Did he see?"
"Not the transformation. He arrived too late for that." Marcus crossed his arms. "But he felt the energy. And he came to investigate."
"Will he come back?"
Marcus paused, considering.
"Yes. Eventually. Derek isn't like Peter—he's cautious, calculated. He'll observe first, understand before acting."
"That's good, right?"
"Better than the alternative," Marcus shrugged. "Peter would've attacked first and asked questions later."
"And when Derek comes back? What do we do?"
"Nothing," Marcus said simply. "Unless he forces a confrontation. Then…" He left the sentence unfinished.
"Then we defend ourselves."
"Then we defend ourselves," Marcus confirmed.
Silence settled for a moment.
"Sleep," Marcus said eventually. "More training tomorrow. You need rest."
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
I went back to the window, looking out at the night sky.
The moon was there. Huge. Bright. Almost full.
Eight days, I thought. Eight days until Scott transforms for the first time.
And Derek is watching.
Peter is out there, building power.
And now… now I can defend myself.
My eyes flickered amber involuntarily—just for a second, a reflex of thought.
But I noticed. And I controlled it. And they faded back.
I smiled in the darkness.
Let them come.
All of them.
I'm ready.
I lay down on my bed, exhausted but satisfied, and fell into the deep sleep of someone who had finally crossed an impossible threshold.
Controlled transformation.
The first real step.
And only the beginning.