The bell rang, shrill and piercing, announcing the lunch break.
The sound seemed to vibrate inside my skull, making the headache already settling in there even worse. I gathered my things on autopilot, leaving the classroom without waiting for anyone. I needed a minute.
I found an empty table in the corner of the cafeteria, far enough from the main chaos, and pulled my phone out of my pocket.
The screen was black. No notifications. Nothing.
The anxiety, which had been a low background hum before, now felt like a scream trapped in my throat. I unlocked the screen and opened the chat with my dad. The previous messages were still there—read and ignored.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, frustration overpowering caution.
"Dad, stop ignoring me. It's serious."
Sent. Waited three seconds. Nothing.
"He knows there's someone else here. The girl I helped yesterday? She was attacked today. He tracked the remnant of my mana on her."
I typed the next part harder, almost cracking the screen.
"The fucking Black Mage is here. We need to figure out who he is before he figures out who I am."
I dropped the phone on the table, staring at it like it might bite.
"Black Mage." The term looked ridiculous written out like that, but the reality was terrifying. In a world of werewolves and druids, a classic human sorcerer—someone who bends reality through study and sheer will, not instinct or pacts with nature—was a dangerous anomaly. And if he was tracking my mana on civilians…
"Salt."
The voice cut through my thoughts. I snapped my head up, instinctively covering the phone screen with my hand.
Jackson Whittemore stood on the other side of the table.
His mana—that spiky blue electricity—was unusually contained today. There was still the natural arrogance in his posture, of course, but none of the hostility he usually aimed at Scott or anyone he deemed "inferior."
He glanced at my hand on the phone, then at my face, and let out an impatient sigh.
"You gonna sit here rotting alone, or come sit with us?"
I blinked, surprised.
"Us?" I repeated.
Jackson rolled his eyes and jerked his head toward the central table, where Lydia and Allison were already seated.
"Lydia wants you there. And honestly…" He gave me a once-over, assessing my clothes and posture. "You'd be better off hanging with us than sitting here with that kicked-puppy face. You don't look like a total waste of space, Salt. Take the chance."
I bit back an ironic smile. In Jackson Whittemore's language, that was basically a social-validation diploma. He'd decided I wasn't a "loser," and therefore deserved the privilege of his company.
I needed this in. Jackson was the future Kanima. If I wanted to stop him from killing half the town, I had to be in his inner circle.
"Coming," I said, pocketing the phone. "But only because you asked so sweetly."
"Stop being weird, Salt." Jackson arched an eyebrow. "I'm already regretting this…"
We walked to the table. I could feel the entire cafeteria's eyes burning into my back. Walking beside Jackson was like walking beside royalty in this ecosystem.
Lydia smiled the second she saw us, the pale mist around her vibrating in approval.
"Finally," she said, patting the empty seat next to Allison. "Sit, Nate. We were just interrogating Allison about last night."
I sat, glancing at Allison. She looked a little embarrassed, but there was an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes.
"Last night?" I asked, popping open my soda. "Did I miss an episode?"
"Allison had an… incident," Jackson said, sitting beside Lydia and draping an arm over the back of her chair. "Tell him, Argent."
Allison sighed, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
"I was driving home last night, it was pouring… and a dog ran into the road. I couldn't brake in time."
My memory kicked in instantly. The vet clinic. Deaton. The wet shirt.
"And?" I feigned surprise. "You ran over a dog?"
"I hit him," she corrected quickly. "He ran into the woods, but I panicked. I followed, ended up at the vet clinic asking for help… and he was there."
"The dog?" I asked.
"Scott," she said, a shy smile slipping out. "He works there. He helped me, stayed super calm, handled everything… And, well, he invited me to the party tonight."
Jackson snorted, grabbing an apple from the tray.
"I still can't believe you're going out with McCall. The guy's a nobody."
"He was really kind," Allison defended, her voice firm. Her mana—usually calm—flared with a protective edge at her fingertips. "And he said he'll meet me there."
Lydia took a sip of her juice, eyes flicking between us.
