Chapter 32

Argent lingered a moment outside Silver’s door, steadying himself before knocking gently. He entered quietly, carrying two mugs of hot chocolate, the rich steam curling up like a fragile peace offering. “I made some hot chocolate,” he said softly, offering one to Silver.

Silver took the mug without a word, retreating to the edge of his bed. His eyes avoided Argent’s, fixed on the floor as if it might swallow the chaos inside him whole. The room felt heavy with unspoken pain, the silence between them thick and raw.

Argent sat down beside him, “How are you holding up?” He asked quietly. Silver scoffed sipping his hot chocolate. “I can’t defend your sister and Michael and I can hardly defend myself. But you need to talk to me buddy Please.”

Finally, Silver’s voice cut through the stillness, sharp and bitter. “What do you want me to say? That I’m happy for them? That I love watching my twin sister pretend everything’s fine, playing house with the guy who—” He swallowed hard. “—the guy who cheated on me with her.”

Argent’s eyes didn’t waver. “I didn’t say that, Silver.”

There was a long pause before Silver’s voice dropped, heavy with exhaustion. “I’m fine. Really.” He let out a bitter laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “My ex-boyfriend is living next door with his emotionally repressed mother. He’s sleeping with my sister. And I’m supposed to pretend like that’s normal while we’re all out there, fighting feral werewolves on the weekends. Yeah… totally fine.”

“You don’t have to keep punishing yourself. You didn’t deserve what happened.”

“I let him in. That’s on me.”

“Dad! We’re back.” Allison’s voice ran through the apartment.

“You’ve got every right to be angry. But don’t let that anger turn into something that eats you alive. You’re not your mother. Or Michael. Or me.”

🌕

Scott looked worn, running a hand through his hair. “I looked everywhere. It’s like he just walked away—left his car, his dog…”

Stiles blinked, anxiety creeping in. “Okay, but was he, like… could he have been a virgin? Did he look like a virgin? Was he, you know, virginal?”

Scott gave a dry smirk. “No, definitely not. Deaton makes me have sex with all his clients. It’s a new policy.”

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “No, I don’t know if he was a virgin… And why are you talking like he’s already dead? He’s just missing.”

Stiles practically exploded, voice rising hysterically. “Missing and presumed dead because he’s probably a virgin, Scott! And you know who else is a virgin? Me! I’m a virgin, okay? And you know what that means? It means that my lack of sexual experience is now literally a threat to my life! I need to have sex, like, right now. Someone needs to have sex with me today. Like, someone needs to sex me right now!”

Michael, leaning casually nearby, smirked and said, “Alright, I’ll volunteer.”

Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin. “WHAT???”

Michael shrugged, cool as ever. “Come over at nine. Plan to stay the night. I like cuddles.”

Stiles softened, touched. “Oh my god, that’s so sweet. Are you serious?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “No, I’m totally joking. I have a girlfriend Stilinski, who do you take me for?”

Stiles blinked. “Wait—why are you even here? You didn’t stick around for lacrosse.”

Michael shrugged, shirtless and unapologetic. “Well, now I’m a normal high school student. Who’s trying to help you.”

Coach Lahey burst in, hands on hips. “Mr. Lahey! Good to have you back—though I’m not thrilled you’re late.”

Isaac muttered, “Sorry, Coach…”

Coach pointed a finger. “Cross-country’s mandatory for lacrosse players! I don’t want a bunch of fat-asses by next season.”

He cleared his throat. “So, get moving.”

Ethan and Aiden strode up to Isaac, stopping just inches from him. The tension was instant and electric.

“This is not going to be good,” Scott muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.

Coach blew his whistle sharply, signaling the start of the run.

“Isaac,” Scott said, grabbing his beta by the shoulders. “Don’t.”

Isaac’s eyes were already locked on the twins. “It’s them,” he said, low and certain—then took off.

Scott sighed and ran after him without hesitation.

Behind them, Michael rolled his eyes and muttered, “I didn’t know being a good guy meant chasing more werewolves.”

But he ran anyway.

He caught up with Isaac at a sharp turn in the trail where the twins had suddenly disappeared.

“Where are they?” Michael asked, scanning the tree line, chest heaving.

