Chapter 3: Fractured Dreams
Scott stared at the calendar on his bedroom wall, counting backwards from the red circle he'd drawn around next Tuesday's date. Three days until the full moon, and already he could feel something building inside him—a restlessness that made his skin feel too tight and his bones ache with anticipation.
"It's supposed to be instinct, right? Natural. So why does this feel wrong?"
The pull wasn't just toward the moon. It was deeper, more complex, like someone had attached strings to his soul and was tugging them in three different directions at once. Sometimes he could swear he felt echoes of other heartbeats, other emotions that definitely weren't his own.
His phone buzzed with a text from Stiles: still having the dreams?
Scott typed back: every night
same here. getting clearer though
yeah. too clear
He didn't mention that the dreams felt more like memories than imagination, or that he woke up each morning with his palm burning and the strange scar more visible than the day before. Didn't mention that yesterday he'd caught himself looking for Allison in every hallway, some deep instinct insisting she was important in ways he couldn't explain.
Another text from Stiles: my dad's working late again. want to come over? I've been researching
Scott almost said yes—the thought of sitting alone with his racing pulse and mounting anxiety wasn't appealing. But Coach had called an emergency practice for tonight, something about "whipping the team into shape before the season really started," and Scott couldn't afford to skip.
lacrosse practice. rain check?
sure. try not to wolf out on the field
"Hilarious," Scott thought, but Stiles' joke hit closer to home than either of them wanted to acknowledge. Every practice since the bite had been an exercise in control, his enhanced strength and speed requiring constant monitoring to avoid raising suspicions. Coach Finstock was already making comments about Scott's "sudden improvement," and Jackson was watching him with the kind of suspicious intensity that meant trouble.
Scott's mom called from downstairs, her voice carrying the forced cheerfulness she used when she was worried but trying not to show it.
"Scott! Dinner!"
"Coming!"
But as he started to leave his room, his reflection in the mirror caught his eye. For just a moment—so brief he might have imagined it—his eyes flashed that impossible tri-color sequence: gold, purple, silver. The same pattern from his dreams, the same colors that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat.
"What the hell is happening to me?"
The dream came again that night, more vivid than ever.
He was eight years old, standing in a sun-dappled forest clearing that smelled like pine needles and summer rain. Two other children flanked him—a girl with dark hair and serious eyes, a boy whose energy seemed to vibrate through the air around him. Their names hovered just out of reach, familiar but forgotten.
"Allison. Stiles."
The knowledge came from somewhere deeper than conscious thought. These weren't strangers; they were pieces of himself that had been missing for so long he'd forgotten they'd ever existed.
The girl—Allison—held a small knife that glinted silver in the filtered sunlight. Her voice was younger but carried the same cadence he'd heard in the hallways at school.
"Are you sure about this?"
"We promised," said the boy—Stiles—his voice high with childhood but determined. "Blood oath. That's what makes it real."
"But what if it doesn't work?"
"It'll work." Scott heard his own voice, younger and more confident than he'd ever been in waking life. "The tree will make sure it works."
The tree. Scott's dream-consciousness turned toward the massive, ancient stump in the center of the clearing. It wasn't dead—power thrummed beneath its weathered surface, old magic that had been waiting for exactly this moment. For exactly these three children.
"Together?" Allison asked, holding out her small hand.
They pressed their palms against the knife's edge simultaneously. Blood welled bright and warm, more significant than such small wounds should produce. When they joined hands—blood to blood, child to child—the world exploded with light.
The tree stump pulsed like a heartbeat. Power rushed up from deep places, ancient and patient and utterly alien to the human world. It recognized their offer, accepted their innocent sacrifice, and bound them together with threads stronger than DNA.
"Friends forever," they said in unison, words that carried weight beyond their years.
"No matter what."
"Always together."
The light beneath their feet grew blinding, and Scott felt something crack open in his chest—not painful but profound, like a door opening onto possibilities he'd never imagined.
And then he was sixteen again, bolting upright in his bed with sweat cooling on his skin and the scar on his palm burning like he'd pressed it against a live wire.