"Well, at least you have a date now," she said practically. "Which brings us to logistics."
I leaned back, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. The story was staying on track. Scott and Allison together. Hero and damsel.
"Perfect," I said, waving a hand. "So my job here is done."
Allison frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"The only reason I even considered going to this party was to make sure you didn't feel out of place or alone," I explained, shooting Jackson a quick look. "But since Captain America's gonna be there to protect you, I'm officially retiring. I've got boxes to unpack and a dad to demand answers from."
"Oh, no," Lydia cut in immediately, her voice taking on that no-objections-allowed tone. "You're not bailing, Nate."
"Lydia, I—"
"You're new in town. You're Allison's friend. And Jackson likes you," she listed, ignoring my protest. "Plus, Beacon Hills is small. If you don't go, you'll be home listening to crickets. You're coming."
I opened my mouth to argue again. To say I didn't care about crickets.
But then my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out discreetly under the table. Finally, the notification bar lit up with the name I'd been waiting for.
Dad: "Was busy. Issues on the south county border. Don't freak out, Nathan."
Relief and anger hit me at once. He was alive, but the reply was way too short for the size of the problem I'd sent. Before I could fire off something furious, another message came through:
Dad: "Black Mage? You sure? If it's what I think, don't engage. Just observe. Keep your mana compacted. I'll try to reach town before dawn."
"Don't engage," he said. As if it were easy to ignore an arcane predator circling your friends. Before I could pocket the phone again, another notification popped up—a story from Danny Mahealani. I opened it on reflex: Danny grinning next to speaker boxes in the forest clearing. "Sound's ready. Night's gonna be epic."
My eyes scanned the photo and froze in the top corner. There, almost invisible, was a stain. A purple, oily reflection distorting the light around an ancient tree.
His trail. The Black Mage had already picked the party venue.
I locked the screen hard. I couldn't let Allison go there unsupervised. Not Lydia. Not Jackson. If that guy was setting up a ritual, that party would be an all-you-can-eat teen buffet.
I looked up. Lydia was still staring, waiting for my surrender.
"You know what?" I said, exhaling slowly. "You're right, Lydia. Staying home listening to crickets is depressing. I'm in."
Lydia flashed a victorious smile. "Knew you were smart."
Jackson, finishing his apple, gave me a reluctant nod of approval. But the mood shifted fast when he glanced across the cafeteria, where Scott and Stiles were laughing. Jackson's mana flickered, the blue edges sharpening aggressively.
"What's that look?" I asked, seizing the opening. "That's the 'I wanna break something' face."
Jackson snorted, tossing the apple core onto the tray with barely contained force.
"This morning's practice," he muttered, voice dripping venom. "Finstock finally lost it. Officiated that bullshit in front of the whole team."
Lydia sighed—she'd heard this a thousand times. "Jackson, it's just a title."
"It's not 'just a title,' Lydia! It's my captaincy!" he snapped, voice rising. "McCall gets one lucky week and now he's co-captain? Sharing command with me? It's an insult to the team, the sport, and me."
His insecurity leaked into his aura like black smoke. Perfect opportunity. Jackson becomes the Kanima because he feels small. Give him the validation he craves, and I gain a strategic ally.
I leaned forward, dropping my voice to conspiratorial levels.
"Honestly? Finstock's decision just proves how desperate he is," I said.
Jackson paused, listening. "How so?"
"Look, Scott's physically good now, sure. But captain isn't just about scoring. It's strategy," I continued, stroking his ego. "Scott's the impulsive type. You think someone who gets distracted by his own shadow can lead in a final? Finstock put him there as a fancy mascot, Jackson. Everyone knows who actually understands the game."
Jackson soaked it up like oxygen. His blue aura steadied.
"Exactly," he agreed, pointing at me. "That's what I've been saying. McCall's a fluke. I'm the real captain—he's just… the guy who runs fast."
"So let him run," I shrugged. "Let him do his little show at the party tonight. At the end of the day, the team needs a leader, not a successful science experiment."