The next thing Micahel knew was that he felt a pain as he was tossed to the side of the path, Isaac meeting the same fate as one of the twins hold each of them.

“Ethan, I always forget, how many bones are in the human body?” Aiden asks his brother.

“I don’t know. Let’s count.” Aiden says.

Just before Aiden can land a punch on Isaac, Scott comes out of nowhere and punches Aiden’s jaw, knocking him down, “That’s one.”

Michael quickly grabs Ethan’s arm, flipping him before running over to Scott.

Isaac and Scott now were growling at the twins, claws and canines out. Michael was catching his breath.

“AHHHH!”

Stiles hurried up beside Scott and Isaac. “It’s him, isn’t it?” he asked quietly.

“Who?” Michael replied, glancing between them.

“Hey, everyone, get out of the way! Step back!” Stilinski barked at the students clustered near the tree.

“Keep this area clear before they trample all the evidence!” a deputy ordered, pushing back the crowd.

“What’s going on?” Michael asked, eyes scanning the scene.

Scott let out a heavy sigh, then quickly explained what he’d told Stiles earlier that morning.

“He was probably just some homeless kid,” a voice called out—Coach trying to regain control of the scene.

Michael shook his head. “No. That was a senior.”

Coach raised an eyebrow. “Not on the team, right?”

Before anyone could answer, a girl’s anguished scream cut through the air. “Kyle! Oh god, Kyle!” she cried, rushing toward the body.

The group silently followed Scott, Stiles, Isaac, and Michael down the hill, leaving the grim scene behind.

“Did you see the way those twins looked at him?” Isaac asked, eyes sharp.

“Yeah, like they had no clue what happened,” Stiles replied, arms crossed.

“No,” Isaac corrected firmly. “They knew.”

“The kid was strangled with a garrote, right? Am I the only one noticing how little ‘werewolf stuff’ there is about these murders?” Stiles teased, exaggerating for effect.

Michael nodded grimly. “You think it’s a coincidence they show up and then people start dying?”

They stopped, the weight of the question hanging in the air.

Michael’s gaze hardened. “No, it’s not a coincidence.”

“Well, no, but I still don’t think it’s them,” Stiles said quickly, trying to keep the peace.

“Scott?” Michael asked, looking at him.

Scott shrugged, uncertain. “I don’t know yet.”

“You don’t know yet?” Michael echoed in disbelief.

“Hey, he’s got a point. Human sacrifices? Seriously, dude?” Scott asked Stiles.

“Scott, your eyes literally glow yellow like sticks. Hair grows on your face and disappears. You heal from wounds like magic. And you’re telling me you don’t get human sacrifices?” Stiles shot back.

Scott sighed, glancing at Isaac and Michael. “That’s a fair point too.”

“I don’t care,” Isaac growled, fists clenched. “They killed that kid. They killed the girl who saved me. I’m going to kill them too.”

🌕

The hallway buzzed with the usual noise of students shuffling between classes, voices echoing off the lockers. Scott and Isaac walked side by side, each carrying their lunch trays, heading reluctantly toward detention.

Scott sighed, casting a glance toward the front office. “Don’t let it get to you,” he said. “It’s just lunchtime detention. If all they want is to piss you off, then don’t give in. They’re just trying to get to you.”

Isaac gave a small shake of his head, his expression unreadable. “It’s not just me.”

Across the hall, Aiden leaned casually against a row of lockers, eyes locked on Lydia as she walked past.

“What about tonight?” he called after her.

Lydia didn’t even slow her pace.
“Nope. Studying.”

“I could help you…” Aiden offered, with an exaggerated tone of charm.

She turned her head just enough to throw him a look. “Do you have an IQ higher than one-seventy?”

Aiden grinned.
“…Okay, you could help me.”

Scott, distracted, looks toward another part of the hallway.

Silver leaned against his locker, one boot pressed flat to the metal, scrolling through his phone like he didn’t care about the hallway chaos. He wore that dark blue shirt Lydia made him wear, sleeves rolled just enough to show the bruises and that scar cutting across his collarbone. It wasn’t a statement—Silver didn’t do those. It was just…him.

“Didn’t realize you had that many tattoos,” Ryan Devlin said as he sidled up, eyes flicking across Silver’s exposed collarbone.

