Morning came cold and pale, the kind of mountain dawn Stiles had gotten used to over the last two years—thin air, quiet trees, and a sky that always looked washed-out before sunrise. He sat on the edge of his bed, tying his boots with quick, automatic movements. His hands weren't shaky anymore. Two years ago he would've fumbled every knot. Now his fingers worked with calm precision.
Ronan had drilled that into him.
He stood up, grabbed his notebook from the nightstand, and stepped out into the small hallway. Ronan's voice reached him even before he entered the main room.
"Check your pack again," Ronan said. "Memory is unreliable. Habit isn't."
Stiles smirked. "That's your nice way of saying you don't trust me."
Ronan, who was crouched beside the table organizing coils of rope, lifted one eyebrow. "I trust you plenty. I just trust routine more."
"It's basically an insult."
"Then let it motivate you."
Stiles rolled his eyes but swung his pack onto the table next to Ronan's equipment. He unzipped it and began reviewing each item:
folded maps
two flashlights
extra batteries
compact binoculars
two water bottles
protein bars
sketching pencils
his notebook
a small first-aid kit
an emergency whistle
gloves
a tightly wrapped coil of thin steel wire for simple traps
Ronan leaned closer, checking without interfering. That was something Stiles had learned immediately: Ronan never hovered, never corrected with impatience. He guided. Measured. Expected Stiles to think for himself.
"You're missing one thing," Ronan said.
Stiles frowned and dug deeper. "No, I—oh." He pulled out the small folding knife, then realized it wasn't clipped to the inside strap where it should've been. "Right."
"Blade placement?" Ronan asked.
"Left-hand reachable," Stiles recited. "Grip-up orientation to avoid cutting myself in panic."
"And?"
"And I know," Stiles sighed. "I'll put it in the strap before we leave."
Ronan nodded once. "Good."
Stiles zipped the pack, slung it over his shoulder, and followed Ronan to the weapon cabinet. Ronan opened it with the key he always kept around his neck.
Inside were rows of carefully maintained equipment: bows, arrows, tranquilizer darts, a few short swords Stiles wasn't allowed to use yet, and various small tools for traps.
Ronan reached for a bow—one of the smaller ones, lighter than the hunting bow he used for himself. He placed it in Stiles' hands.
"Only for emergencies," Ronan said. "You're not shooting anything today."
"I know," Stiles answered. "I'm observing."
"And learning. And not wandering off."
Stiles squinted at him. "That only happened twice."
"Once is an accident," Ronan said. "Twice is a bad habit."
"Okay, okay." Stiles held up his hands. "I'll stick to your side like a polite, obedient child."
Ronan snorted. "You have never been polite and obedient at the same time."
Stiles grinned. "But I can pretend."
Ronan shut the cabinet, locked it, and slung his own pack over his shoulder. His pack was heavier, and Stiles could guess what was inside—most of the real weapons, the ones Ronan didn't let him touch yet. Not because Stiles was careless. But because Ronan wanted him to understand discipline before power.
They stepped outside into the crisp mountain air. The sun was still low, golden light cutting through the trees and painting the forest floor in uneven stripes. Their cabin was small, half-hidden among tall pines. From a distance, it looked abandoned. That was the point.
Hunting meant being unseen.
Ronan led the way to the dirt path that wound downhill toward the region where the newspaper incident had been reported. Stiles walked beside him, adjusting the strap of his pack.
"I've been thinking," Stiles said.
"That always leads to trouble," Ronan replied.
"No, really. The article said 'animal attack,' but the sheriff on site mentioned the body was found close to a cabin that hadn't been lived in for years."
Ronan nodded slowly. "Good. Keep going."
"And the injuries were—" He stopped himself, careful not to say anything too descriptive. "Not normal. It felt staged. Like someone wanted the public to think it was a random wild animal."
"What does that suggest?" Ronan asked.
"That the creature didn't want to be hunted," Stiles said. "Or someone didn't want anyone asking questions."
Ronan gave a small approving sound. "There are many kinds of creatures, Stiles. Some are messy. Some hide. Some mimic. Some… like staying close to human settlements for convenience."
Stiles tightened his jaw. "And which one are we tracking?"
"I'm not telling you yet."
Stiles blinked. "Why?"
Ronan looked at him sideways. "Because I want to see if you can figure it out before I do."
Stiles laughed. "So now my training includes guessing games?"
"It includes learning to trust your mind," Ronan said calmly. "You observe. You remember. You see things others overlook. Use that."
