Two years.Sometimes it felt like a lifetime. Other times, like a breath.
Beacon Hills seemed so far away now that Stiles sometimes wondered if he had imagined it. The quiet houses, the cracked sidewalks, the old smell of the sheriff station, the creak of the stairs in his home — they felt like scenes from someone else's life. But one thing kept him tethered to that place, one voice that brought him back every time:
His dad's.
Stiles sat on the edge of his bunk in one of the small mountain lodges they rotated through when the weather got rough. It wasn't glamorous — wooden walls, a tiny drawer, a fold-out desk — but it was warm, and the heater hummed quietly in the background. His backpack hung from a hook. His bow leaned against the desk. A notebook of detailed observation logs lay open.
He checked the clock.Almost time.
He held the phone in his hand — old, durable, and slightly scuffed from the training sessions that involved too much rolling on the ground. Ronan had told him to get a tougher case. He hadn't listened.
It buzzed at exactly the right moment.
Stiles grinned.His dad was on time to the second.
He thumbed the answer button.
"Hey, Dad."
"Hey, kiddo," Sheriff Stilinski's warm voice said through the speaker. The sound of it eased something in Stiles's chest that he hadn't even realized was tight. "How's my favorite troublemaker doing?"
Stiles chuckled. "Favorite? I'm your only troublemaker."
"Still my favorite," Noah said. "Now tell me — what'd you do today? And please tell me it wasn't falling off another rock. You do that too often."
Stiles rolled his eyes even though his dad couldn't see it. "Okay, once. And it was more like sliding. Gracefully. With style."
"That's not what Ronan said last week."
Stiles winced. "He told you?"
"He gave me the 'no injuries, just teenage physics' speech. It was very reassuring. Mostly."
"It wasn't a big deal," Stiles insisted. "My foot slipped. The moss was wet. The angle of the incline—"
"—was the reason you're supposed to hold the rope," Noah finished in that soft, dad-voice way that made guilt creep up Stiles's spine.
Stiles muttered something incoherent.
"Uh-huh," Noah said, amused. "Anyway, what's the report today? What's Ronan got you doing?"
Stiles perked up. "Okay, so! This morning was cardio. And I don't mean normal cardio. I mean mountain cardio. Like 'let's run up a hill until your lungs tap out.' Then we switched to strength work — climbing drills, balance training, carrying weighted packs. Ronan says I'm getting faster."
"Good," Noah said, sounding genuinely proud. "And the other stuff? The, uh… mental exercises?"
Stiles's smile widened. "Yeah. Those are going amazing. I'm getting way better at them. Ronan keeps trying to trick me with these observation challenges — like changing little things in the room or switching the direction his pen clip faces — but I see them. All of them."
His dad laughed softly. "You always did notice things no one else did."
"It's different now," Stiles said quietly. "I don't know how to explain it. It's like… my mind is sharper. Like everything stands out clearer than before."
He didn't know it was Patrick-Jane-level perception. Not yet.
"And the martial arts?" Noah asked cautiously.
"Control-based stuff," Stiles said quickly, keeping it vague. "Balance, footwork, defensive moves. Nothing crazy."
"That's good. Just stay safe, okay? This program is supposed to be about discipline, not getting yourself broken."
"I know, Dad."And he did. Ronan was strict about safety. Very strict. Stiles respected that.
"How's the weather there?" Noah asked.
"Cold," Stiles said. "Really cold. Like, 'my nose is numb even though I'm inside' cold."
"Wear your scarf."
"Yes, Dad."
"And your gloves."
"Wearing them."
"And—"
"Dad," Stiles interrupted, smiling. "I'm okay. Really."
Noah exhaled — the kind of breath a parent releases only when they know their kid is truly alright.
"Okay," he said softly. "Good."A pause. "I miss you, kiddo."
Stiles swallowed. "I miss you too."
"You've grown," Noah said. "I can hear it in your voice. Not just the height thing — but… the way you think. The way you talk about your day."
"I've been working hard," Stiles said. "Ronan says I have potential."
"You've always had potential." Noah's voice warmed. "But I'm glad you have someone who sees it too."
Stiles smiled at the floor.
"Alright," Noah said after a moment. "I should let you sleep. It's late over there."
"Not tired yet."
"You will be after tomorrow's training. Get some rest."
"Alright. Goodnight, Dad."
"Goodnight, Stiles. Call me tomorrow."
"I will."