A slow, conspiratorial grin spread across Jackson's face. "I like you, Salt. You get how things work."
Lydia watched us with narrowed eyes, clearly catching my manipulation but pleased Jackson had stopped whining. She stood, grabbing her bag.
"Great. Ego stroked, presence confirmed. Be there at nine. No delays."
Jackson got up too, looking lighter. "Nine, Salt. And don't show up dressed like a hobo."
"I'll try," I said.
As they walked away, my smile faded. I checked my phone again. Don't engage, Dad had said.
Too late, old man. If the purple trail's in the clearing, the confrontation's already started. I just have to make sure no one ends up as the main course.
[…]
The drive home was a blur. Autopilot, the V8's roar the only thing grounding me while my mind spun around that purple stain on a phone screen.
I walked in, tossing my backpack on the couch. The silence of the Salt Mansion—usually comforting—now felt like the hush before a storm.
I took the stairs two at a time. I needed to get ready.
In my room, I opened the closet. Not for the coolest outfit to impress teenagers—for mobility if I had to run. Or fight.
Black jeans, heavy boots, dark gray tee. Leather jacket over it. Not just style; leather gave minimal scratch protection and hid the bulges in my pockets.
Nightstand drawer: small glass vial of bright blue liquid. Minor mana recovery potion from Dad. Unstable, tasted like old battery acid, but it worked. Into the inner jacket pocket.
I grabbed the Grimoire. Hesitated. Take it?
If the Black Mage got his hands on it, he could trace our bloodline.
"Better not," I muttered, sliding it under the false floor in the closet. "Today's improv."
If I really need it, I can summon it anyway.
Down the stairs, adrenaline pumping, cold fear twisting in my gut.
Mom was in the kitchen. Not cooking. Just standing, leaning on the marble island, clutching a teacup with both hands, staring at nothing.
The second I stepped onto the wood floor, she turned.
Her expression stopped me cold. Not "mom worried about grades." This was "I know."
"Your dad called," she said, calm but with tension that raised the hairs on my arms.
"Dad?" I stopped.
"So you fought a flesh beast yesterday?" She lifted the cup and took a long sip. "And now there are Black Mages in town."
I exhaled hard.
"Yeah, Mom. It's real. I saw his trail today. At school. And now… I think he'll be where everyone's going tonight."
Mom set the cup down. The ceramic clink echoed in the silence. She walked over and gripped my shoulders. Her touch was firm, warm, human. The opposite of the cold outside.
"You're not a soldier, Nathan. You're eighteen. You've barely started with magic."
"I know," I admitted, feeling the weight of my own incompetence. "But my friends… they have no clue what they're facing. They think it's just werewolves and hunters. If this guy's there and decides to use dark mana on a hunter or a werewolf…"
I didn't finish. She knew what black magic did to living energy sources.
"Your dad's coming. He said wait."
"Can't wait, Mom. Party starts in half an hour. If I don't go and something happens…" I shook my head. "I can't sit here playing video games while the town burns."
She held my gaze for a long moment. Saw the determination—or Salt stubbornness—and sighed, defeated but proud.
She straightened my jacket collar, a simple affectionate gesture.
"Take the car. Its protection is better than any shield you can conjure right now. And if things get ugly…"
"I run," I finished. "Promise."
She nodded, letting go.
"If Dad arrives," I said, already at the door, spinning the Charger keys on my finger. "Tell him it's serious. Tell him the trail's purple, not red—if he knows why and it's dangerous, tell him to warn me on the way."
"I will. Be careful, my son."
Five minutes later, I was on the road.
Night had fallen heavy over Beacon Hills. The Charger sliced through the dark, xenon headlights turning passing trees into ghostly blurs.
I gripped the wheel, leather creaking under my gloves. Radio off. Needed to think.
"Okay, let's recap the script," I muttered to the glowing dash.
In the show, this party was mostly background noise, despite everything.
Scott's first Full Moon. He'd feel the change: fever, aggression, loss of control.
He'd bolt to the woods.