"That wasn't a dream. That was a memory."
The certainty hit him with devastating clarity. Everything he'd just experienced had happened. Eight years ago, three children had performed some kind of ritual in the Beacon Hills Preserve, and it had changed them in ways they were only beginning to understand.
His phone showed 3:17 AM, but Scott knew he wouldn't sleep again. The restlessness was getting stronger, the approaching full moon calling to something that felt bigger than just his newfound wolf nature.
He pressed his scarred palm against his chest, where the ache of separation lived like a constant bruise. Somewhere in town, two other people were probably lying awake with burning scars and the knowledge that their lives had just shifted into territory that couldn't be explained by normal rules.
"What did we do that day? And why can't I remember anything that happened after?"
Scott's control lasted exactly forty-three minutes into lacrosse practice.
He'd been doing well, keeping his enhanced abilities carefully contained while Coach Finstock yelled increasingly creative insults at the team. The setting sun cast long shadows across the field, and Scott found the rhythm of stick-work and running almost meditative.
Until Jackson decided to make a point.
The hit came from Scott's blind side, a vicious check that sent him sprawling across the grass with his shoulder screaming and his vision briefly darkening. Legal within the rules but clearly intended to hurt rather than just stop him.
"Stay calm. Don't react. Don't let anyone see."
But as Scott pushed himself back to his feet, something inside him snapped.
The wolf surge was immediate and overwhelming—rage and power flooding his system like molten metal in his veins. His bones began to shift, tendons stretching and muscles expanding beyond human parameters. When he looked up at Jackson, his vision had gone predatory-sharp, and the scents of fear and aggression saturated the air around them.
"Problem, McCall?" Jackson asked with the kind of smirk that made Scott's claws itch for release.
"Don't do it. Don't give him what he wants."
But Scott's control was fragmenting. His eyes cycled through their impossible color sequence—gold, purple, silver—and he felt his human nature slipping away like sand through his fingers.
"Scott." Coach Finstock's voice came from far away. "You okay, son?"
Scott tried to answer, but when he opened his mouth, a sound came out that definitely wasn't human. Low, rumbling, and absolutely threatening.
The other players backed away.
"Whoa," someone whispered. "Did you hear that?"
"I'm losing it. Right here, in front of everyone."
His claws began to extend, bone-white and deadly. The wolf wanted Jackson to understand exactly what kind of mistake he'd made, wanted to establish dominance through violence that would leave no questions about the new pack order.
Then Derek Hale materialized at the edge of the field like smoke given form.
"That's enough." Derek's voice cut through Scott's rage with Alpha authority that made every instinct in Scott's body snap to attention. "Walk away. Now."
"I wasn't—"
"Now, Scott."
But Scott was too far gone. The transformation was happening whether he wanted it or not, and Derek's commands only made the wolf more defiant. When Derek stepped onto the field, Scott spun toward him with a snarl that made several players actually run.
Derek moved with supernatural speed, but Scott was faster.
The collision sent both of them tumbling across the grass in a tangle of claws and fury. Scott's enhanced strength surprised them both—Derek went flying fifteen feet through the air before crashing into the bleachers with a sound like breaking bones.
"HOLY SHIT!" Coach Finstock's voice cracked. "SOMEBODY CALL 911!"
But before anyone could move, before the situation could spiral completely out of control, familiar hands grabbed Scott's shoulders.
"Scott!" Stiles' voice, rough with panic and determination. "Hey, it's okay. It's me. Just breathe, okay? Just breathe."
The moment Stiles touched him, everything changed.
The electric sensation Scott remembered from their first contact amplified into something profound—a circuit completing, power flowing between them with the naturalness of breathing. Stiles' presence flooded Scott's consciousness, grounding the wolf with human emotion and rational thought.
"Stiles."
The name carried weight that went beyond friendship. Pack. Family. The missing piece that made control possible.
Scott's claws retracted. His bones shifted back to human configuration. When he looked up at his best friend, his eyes were brown and normal and utterly confused.
"What just happened?"