They hung up, and Stiles let the phone fall onto the blanket beside him.
For a moment, he stared at the ceiling — at the wooden beams crisscrossing above him, at the dim lamplight pooling around the room — and let himself feel everything he didn't say out loud.
He missed Beacon Hills.He missed his dad.He missed normal childhood things — even math homework.
But he also knew he was building himself into something important.
A protector.A future ally for Scott.Someone useful when the supernatural storms hit.
He was doing this for a reason.
A soft knock sounded against the door.
Stiles sat up straighter. "Yeah?"
Ronan stepped inside.
He looked tired — not physically, but mentally, like he'd been studying something heavy. His dark jacket was unzipped, snow dusting the shoulders. He carried a folded newspaper under one arm.
"You finished your call?" Ronan asked.
Stiles nodded. "Yeah. Dad's good."
"Good."Ronan walked in and closed the door behind him, leaning against the edge of the desk.
For a moment, he didn't say anything.
He just studied Stiles.
Not judging.Not measuring.More like… evaluating readiness.
Finally, he reached into his jacket and placed the newspaper on Stiles's bed.
"We need to talk," he said.
Stiles frowned. "About what?"
Ronan tapped the bold headline:
ANIMAL ATTACK IN NORTH RIDGE — ONE DEAD
The picture beneath the headline was of a forest trail cordoned off by yellow tape. No graphic photos. Just a location.
But Stiles felt something twist in his gut immediately.
Something was wrong.
"Read the article," Ronan said quietly.
Stiles picked up the paper. His eyes scanned fast — too fast for most people — but he absorbed every detail, every contradiction, every slip.
The article said:
victim found near cabin
"large predator" suspected
claw marks on trees
no tracks discovered
attack happened during daylight
no blood trail
Stiles froze.
"No," he murmured.
Ronan raised an eyebrow. "Tell me what you see."
"This wasn't an animal," Stiles said instantly. "No footprints? No blood trail? And claw marks that lead nowhere? That's staged. An animal would leave more behind."
Ronan nodded once, approving. "Good. What else?"
"The attack was during the day," Stiles said, flipping the paper around. "And predators avoid loud hiking trails unless they're starving. But the article says there were fresh boot prints on the trail earlier in the day — so the area wasn't empty."
Ronan's lips curved slightly. "Very good."
Stiles felt a small rush of confidence.
He wasn't guessing.He wasn't theorizing.
He knew.
Two years of training had sharpened him into something unrecognizable from the boy who left Beacon Hills.
Stiles looked up. "What is it then? A werewolf?"
Ronan shook his head. "Not this time. Something else. But definitely not a normal predator."
Stiles's heart sped up. "So… what do we do?"
Ronan straightened, expression serious — but not frightening. Focused.
"For two years," he said, "I haven't brought you on any hunts. You weren't ready. And I don't take children into danger unless I'm absolutely certain they have the discipline to stay alive."
Stiles's hands curled into fists.
"You've learned a lot," Ronan continued. "How to observe. How to read microexpressions. How to track by broken grass and soil displacement instead of footprints. How to build stamina for long pursuits. How to shoot with accuracy. How to fight without losing control."
Stiles swallowed hard.
"You've earned something," Ronan said.
"What?" Stiles whispered.
Ronan met his eyes.
"Your first field assignment."
Stiles's breath caught.
"It won't be combat," Ronan clarified. "I'm not throwing you at anything dangerous. You'll observe. You'll take notes. You'll see what a real hunt looks like. And you'll listen to everything I say. But you are ready to take your first step."
Stiles stared at the newspaper again.
A real hunt.
His heart pounded with a mix of excitement and fear.
"When?" he managed.
"Next week," Ronan said. "We leave at dawn."
Stiles nodded slowly, absorbing it, feeling it settle into his bones.
Ronan walked toward the door, then paused.
"Stiles."
"Yeah?"
"You've changed a lot in two years. You see things most adults never notice. That instinct you showed just now?" Ronan tapped the newspaper. "That's what keeps you alive out there."
A quiet pride warmed his voice.
"Get some rest. We have a long week ahead."
Ronan left, closing the door behind him.
Stiles sat alone on his bed, the newspaper resting in his lap. He reached for his notebook — the one filled with two years of training exercises — and opened it to a clean page.
At the top, he wrote:
Field Assignment #1 — Observation Phase
Then, underneath:
It's time.
The road ahead was finally opening.
And Stiles Stilinski was ready.