Allison, confused and abandoned, would get taken home by the worst possible option—Derek Hale.
Controlled chaos. Teen drama with fangs.
"But now we've got a gatecrasher," I said, tires screeching through a tight turn.
The Black Mage.
He attacked Erica to draw me out. He knew another magic user was in town.
If he's in the clearing, it's not for bad music and cheap beer.
He's there because the party's an emotional powder keg.
Scott's aura flashed in my mind. Potential Alpha, raw uncontrolled power about to detonate on his first full moon.
To an energy-feeding sorcerer, Scott tonight wasn't a threat. He was an all-you-can-eat buffet.
What if the Black Mage decided to "help" the transformation? Speed it up? Or worse… drain the wolf while he was vulnerable?
Worse still—if he turned Scott into a red-mana construct.
The Argents would have more than one rabid wolf to hunt.
"Shit, the board just turned into a clusterfuck," I growled, flooring it. The V8 roared, speed climbing to 120 km/h.
I had to get there before Scott lost it. Keep eyes on Allison so she didn't become leverage. Find the purple trail before it found us.
Passenger seat: phone buzzed. Lydia.
Lydia: "We're here. Where are you? Jackson's already bitching about the music."
Me: "Almost there. Keep Scott close. Don't let him drink anything."
Tossed the phone aside.
Party lights flickered through the trees ahead. Bass thrummed the ground.
"Showtime," I whispered, activating Magical Vision.
Eyes tingled. World shifted to neon lines. And there, hanging over the clearing like an invisible storm cloud: oily purple aura.
He was waiting.
I parked, took a deep breath, stepped into the night—ready to wreck a dark sorcerer's plans with nothing but teenage arrogance and 2,000 mana points.
The music was audible from miles away. I parked the Charger a short distance off, leaving the metal beast in the shadow of an ancient oak.
The moment I stepped out, the bass hit my chest like a physical force. To everyone else, it was the sign of an epic night. To me, it was a hornet's nest.
I walked into the clearing and got swallowed by Beacon Hills High's controlled chaos: colored lights strung through trees, makeshift bonfires, the omnipresent reek of cheap beer and hormones.
"There he is! The bathtub king!" Jackson yelled, emerging from a knot of lacrosse players. Cup in hand, smile 50% arrogance, 50% social proof.
"Told you he'd show," Lydia said, appearing beside him like a queen claiming her court. She scanned me head to toe. "Leather jacket? Classic. At least you've got taste, Nate."
"I try to keep standards," I replied, forcing a smile while my eyes did a tactical sweep.
Allison was nearby, laughing at something a friend said, but her gaze kept darting to the entrance. I knew who she was waiting for.
Then I saw him.
Scott McCall arrived with Stiles. Scott looked awful—sweaty, pale, shoulders hunched like he carried the world. Stiles gestured wildly, probably spouting useless "stay calm" advice.
I watched from a distance, leaning against a tree.
Saw the moment Scott and Allison met. Saw his smile falter under transformation fever. They danced a few minutes, but his discomfort was obvious. Less than ten minutes later, he dropped her hand, muttered a weak excuse, and bolted.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Is this… still following canon?"
The thought hammered as I watched. Bizarre. Even with me here and the Black Mage lurking, the original script had magnetic pull, dragging events back on track.
"Scott!!!" Allison's scream cut the air, full of the frustration I knew from another life.
She ran after him. I peeled off the tree and followed. Stopped at the road's edge, watching her freeze as Scott jumped into his mom's car and peeled out, leaving her alone under cold streetlights.
Instinct kicked in—I activated Magical Vision, sweeping the dark woods. There: dense, cold blue aura approaching silently. Derek Hale. In canon, he'd make his move now.
"Allison!" I shouted before he could step from the shadows.
My voice echoed down the empty road. Derek's aura froze. Realizing he was exposed, he backed off and melted into the preserve's darkness.
Another relieved breath. One problem down.
"Nate…" She turned, eyes glassy with confusion and guilt.
