The heat struck him like a physical blow.
It was not the gentle warmth of a hearth or the stinging bite of a summer sun; it was a living, predatory thing that snapped at Stephen's skin with hungry teeth. Smoke poured across the ceiling in thick, oily waves, rolling fast and heavy. It did not drift through the apartment; it invaded, swallowing the light and turning the hallway into a tunnel of choking blackness.
"Mum."
The word tore out of Stephen's throat, jagged and raw. He was still on the kitchen floor, his body caught in the agonizing transition between boy and beast. His muscles felt as though they were being woven from hot wire, and his skin felt too tight for the frame expanding beneath it. He scrambled toward the sink where his mother had collapsed, his fingers trembling and tipped with darkening, curved claws.
"Mum, get up. We have to go."
He grabbed her shoulders, his grip far stronger than it had been only minutes ago. She coughed weakly, a wet, rattling sound that turned the fire in Stephen's blood to ice. Her eyes were unfocused, her skin already graying under the film of soot.
"Stephen," she murmured, her voice barely a thread. "The door... go to the door."
"I have you. I have you."
He tried to lift her, but the world suddenly tilted. A long, terrible groan echoed through the apartment—the sound of seasoned timber giving way under the weight of the inferno. With a roar of falling plaster and white hot sparks, the central support beam of the kitchen ceiling crashed down.
Stephen lunged, trying to shield her, but the timber struck with the force of an avalanche. It pinned his mother's legs to the linoleum, the weight of the burning wood immovable. She did not scream; the air had been forced from her lungs in one agonizing gasp, leaving her silent and gasping in the rising heat.
"No."
Stephen threw himself at the beam. The fire licked at his palms, charring the skin, but instead of the expected agony, something inside him ignited. The Alpha Spark, a dormant power buried deep within his genetic code, did not merely flicker. It exploded.
A brilliant, silver light bled from his pores, pushing back the oppressive heat of the room. The pain of the fire dulled to a distant, meaningless hum beneath the overwhelming surge of adrenaline and ancient instinct. With a roar that shook the very foundations of the apartment complex, Stephen gripped the charred wood. His muscles swelled, his chest broadening until his shirt shredded completely, the fabric falling away like autumn leaves.
He tore the beam free. He did not just lift it; he flung the burning timber across the room as if it were kindling, the wood smashing into the cabinets and scattering embers like dying stars.
"Look at me," he said, his voice a deep, resonant command that bypassed her fading senses. "Stay with me, Mum."
He scooped her into his arms. She weighed nothing to him now. His senses had sharpened to a terrifying degree; he could hear the water boiling inside the copper pipes behind the walls and the frantic, shallow breathing of the neighbors three floors down. He could hear Frank's panicked footsteps hitting the pavement outside until they stopped abruptly, silenced by the sight of the building turning into a torch.
Stephen did not mourn him. He did not even feel hate. There was only the mission.
The hallway was gone, consumed by a wall of roaring orange flame that reached for the ceiling. The stairs were a memory. Stephen turned toward the kitchen window, the glass already spiderwebbing from the intense heat.
Three floors to the concrete below.
He did not hesitate. He wrapped his mother tight against his chest, shielding her head with his arm, and hurled himself through the glass.
The night air slammed into him, cold and sharp, a sudden contrast to the furnace he had left behind. They fell through the dark for a heartbeat that felt like an eternity. Stephen shifted his weight in mid air, his predatory instincts calculating the impact before he hit the ground. He landed on all fours, the shuddering impact vibrating through his shifting bones and cracking the dry earth beneath his claws.
He crawled a few feet away from the reaching heat of the building and laid her gently on the grass of the courtyard.
"Mum. We are out. We are safe. Look at me."
He hovered over her, his shadow long and monstrous under the glow of the moon. She stared upward, her eyes fixed not on his changing face, but on the moon itself. Its silver glow was reflected faintly in her pupils, a final, peaceful light. But the smoke had been too much for a heart already worn thin by years of fear. Her chest stilled. The rattling breath stopped.
Stephen bowed his head until his forehead rested against hers. The fur on his neck bristled, and the silver light of the Alpha Spark began to dim, leaving him in the cold, harsh reality of the ashes.
He did not cry. He was past the point of human tears.
He threw his head back and howled.
The sound was a physical force. It rolled across the city streets, silencing the distant sirens and freezing the air in the lungs of every living thing within a mile. It was a cry of pure, unadulterated grief, the sound of a king being crowned in the ruins of his own life.
High above the courtyard, perched on the roof of a neighboring warehouse, three figures stood watching the carnage below.
"Do you smell that?" Silas asked, his ancient, cloudy eyes sharp with interest. He caught the scent of ozone and scorched earth on the wind.
"It is raw," Marcus whispered, his voice tinged with a rare note of respect. "Unrefined and bloody."
"It is a True Alpha," a woman beside them added, her voice soft and knowing. "A king born of fire."
Below them, panic had erupted among the survivors spilling out of the burning building. One man, hysterical with terror, began shouting and shoving a medic who was trying to help him. The man was a chaos of flailing limbs and jagged fear.
Stephen rose to his feet. He was covered in soot, his back bore the marks of the fire, and his eyes still glowed with a residual, metallic silver. He walked into the crowd.
As he approached, the noise died. The screaming stopped. The air seemed to settle around him, drawn into the gravity of his presence. He placed a steady, heavy hand on the hysterical man's shoulder.
The man turned, his fury draining away the moment he met Stephen's gaze. He didn't see a boy; he saw an apex predator, a force of nature that demanded order. The man's knees buckled, not in fear, but in an instinctive, bone deep recognition of authority.
"Help the others," Stephen said. The command was quiet, but it brooked no refusal.
The man obeyed instantly, turning back to the medic with a focused, calm resolve. Without knowing it, in the shadow of his own tragedy, Stephen had claimed his first circle. He had exerted the will of an Alpha.
Silas smiled grimly from the heights, his cloak fluttering in the wind. "The fire took his past. It burned away the boy named Stevie."
"What happens now?" Marcus asked.
"Now," Silas replied, turning to descend the fire escape toward the boy in the courtyard, "we give him a future. We give him the Blackwood name."
As the sirens finally wailed into the courtyard, Stephen did not run. He stood over his mother's body, the shadows of the pack closing in around him like a dark velvet shroud. He was no longer the prey. He was the master of the night.
Stephen watched the flames consume the only home he had ever known, and as the heat began to fade, he felt the first cold touch of the Blackwood legacy.