Silver didn’t even glance at him.
“Not a tattoo.”

Ryan gave a low whistle.
“Damn. That a bite mark or something?”

“Or something.” Silver’s voice was cool, disinterested, but he didn’t move away. That was the problem—Silver never backed down, even when he should’ve.

Ryan stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“You know… I could help you forget whatever gave you that.”

Before Silver could respond, a hand clamped down firmly on Ryan’s shoulder.

“Back off.”

Ryan turned, eyebrows raised as Aiden stepped between them, his stance loose but unmistakably threatening.

“This isn’t your scene, Devlin.”

He blinked, gave a forced laugh.
“Chill, man. Just talking.”

“And now you’re done.” Aiden’s voice was calm, but his eyes were already glowing faintly around the edges.

Ryan muttered something under his breath and backed off, disappearing down the hall.

Silver rolled his eyes.
“Wasn’t exactly a damsel in distress, you know.”

“No,” Aiden said, glancing down at him. “But he was getting way too comfortable for my liking.”

Before Silver could answer, Lydia appeared, linking her arm through Silver’s with effortless confidence.

“Come on, heartbreak. You’re wasting your pretty face on swimmers. We have AP Bio.”

“He’s into you.” Silver whispered to Lydia making her blush.

Scott tensed.

“What?” he muttered.

Isaac followed his gaze and smirked.
“Now they’re getting to you.”

🌕

The corridor is empty except for Mr. Harris, standing smugly in front of a whiteboard, and the unfortunate duo stuck with him: Isaac and Michael. A bucket of cleaning supplies sits at their feet.

Harris folds his arms, clearly enjoying this.

“You two will wash every board in this hall,” he says crisply. “Then reshelve the books the librarian left behind… and restock the janitor’s closet.”

Isaac lets out a tired sigh and lifts a hand. “Mr. Harris… does it have to be with him?”

Harris smirks. “Now that I know you’d prefer not to? Yes. Absolutely.”

Isaac mutters something under his breath and slumps against the wall.

Next to him, Michael scoffs. “Great,” he grumbles to himself. “All because I covered for Allison in French class… Should’ve just let her take the hit.”

🌕

The tiny space is barely big enough for both of them. Cleaning supplies hang off the walls. The single overhead bulb flickers once.

Michael glances sideways. “You okay?”

Isaac, arms stiff at his sides, mutters, “Yeah. Just… not a fan of small spaces.”

There’s a short silence. Then Michael exhales, trying for something resembling honesty.

“Look,” he says, pausing. “If I really wanted to kill you, it would’ve happened already.”

Isaac side-eyes him. “Wow. Comforting.”

Michael shrugs, unfazed. “I mean it. If I wanted you dead, it’d be over by now. But I haven’t done anything. So… that’s progress, buddy.”

“Such a reassuring pep talk,” Isaac says dryly.

Michael raises his eyebrows. “Hey, I’m trying to be the ‘good guy’ here. Little credit wouldn’t kill you.”

He pauses, then gestures vaguely between them. “Is that the closest thing to forgiveness I’m gonna get?”

“Don’t push it,” Isaac mutters.

Suddenly, behind them, the closet door swings shut with a heavy clang. They both freeze. Michael grabs the handle and rattles it.

“Uh… maybe it locked from the outside?”

Isaac moves closer, inspecting. “No. There’s something wedged against it.”

Then his breathing quickens.

“Okay… okay, okay, okay…”

Michael turns toward him. “Hey—breathe. Just breathe.”

Isaac steps back, panic rising. “No. I can’t—I can’t do small spaces.”

“Isaac. Look at me.” Michael reaches for his arm. “You’re okay.”

“Come on… Come on…” Isaac murmurs, pacing in the cramped space.

“Isaac—”

“Come on!”

“Isaac!”

With a roar, Isaac loses control. His eyes glow gold, claws extending, fangs bared. The closet rattles as he growls, feral and terrified.

Michael stumbles back, knocking over a mop bucket. “Dude—!”

Suddenly, the door slams open.

Scott bursts in, eyes glowing, grabbing Isaac by the shoulders. “ISAAC!”