Stiles swallowed. He didn't always understand why he noticed things faster than most people, but Ronan had never treated it like something strange. He treated it like a skill—a blade that needed sharpening.
They reached the base of the mountain trail where the taped-off area surrounded the old cabin. The police had cleared out early that morning, leaving behind nothing but a few stray markers. Ronan ducked under the tape. Stiles followed, opening his notebook immediately.
Ronan knelt beside a patch of disturbed soil. "What do you see?"
Stiles crouched next to him. "It's deep… whatever stepped here was heavy. But the weight distribution is weird."
"How so?"
"Most animals put more pressure on the front or back depending on movement," Stiles said. "But this is… centered. Balanced. Almost like—"
He stopped.
"Like what?" Ronan asked.
"Like something walking on two legs," Stiles admitted.
Ronan didn't comment. He just gestured for him to continue.
Stiles circled the small area, scanning the ground, the broken branches, the half-lifted soil. He scribbled notes as he walked.
bipedal movement
heavy weight
stride inconsistent
path leading uphill
no clear drag marks
He turned to Ronan. "It went up the mountain. Why? Food? Shelter?"
"Or territory," Ronan said. "Creatures act on instinct and opportunity."
They moved deeper into the woods, following the faint signs—broken twigs, compressed patches of moss, the occasional faint indent in mud. Hours passed as they climbed steadily.
Stiles never complained.
He'd learned early that Ronan respected silence during tracking. Words were unnecessary unless they added something useful.
Eventually, the trees thinned. The air grew colder. Stiles could feel the tension settling under his skin the way it always did when something dangerous was near.
Ronan stopped.
"We're close," he said quietly.
Stiles swallowed. "How do you know?"
Ronan tilted his head. "Listen."
Stiles closed his eyes.
The forest was quiet—too quiet. No birds. No insects. Even the wind felt held back.
Predator's territory.
Stiles opened his eyes again, his pulse picking up. "What do we do?"
"We observe," Ronan said. "If a confrontation happens, you stay behind me. No heroics."
Stiles nodded quickly.
They crouched behind a fallen log overlooking a clearing. The trees formed a wide circle, and something had been there recently—Stiles saw disturbed earth, a cracked tree trunk, claw marks that were long but shallow.
He leaned closer. "Those claw marks don't match the tracks."
"Correct," Ronan said. "So what does that tell you?"
"That the creature has two forms," Stiles whispered. "It walks on two legs but uses claws like an animal. So… shapeshifter? Hybrid?"
Ronan didn't confirm or deny. That was his way of helping Stiles think.
A sudden rustle to their right made Stiles stiffen. Ronan's hand touched his arm—a silent warning to stay still.
The creature stepped into the clearing.
It wasn't massive. Not monstrous. More like a tall, thin humanoid shape covered in patchy, dark fur. Its arms were long, its movements quick and twitchy. It sniffed the air, head tilting, ears flicking in sharp motions.
Stiles' heart pounded, but not out of fear. Out of fascination. Out of the sudden intense awareness of everything—the creature's posture, its breathing pattern, the uneven weight placement on its feet.
"Don't move," Ronan whispered.
The creature's head turned sharply toward their hiding place. Stiles held his breath. Ronan steadied his stance, one hand slowly reaching for a tranquilizer dart but not drawing it yet.
The creature paused… sniffed… then jerked its head away and darted toward the opposite side of the clearing, vanishing between the trees.
Only when they could no longer hear it did Stiles exhale.
"What was that?" he whispered.
"Something you're not ready to face directly," Ronan answered. "Not yet."
Stiles nodded, staring at the empty clearing.
"So you're not going to hunt it now?" Stiles asked.
"I am," Ronan said quietly. "But you're going back to the cabin."
Stiles froze. "What? Why?"
"Because killing something like that isn't something you watch lightly," Ronan said. "You're not ready for that part of the world."
Stiles clenched his jaw. "But I—"
Ronan stood and faced him. "You did well today. Better than I expected. But knowing how to track and observe is different from knowing how to witness what comes after."
Stiles looked at the ground, frustrated but understanding. He didn't want to admit it, but Ronan was right. Seeing something dangerous was one thing. Seeing a hunt end was another.
Ronan rested a hand on his shoulder. "Your time will come. Not today."
Stiles nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Good." Ronan handed him the map. "Follow the marked path. I'll meet you by morning."
Stiles turned away reluctantly, gripping the map tightly.
As he walked back through the trees, he didn't feel scared or disappointed.
He felt determined.
Today, he'd seen what the real world looked like.
Tomorrow, he'd be even more prepared for it.