"Something happen with McCall?" I asked, approaching slowly.
"I don't know, Nate. Scott didn't look good." Hands on her head, trying to sort thoughts. "He just left. Left me here."
I gave her two light pats on the back—basic comfort.
"You could see he wasn't okay, Allison. The face, the sweat… that wasn't malice. It was some kind of crisis. Not your fault."
"Yeah, but I only came to this stupid party for him," she vented, staring at the empty road.
"And now?"
"I don't know, Nate!"
"If you want my advice…" I glanced back at the party entrance—music somehow louder, vibrating wrong. "You're at a party full of people and music. You're already here, dressed for it. Leaving now would just be wasting the night. Enjoy it, Allison. We're not young forever."
She wiped her face, gave a small reluctant smile. "You're right. Thanks, Nate."
I watched her walk back toward the bonfire light, satisfied I'd kept Derek away. But as I followed her into the clearing, relief started evaporating.
It lasted exactly three minutes. The time it took to realize that even without the protagonist, the party's vibe wasn't cooling. It was heating up.
"Hey! What the hell did you say?!"
Shout from near the bonfire. Freshman shoved a senior over a dumb bump. Seconds later, stupid argument became fists.
I scanned. Jackson snarling at one of his best friends. Lydia pressing her temples, dizzy. Even Allison—usually sweet—wore pure irritation.
People were turning violent. Irritable.
Something's wrong. Tingling at the base of my skull.
Magical Vision Level 3.
World shifted colors. Stomach dropped.
The clearing wasn't just full of teens. It was drowned.
The music from the speakers wasn't just sound. Every bass drop sent purple mana rippling across the ground like black oil. It didn't enter through eyes or skin—it entered through ears.
"Auditory Resonance," I whispered, eyes wide.
The Black Mage wasn't targeting individuals. He was using sound to tune every brain in the clearing to aggression. Building a violence nest to harvest chaos energy.
And Scott… Scott didn't just run from the moon. He ran because the music was frying a werewolf's nervous system—whose hearing is a thousand times more sensitive.
The beat sped up. More insistent. BUM-BUM-BUM-BUM.
A kid grabbed a glass bottle, smashed it on a table edge, eyes bloodshot with borrowed hate.
"Fuck," I growled, fists clenching. "Sound mage?!"
Couldn't let this continue. If real fighting broke out under magical influence, people would die. The Black Mage would just lurk in the shadows, drinking the suffering mana.
I looked at the speaker towers. Sickly purple glow in my vision, pulsing like mechanical hearts.
I'm not a sound mage. Can't detune the spell. But I'm a Salt. I deal with Structure.
"You want sound?" I whispered, weaving through the growing chaos toward the speakers. "I'll give you silence."
Focused on the diaphragms inside. Visualized their vibration. Then mentally froze the space around them—not ice, Geometric Stasis.
Right as the DJ hit the next drop—the peak where purple mana would trigger the massacre—I acted.
SNAP.
Sound like a rifle shot inside the gear.
Speaker cones, locked by precision telekinesis while electricity tried to force them, tore apart. Coils shorted, white smoke and burnt smell.
Music died instantly.
The silence that followed hurt.
Without sonic fuel, the purple mist over the clearing began to thin. People froze mid-fight, blinking, confused, waking from a nightmare.
"What… what am I doing?" The bottle kid muttered, dropping the glass.
Jackson let go of his friend's collar, wiping sweat. "What the fuck? What kind of shit sound just breaks like that?"
I leaned against the tree again, grabbed a water cup, took a slow sip while Magical Vision swept the forest line.
There—between two ancient oaks.
Eyes that didn't reflect firelight. Silhouette darker than night. Purple trail flickered once, then vanished into deep dark.
Round 1 to me, you bastard, I thought, pulse finally slowing.
But I knew silence wouldn't last. The Black Mage just learned the "other mage" in town wasn't curious. He was someone who could break his toys.
"Nate!" Lydia approached, hair slightly messed, irritated. "Did you see what happened to the sound?"