Isaac gasps, eyes wide as the shift recedes. He shudders in Scott’s grip.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I didn’t mean to—”

Michael, catching his breath, brushes dust off his shirt. “I’m fine. Seriously. I’ve had worse.”

Scott nods. “It’s not your fault.”

“I lost control…” Isaac mutters.

“We know,” Scott says. His voice turns grim. “And now we know they don’t just want to piss us off. They want someone hurt.”

Isaac swallows. “So… what do we do?”

Scott’s eyes flash again. “Now? I’m gonna give them what they want. I’m gonna make them angry.”

🌕

The halls are filled with students trying to get to class on-time. Stiles, Silver, and Lydia walk in step, voices hushed but urgent. Stiles is visibly rattled, waving his arms as he speaks way too fast for either of them to keep up.

“You know there’s a temple in Calcutta where they used to sacrifice a child every day?” Stiles blurts. “That’s every day, Lydia. Every day, Silver! A dead baby a day! You know what that means?”

Silver raises a brow, adjusting the strap on his backpack. “I’m afraid to ask.”

Stiles throws up his hands. “It means today is Dead Baby Day! Oh wait—no—it’s every day! Every single day is Dead Baby Day! Yay! Yay for the end of humanity!”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Stiles…”

“Why are you telling us this?” Silver asks, half-laughing, half-exhausted.

“Because while we’re standing around like horror movie extras, Scott is out there dealing with the Alpha twins!” Stiles exclaims, spinning around to face them.

“Alpha twins?” Silver frowns. “You mean those guys in leather jackets with the matching jawlines?”

“Ethan and Aiden,” Stiles confirms grimly.

Lydia pauses. “Alphas?”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Wait, you didn’t know?”

Lydia straightens quickly. “I did! Of course I did.”

Stiles doesn’t buy it, but barrels ahead anyway. “Look, here’s what I’m thinking—we’re looking at murder patterns here, okay? And ancient cultures love things in threes. So maybe it’s three virgins first—like Heather, that girl in the woods, and the guy from the pool—and then, I don’t know, maybe next it’s three people who own little dogs?”

Lydia gasps softly. “I own a little dog.”

Silver snorts. “I swear, if this turns into a Yorkie massacre, I’m out.”

“I’m not getting rid of my dog,” Lydia declares firmly.

“Just think about it!” Stiles begs. “It’s a small dog. Maybe someone wants to collect them for ritualistic purposes—”

“No!” Lydia snaps. “And by the way, you can’t find a pattern from a single data point, so stop trying to jump ahead!”

Stiles throws his hands up. “So what? I’m just supposed to wait around for someone else to die now? Just sit on my hands until someone gets garroted again?”

Lydia winces. “Withered up and what?”

“You know what I mean!” Stiles exclaims. “Strangled! Head-bashed! Throat-slashed! All of the above—horribly! I’m trying to help! I’m trying to figure this out before it happens again!”

Lydia slows her pace, turning toward him more gently. “Maybe it’s not your job…”

Stiles freezes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You said it yourself—they were killed with a garrote. That’s not exactly supernatural,” Lydia says carefully. “That’s human. Maybe it’s time to let someone human handle this.”

“You mean someone like my dad?”

Lydia tilts her head.

“No,” she says, then adds more pointedly, “I mean your dad. The Sheriff.”

Lydia rolls her eyes and walks off down the hall, heels clicking with purpose.

Silver lingers beside Stiles, watching her go, then turns back to him with a half-smirk, half-cringe.
“Was dead babies really the best analogy you could come up with?”

Stiles blinks, still frazzled. “It got your attention, didn’t it?”

Silver raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, but now I’m gonna be haunted and confused.”

🌕

Isaac and Michael crouch beside Aiden’s motorcycle, fingers streaked with grease, grins tugging at the corners of their mouths. Beside them, a small but crucial pile of detached parts sits in the sunlight—harmless in the long run, but definitely enough to ruin someone’s afternoon.

“How long is this gonna take?” Isaac mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans.

Michael shoots him a look. “Wow. Big talk for someone who flinched when the kickstand snapped up.”

Allison, standing a few feet away with her arms folded, kicks Michael lightly in the back of the leg.

“Ow!” Michael says, twisting around with a scowl. “Okay, okay. No fighting. You—just keep being the lookout.”

