Kyron stepped forward first—a figure tall and cloaked in ash-gray robes that fluttered without wind. His eyes burned gold just like Derek's... but colder somehow… hollowed out by centuries of loss and rage.
"And the crows ascend,
Knocking her from the throne.
Little miss Ashokan blood,
Breaking her crown.
And all the world's armies...
Will holler in pain.
As they can't put their princess--
Back together again."
An eerily remake of an old nursery rhyme sounded 'round the cabin in the woods.
It surrounded all the supers ready to give their lives to protect the Anima Cantat.
It sounded from out the shadow like the dark mist is whispering instead of Kyron himself.
The words slithered through the air like poison—twisting around them, sinking into skin and bone. The nursery rhyme, warped and dripping with malice, made Aria flinch.
She stepped forward instinctively, one hand reaching out to wrap around Derek's arm. "He's not just here to fight…" she whispered. "He's here to unmake me."
Derek didn't look at her—his eyes locked on Kyron—but his hand shot back, gripping hers tightly.
"No," he growled under his breath. "Not today."
Kyron laughed—a sound like dry leaves scraping stone—and raised a single hand.
From the shadows surged figures—twisted forms: a werewolf with too many eyes; a banshee stitched from silence; wendigos that moved without sound; even a corrupted druid whose roots pulsed black ichor into the soil.
They surrounded the cabin—not attacking yet.
Waiting.
Like beasts trained to pounce on command.
Kyron tilted his head, voice finally speaking from his own lips now—deep, broken with ancient grief: "You have something that doesn't belong to you."
His burning gaze pinned Aria.
"That soul… that face… it mocks me."
"It belongs in my arms,"
"Not beneath some mongrel wolf who thinks love makes him stronger."
Then Kyron smiled—a thin crack across dead flesh.
"But don't worry…"
"I'll take it back gently."
"And when I peel her apart, from limp to limp?"
"I'll let you watch."
Derek roared—a full-bodied snarl ripped from deep within as golden light flared around him—his transformation beginning.
"TOO LATE!" he thundered. "SHE'S MINE!"
As these words shot from Derek's lips like an arrow, hundreds of alias shielded Aria like a wall, as Derek took in his position at the front like he's the leader of this army of misfits.
The earth trembled beneath their feet as the supernatural alliance fell into place—shifters, werewolves, vampires, hunters, a kitsune, even a lone wendigo from the northern woods—all converging behind Derek like soldiers answering a silent call. They formed an unbreakable wall between Aria and the encroaching darkness.
Derek stepped forward—only one step—but it echoed like thunder.
His form shifted—not fully—but power surged around him. Claws extended. Fangs glinted. His eyes burned gold with an intensity that can easily split the night.
And then he spoke.
Voice low—controlled—but carrying like a blade through silence.
"You took everything away from me once before."
He said it not as a cry… but as a fact.
"My family."
"My home."
"My peace."
Another beat of silence—one crow shrieked and fell dead from its tree.
"But you made one mistake."
He tilted his head slightly, muscles coiling beneath skin.
"You came after what's mine again."
Derek's gaze locked onto Kyron's hollow glow—the two alphas standing across war-torn ground before battle had even begun.
"This time?"
A growl rippled through his chest—as if every wolf in history snarled with him.
"I won't lose what's mine."
A laugh that made all hairs stand on edge tumbles from Kyron's lips. "And you think a measly mongrel such as yourself and a hundred plus army is going to stop me?"
Derek didn't falter. He stayed rooted to his spot—golden eyes never leaving Kyron's gaze.
"I do think that. I know that."
Kyron lifts his hands, fog and shadows sprout from his fingers like branches to an awkward tree, and his own army steps forward. "Show them what we're made off, but leave the mongrel, he's mine!" He barked his order.
The ground split.
From the writhing fog and coalescing shadows, figures emerged—twisted, malformed things with too many joints and eyes that blinked out of sync. Beasts stitched from dead magic. Spirits with stolen faces. Kyron's army wasn't made of soldiers.
It was made of regret. Of forgotten names. Of those who had died screaming.
And they moved.
Not like animals or men—but like marionettes on broken strings, jerking forward in a nightmare rhythm as they charged across the clearing.
Scott roared first—launching himself at the nearest creature, claws slashing through shadow-flesh that bled black mist.
Stiles swung his bat—cracking bone (if it could be called bone) with a yelped curse: "Damn it! Why are these things all so hard to hit?!"
The kitsune unleashed twin foxfires that scorched through three advancing wraiths—but more took their place, crawling from beneath the soil like roots seeking light.
Their gathered alias from Forks, La Push, Mystic Falls and randomly around the world scattered along the field like leaves caught in a whirlpool.
Derek didn't move—not yet.
His entire body was taut—a predator waiting for its moment—as he watched Kyron step forward again... slowly peeling back his hood to reveal a face both ancient and achingly familiar—
One that looked almost like his own.
"You see?" Kyron whispered, voice carrying over the chaos. "We are not so different… you and I... two alphas born in ruin."
"But only one of us has lived long enough to learn…"
"...that love is a weakness."
With unnatural speed—like smoke given form—he lunged at Derek.