"You tell me." But Stiles was looking at his own hands with bewilderment. "Because I swear I could feel what you were feeling for a second there. Like we were connected or something."
Across town, Allison Argent doubled over in her bedroom, phantom pain lancing through her shoulder exactly where Jackson had hit Scott. She pressed her scarred palm against her ribs and wondered why her body suddenly ached like she'd been in a fight she couldn't remember.
Derek extracted himself from the wreckage of bleacher seating, his healing abilities already mending what should have been serious injuries. But his eyes remained fixed on Scott and Stiles with an expression of dawning comprehension.
"The bond is activating. Faster than I expected."
Coach Finstock was yelling something about lawsuits and insurance, but Derek tuned him out. He approached Scott carefully, noting how the teenager remained calm as long as Stiles kept contact with him.
"We need to talk," Derek said quietly. "All of us. Right now."
The veterinary clinic after hours felt like a sanctuary of antiseptic calm after the chaos of the lacrosse field. Derek had bundled Scott into his Camaro without explanation, texting Stiles to follow them, while Coach Finstock tried to explain to increasingly confused parents why practice had ended with their star player apparently having some kind of seizure.
Dr. Deaton emerged from the back rooms carrying supplies that looked more appropriate for major surgery than treating a teenage boy's scrapes. His expression was carefully neutral, but Scott caught the scent of worry beneath his professional calm.
"Let me see," Deaton said, indicating Scott should sit on the examination table.
"I'm fine. Really. Whatever happened, it's over now."
"I doubt that very much."
Deaton's hands were gentle but thorough as he examined Scott's arms, checking the points where claws had emerged. But his real focus was on Scott's eyes, studying them with an intensity that made Scott want to look away.
"Interesting. Your pupils respond normally to light, but there's something else. A depth that wasn't there before." Deaton stepped back, crossing his arms. "Tell me about the shared sensations."
"The what?"
"Don't lie to me, Scott. When your friend touched you, something changed. You went from complete loss of control to perfect stability in seconds. That doesn't happen with normal werewolves."
Scott glanced at Stiles, who was fidgeting near the door with nervous energy that made the fluorescent lights flicker.
"We've been having some weird experiences lately. Shared dreams, phantom pains. And when we touch, sometimes it feels like..." Scott struggled for words. "Like we're connected somehow."
"Connected how?"
"Like I can feel what he's feeling. Know what he's thinking."
Deaton's expression shifted from professional concern to something approaching alarm.
"And this started when?"
"The night I got bitten."
"No," Stiles interrupted. "It started before that. The dreams started before Scott got bitten. We've been having the same dreams for weeks, we just didn't know it until we compared notes."
"Dreams about what?"
Scott and Stiles exchanged looks.
"Children," Scott said finally. "Three kids performing some kind of ritual in the woods. Blood oaths and ancient trees and promises we can't quite remember making."
Deaton went very still.
"Show me your hands."
They extended their palms without questioning the request. Deaton examined their scars with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered. Then, louder: "Who else has this mark?"
"What do you mean?"
"The third child from your dreams. Who is it?"
"Allison," Scott said immediately. "Allison Argent."
Deaton closed his eyes as if Scott had just delivered devastating news.
"Of course it's an Argent. Of course it is."
"Dr. Deaton, what's going on?" Stiles demanded. "Because we're kind of freaking out here, and your bedside manner could use some work."
Deaton looked at Scott with something approaching pity.
"Your bite didn't make you a werewolf, Mr. McCall. It simply woke up what you already were."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you were never just human to begin with. None of you were." Deaton moved to a locked cabinet, withdrawing a leather journal bound with what looked like very old cord. "It means that eight years ago, three children performed a ritual that should have been impossible for them to understand, let alone execute successfully."
He opened the journal to a page marked with symbols Scott couldn't read but somehow recognized. The drawing showed three figures standing in a triangle around a tree stump, their hands joined and their eyes glowing with different colors.
"It means," Deaton continued, his voice heavy with implications Scott wasn't ready to understand, "that the Triad is awakening. And God help us all."
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