He sighs and turns back to the bike, fiddling with wires. “Let’s see… borrowing the ignition coil, maybe the throttle cable… and the front brake lever—just for good measure.”

He drops the last piece with a smug grin. “And voilà. High school sabotage, deluxe edition.”

Isaac straddles the now-partially-disabled bike with mock confidence. “If he kills us for this, I just want you to know—I’m blaming you in my final breath.”

Michael smirks. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Allison rolls her eyes and walks up, brushing hair from her face. “All right. Pull back with your left hand, kick down for gear.”

She gestures as she talks, ignoring their antics. “Front brake’s here. Throttle’s the grip. Back brake’s the foot pedal. Try not to crash.”

Michael chuckles, “Sound advice.”

Isaac laughs too. “Yeah, been there, done that.” He drives off with a mock salute into the school.

Michael wipes his hands on a rag and turns to Allison, who’s watching him with an amused expression. The tension between them softens as he steps closer, brushing a streak of grease off her cheek with his thumb.

“All part of my charm,” he murmurs, smirking. She rolls her eyes but smiles despite herself. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Michael leans in just enough to steal a quick kiss. “And you’re lucky you’re terrifying.”

They laugh, the sound light and easy—like the world hasn’t completely gone to hell around them. For a fleeting second, it feels almost normal. Just a couple of teenagers sneaking around, playing pranks, and pretending they aren’t caught up in something much bigger.

Michael glances toward the school doors, smirk fading. “We better get in there before someone realizes we’re not just loitering.”

Allison nods and grabs Michael’s hand, both of them still grinning from the rush. Together, they jog back inside, slipping through the school doors just as Aiden and Isaac turn the corner—right into confrontation.

“Get off my bike.”

“No problem.”

Isaac casually swings off the motorcycle, tossing a smug glance over his shoulder as Aiden storms up to reclaim it. The engine sputters, coughing out a half-hearted whine thanks to Michael’s handiwork.

The commotion draws attention. Ms. Blake rushes into the hallway, eyes wide, followed closely by the rest of the class.

Michael, Allison, and Isaac quickly fall back in step with Scott and the others, trying to blend in as if nothing had happened.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Blake tells Aiden catching him on the motorcycle. “You realize this is gonna result in a suspension.”

🌕

The clinic was quiet, filled with the distant hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional rustle of animals in cages. Deaton looked up from his clipboard as the front door chimed open.

“You’re out of school early…” Deaton raised a brow.

Stiles walked in with Silver trailing behind him. “Yeah, free period, actually.”

Silver smirked. “Technically skipped. But who’s counting?”

Stiles shot Silver a sharp look, but Silver just shrugged, unbothered, following as they made their way toward the exam room.

Stiles stumbled over his words. “Um, I was just headed home to see my dad. He’s, uh… you know, I guess you probably heard people are kind of getting murdered again. It’s his job to figure it out.”

Deaton responded dryly, “I gathered as much from the ‘Sheriff’ title.”

Silver added, “Bit of a giveaway, yeah.”

Stiles nodded awkwardly. “Right. But, like, it gets kind of hard for him to do his job when he doesn’t have all the information. And we all know he’s missing pretty much half the story here, right?”

Deaton set the clipboard down, folding his arms, expression unreadable.

Stiles continued, pacing slightly. “So then I started thinking—dangerous, I know—and I remembered someone else who always seems to have information. Someone who’s just weirdly calm about all of this. Someone who always knows more than anyone else around here…”

He paused, gesturing toward Deaton. “You.”

Silver’s voice was sincere. “And we could really use some of that wisdom right now, because things are spiraling, fast.”

Deaton regarded them both quietly, eyes flicking between Stiles’s anxious energy and Silver’s calm concern.

🌕

The room was dim, the overhead lights humming faintly. Medical charts were stacked on a metal counter. Deaton stood beside a kennel, quietly feeding a sedated dog, while Stiles and Silver paced nearby—Stiles visibly agitated, Silver more reserved with arms folded.

“All these symbols and things—the triskeles, the bank logo, the mountain ash—it’s all Celtic Druid stuff,” Stiles said, pacing, fired up. “And anyone who’s ever even casually Googled ‘human sacrifice’ knows the Druids were super into giving someone up to the gods.”