"Cheap gear, Lydia," I said calmly. "Sometimes pressure's too much for the machines."
She gave me a suspicious look, but before she could press, a long, chilling howl echoed from deep woods.
"Uh… party's over for me."
I turned to Allison, who was rubbing her temples, exhausted from the noise that almost fried everyone's brain.
"Scott's not coming back, Allison. I'll drive you home. Come on."
She hesitated, glancing at the road where her boyfriend vanished, but the distant howl and night chill made her hug herself.
"Okay," she said softly. "Thanks, Nate."
We walked to the Charger. I opened the passenger door—Lydia-approved chivalry—and she slid onto the leather seat.
When I closed it and got behind the wheel, the car's acoustic isolation cut the outside world. Party noise gone. Crickets gone.
Cabin silence absolute, almost sacred, reinforced by protection runes etched into the body.
I turned the key. V8 rumbled low, soothing vibration.
Drove slow down the dirt road until asphalt. Allison quiet for the first minutes, staring out at passing trees.
"I feel like an idiot," she said suddenly, not turning.
"Why?" Eyes on road, attention on her.
"For thinking tonight would be perfect. For thinking Scott…" Frustrated sigh. "He looked like he was gonna puke or was scared of me. Then ran. Who does that?"
"Someone going through something he can't explain," I offered, playing devil's advocate without spilling supernatural secrets. "Puberty, flu, social panic. Scott likes you, Allison. It was all over his face. Problem's not you."
She turned to me. Dashboard light made her eyes dark, analytical. Pure Argent evaluating truth.
"You're good at this," she said.
"At what? Driving?"
"No. At being… solid." She searched for the word. "Everyone in this town's vibrating on some weird frequency. Lydia's too intense. Jackson's too angry. Scott's too confused. But you…"
She shifted in the seat, belt stretching. Floral perfume invaded the space, mixing with new-leather scent.
"…you seem to know exactly what's going on. Like you've lived this moment before."
I gripped the wheel tighter. Argent intuition is dangerous.
"I'm just observant, Allison," I lied gently. "And I prefer avoiding drama to creating it."
"It's comforting," she admitted, voice dropping, more intimate in the confined space. "Being near someone who doesn't feel like they're about to explode."
Red light. Stopped—even though the street was dead.
Turned to her. Eyes met.
Moment of silence. Dangerous kind—friendship flirting with more without asking permission. Red light bathed her face, highlighting neck curve and parted lips.
Canon screamed in my head: She's Scott's. Scott's anchor.
But chemistry didn't care about canon. It was raw attraction to safety. She was vulnerable. I was safe harbor.
"You're not an idiot, Allison," I said, breaking tension before it became irreversible. Voice came out rougher than intended. "You're just new in a complicated town, giving a complicated guy a chance."
She blinked, like waking from light trance, small almost-sad smile.
"Maybe I should stop betting on complicated," she murmured.
Light turned green. Cabin lit green.
"Maybe," I agreed, accelerating, killing the moment before it could breathe, "but we both know that won't happen."
Rest of the drive filled with low radio music.
Parked in front of the imposing Argent house. Porch lights on. Matte-black Charger probably looked like a tank in their driveway.
"Thanks for the ride, Nate. And for… saving me from boredom and loneliness," she said, unbuckling.
"Anytime you need to escape, Charger's available," I joked.
She laughed, opened the door, paused. Looked at me one last time—analytical gaze gone, replaced by genuine curiosity.
"See you Monday?"
"Without fail."
She got out, walked to the door.
Before I reversed, front door opened.
Chris Argent appeared.
He didn't look at his daughter. Hunter's cold, calculating eyes locked on my car. Stopped on porch, arms crossed, assessing vehicle, assessing driver.
Chill down my spine. Not fear—recognition.
He knew this car wasn't normal.
Raised hand in brief, dry salute. He didn't return it—just held the stare until I maneuvered out and drove off.
Turned the corner. Exhaled.
Accelerated. Felt the car's mana vibrate with my nerves.
It's official.
My peaceful life is over.