They called him a spark in the dark, but Stiles knew better. Power wasn’t light, it was bone-deep, ancient, merciless.

In the woods beyond Beacon Hills, the veil thinned. The old gods whispered through dying leaves, calling him not by name, but by purpose.

“You were meant for war,” a voice murmured. “Not the sheriff’s badge.”

Stiles traced the runes burned into his wrist, gifts from a forgotten rite, remnants of a battle Derek didn’t remember.

“I didn’t choose this.”

“No,” the voice agreed. “But you’re still chosen.”

And as mist coiled around his feet, Stiles walked toward the waiting sword.

100 words