Silver leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes flicking toward Deaton. “That vault symbol… the bruise—it wasn’t just a mark. It was a message.”

Stiles nodded rapidly. “Exactly! You ever hear of the Lindow Man? Two-thousand-year-old body found in England? Strangled, head bashed in, throat cut. Classic three-fold death. And get this—they found pollen grains in his stomach.”

He turned to Deaton, expectant. “Guess which Druid favorite that was?”

Deaton sighed, almost wearily. “Mistletoe.”

Silver’s eyes widened slightly. “You already knew.”

Stiles stepped forward. “I’m just telling you everything you already know, aren’t I?”

Deaton said nothing. He set the dog’s food down, then finally turned to face them.

“Then why aren’t you telling us?” Stiles pressed.

Deaton hesitated, his voice quiet and worn. “Because when you’ve spent every moment of the last ten years trying to push something away… denying it, lying about it… that becomes a habit. A very powerful one.”

“Okay… so this guy. Whoever’s doing this. Is he a Druid?” Stiles asked slowly.

“No,” Deaton replied. “He’s someone copying a centuries-old practice of a people who should have known better.”

He glanced at both boys, somber. “Do you know what the word ‘Druid’ means in Gaelic?”

“Uh… no?” Stiles admitted.

“Wise oak. They were philosophers. Scholars. They believed in balance, in nature. They weren’t killers.”

Stiles shook his head quietly. “Yeah, well… this one is.”

Suddenly, Stiles’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, frowning as he answered.

“Hey, I can’t talk right now—”

He froze, his face draining of color.

“Wait, what?”

Silver straightened, his concern sharpening.

“Yeah—are you sure he’s missing?”

A voice crackled on the other end—Lydia, frantic and breathless.

“Not just missing. Taken.”

🌕

Deaton held up the phone, listening closely to the recording. His expression hardened.
“Can we get a copy of this?” he asked Lydia.

“Hey, Doc, any help would be, you know, helpful,” Stiles said, rifling through one of the desk drawers with growing impatience.

Deaton nodded slowly. “Each grouping of three would have its own purpose, its own type of power. Virgins. Healers. Philosophers. Warriors—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Stiles interrupted, holding up a photo. “Warrior—could that also mean, like, a soldier?”

“Absolutely,” Deaton confirmed.

Everyone looked up as Stiles held the photo higher, revealing a younger man in military uniform.

“Kyle. He was in the ROTC with Boyd,” Stiles said.

“That’s got to be it,” Silver added from where he leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “That’s the pattern.”

“Where’s Boyd now?” Deaton asked.

“He’s probably home by now,” Stiles said, already pulling out his phone. “I’m gonna try to call him.”

Lydia stood still, suddenly pale. “No… it was— I just thought of someone else. Someone else with a military background.”

Silver looked over, sensing something shift. “Who?”

Lydia pointed toward one of the desks across the room, voice hushed.
“It’s sitting right on his desk,” she said. “The West Point honor code.”

Silver’s jaw tightened. “It’s Harris.”

Deaton held up a plaque resting on Harris’s desk. “This is just one of many possibilities. He could have simply left for the day,” he said, his voice calm but measured.

Silver and Lydia scanned the classroom as Stiles rummaged through the desk drawers. “Yeah, well, not without this,” Stiles announced, holding up Harris’s briefcase with a satisfied grin.

Silver sifted through the pile of papers scattered on the desk and pulled out a test. “What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Deaton glanced at the paper and smirked. “I may not be a teacher, but I don’t think anyone can get an ‘R’ on their test,” he remarked, holding the paper up for them to see.

Lydia held up another test. “This one’s an ‘H’,” she added quietly.

Deaton took both tests, then carefully sorted through the rest, arranging them in a deliberate order. “Stiles, Silver, remember when I told you ‘druid’ is the Gaelic word for ‘wise oak’?” he asked.

Both teens nodded. “Yeah,” they replied in unison.

Deaton continued, “If a druid went down the wrong path, the wise oak was sometimes said to become a dark oak. There’s a Gaelic word for that as well… Darach.”

The three of them looked down at the tests arranged before them, each grade corresponding to a letter, the message beginning to take shape.

🌕

The hallway was nearly empty, bathed in the soft amber glow of the setting sun streaming through the tall school windows. Locker doors clanged in the distance as stragglers cleared out, leaving a hush behind them.

Silver, Allison, and Michael strolled together, their backpacks bounced lightly with each step as they made their way toward Silver’s locker.

Allison was mid-rant, gesturing animatedly with one hand. “So apparently, Scott and Isaac have decided that Michael and I are ‘in’ now. Like it’s an official club.”

Silver chuckled, twisting the dial on his locker. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Michael said, popping the ‘p’ as he grinned. “Best friends now. We’re practically blood brothers.”

Silver’s smile faltered for the briefest second. He pulled open his locker door, the metal creaking faintly. “I’m happy for you two. I am, but…”

He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence.

That’s when it came—sharp and steady.

Tap… tap… tap.

The three froze.

The rhythmic sound of a walking stick grew louder, deliberate and slow. Silver glanced up from his locker, eyes narrowing as a tall figure moved steadily through the hallway. The man wore a dark suit, polished shoes, and dark glasses. His presence, though quiet, felt… heavy.

“Who is that?” Silver asked, watching the stranger.

Allison shrugged beside him. “No idea.”

But Michael stiffened. His lips pressed into a thin line, eyes flickering with something like recognition.

The man—Deucalion—paused.

Though his eyes were covered, he turned his face toward them with eerie precision, like he’d heard something they didn’t. Then, without a word, he dropped his sunglasses to the floor and turned to walk away.

Silver frowned, stepping forward quickly. “Excuse me? Sir!” he called out.

He reached down, picked up the glasses, and jogged a few steps to catch up. “You dropped your glasses,” Silver said, holding them out.

Deucalion stopped. Slowly, he turned his face toward the sound of Silver’s voice and reached out—not for the glasses, but to gently place a hand on Silver’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low and calm.

The contact sent a jolt through Silver, cold and unexplainable—like the air around them had thinned.

For a second, they stood there. Still. Silent.

Then Deucalion took the glasses from Silver’s hand, slid them back on, and continued walking.

Silver stood frozen in place, watching the man disappear down the hall.

Behind him, Allison stepped closer. “You okay?”

Silver nodded slowly. “Yeah… just got a weird feeling.”

Michael stared after Deucalion, face pale.

🌕

The apartment was quiet and dimly lit. A muted rerun flickered on the TV while the smell of something burning drifted from the kitchen. Michael sat on the couch, scrolling through his phone. Rachel stood at the stove, waving a dish towel at a scorched pan, clearly annoyed.

“If you say one word about this, you’re eating cold cereal for the rest of the week,” she warned.

Michael muttered without looking up, “Wasn’t gonna say anything… yet.”

A knock at the door made Michael frown. Rachel glanced over her shoulder. “You expecting someone?”

“If I was, they’re late,” she replied.

Michael grumbled as he crossed to the door and opened it—then froze.

“…Seriously?” he said, eyes wide.

Rachel stepped into view, still holding the dish towel, and stared at the figure dripping rainwater onto the doormat. Isaac stood there, hoodie soaked through, his face pale and drawn. He looked exhausted. Defeated.

“You’re Isaac,” Rachel said, voice measured. “From Derek’s pack.”

Isaac nodded, barely.

“You okay?” she asked.

He hesitated. “No. Not really.”

There was a pause. Isaac looked past Michael and toward the warmth inside. “I wouldn’t be here unless I had to be. I just need a place. A night or two.”

Michael opened his mouth, already gearing up to protest, but Rachel shut it down with a look.

“Come in,” she said, stepping back.

“Mom, are you serious?” Michael snapped. “You’re really letting him in?”

Rachel turned to him calmly. “He’s a wet, half-frozen kid standing on our doorstep. What would you rather I do?”

Michael sighed, stepping aside as Isaac entered slowly, dropping his duffel near the door and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Guest blankets are in the closet. Couch pulls out if you don’t mind springs in your spine.”Isaac shrugged. “I’ve slept in worse places.”

“Thanks. I know I’m not your favorite person,” Isaac said quietly.

Michael scoffed, “Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable. I snore.”