The cabin was quiet in that particular way only the Colorado mountains could produce — a hush that wasn't silence, but something deeper. The wind pressed softly against the wooden walls, not strong enough to rattle anything, just enough to remind Stiles that the entire world outside was waiting. And tomorrow, he would be walking into it alone.
He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced in front of his mouth. His backpack was already half-packed in the corner — rope, two notebooks, a small first-aid kit Ronan had taught him to assemble by memory, and a few of the tools he had sharpened earlier. He kept glancing at it, like it would suddenly tell him what to do. Like it held the answer to the one question he couldn't shake:
Am I actually ready for this?
He exhaled slowly, shoulders collapsing forward.
Five years.
Five years of waking up before sunrise.Five years of sprinting through forests with pack straps digging into his shoulders.Five years of listening to Ronan's voice cutting through the cold air — "Focus your eyes, not your fear. Read what's in front of you, not what you imagine."
Five years of learning how to move, how to breathe, how to think.
And tomorrow, all of that was supposed to come together.
It wasn't like Stiles hadn't been preparing. Ronan had trained him harder than anyone else ever would. He'd learned how to track things by the way grass bent under a footstep, or how tree bark peeled when something brushed against it. He could tell the weight of an animal just by its footprint depth. He could hold his own in hand-to-hand sparring — not perfect yet, but good enough that Ronan sometimes whistled low in approval.
And there were the books. Stiles had filled five notebooks in the last year alone — diagrams, creature classifications (supernatural ones he pretended he didn't know and the natural ones Ronan actually spoke about), theories, calculations, strategies. Writing everything down made things make sense. It made him make sense.
But this — going out alone — was different.
This was real.This had stakes.This wasn't training anymore.
He leaned backward until he fell onto the bed, staring at the plain wooden ceiling. His mind wouldn't stop spinning. Tomorrow he'd be out there, tracking something he knew nothing about. No hints, no warnings, no starting clues. Ronan wanted him to identify what they were hunting, assess the threat level, find a pattern, follow it, and survive it if things went wrong.
Stiles swallowed. His chest felt tight.
He wasn't afraid of the woods — he'd lived in them more days than not. He wasn't afraid of tracking — he'd been doing that since twelve. What scared him was the possibility of disappointing Ronan. Or worse… disappointing his dad.
His dad believed he was at a school.A prestigious program.A place Stiles "got into" through luck and talent.
He thought Stiles was safe.
If he failed tomorrow — if he wasn't as prepared as he thought — all those lies suddenly felt heavier.
He sat up again and rubbed his face with both hands, his fingers digging into his cheeks.
What if I mess up?What if I freeze?What if—
He shook his head sharply.
No.
He'd been training too long, working too hard to fall apart now. He wasn't that panicky little eleven-year-old anymore. He wasn't the kid who used to jump at shadows or get overwhelmed when too many things happened at once. Ronan had pushed him, shaped him, and challenged him, and Stiles had kept standing every single time.
Still… he was fourteen. Fourteen and about to go on a hunt alone.
He wished he could talk to his dad, but the last thing he needed was Noah Stilinski hearing nerves in his voice. His dad worried enough as it was. Stiles always forced himself to sound upbeat, controlled, steady. Like he was thriving at this imaginary "school."
He hated lying. But the truth would break the world they were both clinging to.
He laid back down, staring up again.
"Just breathe," he whispered to himself. "Just… breathe."
The room felt too small, too quiet, too heavy. The shadows stretched long across the floor from the lantern in the hallway. Stiles pulled the blanket over his legs, not because he was cold, but because it grounded him.
He closed his eyes.
He could hear Ronan's voice again — that calm tone Ronan used when Stiles was overthinking.
"Read the moment you're in, Stiles. Not the moment you fear."
That helped. A little.
He inhaled again, deeper this time. Let it out. Tried to settle.
But tomorrow sat on him like a weight.
———
RONAN
Ronan stood outside on the cabin's porch, leaning on the wooden railing, staring at the dark ridge line of the mountains. The stars were bright tonight — spread across the sky like someone had shaken a box of glitter over black velvet. The cold air brushed against his beard and crept beneath the collar of his jacket, but he didn't mind. Cold kept him awake. Cold helped him think.
Inside, Stiles' lamp was still on. The faint glow spilled through the curtains.
Ronan exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him in a pale cloud.
Five years.
He hadn't meant to train the kid for that long. His original plan was a year — maybe two — teach him discipline, sharpen his instincts, give him skills he could use to protect himself if he ever stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time. Stiles had that look from the start — eyes that absorbed everything, a brain that refused to stay still. Kids like that got into trouble, but they also had potential few others could recognize.
Ronan had recognized it instantly.
And then the training began.
The boy who arrived five years ago had been all nerves and fast talking, hands waving, sentences tripping over themselves. But beneath that jittery energy, there had been something else — resolve. A kind of fire Ronan rarely saw in someone so young.
He'd expected the kid to burn out in a month.
Instead Stiles pushed harder.
He tripped sometimes, bruised himself constantly, got winded fast in the beginning, but he always stood back up. He always tried again. And when he couldn't do something, he stayed up studying, practicing, or analyzing it until he could.
Ronan crossed his arms.
Now the boy was fourteen. Taller. Stronger. His reflexes sharper. His eyes more focused. He could survive a night alone in the woods with ease. He could track deer prints over dead leaves. He could deduce a creature's habits from just a few scattered signs even better than Ronan had expected for his age.
Maybe better than Ronan had been at that age.
But that wasn't what impressed him most. It was Stiles' mind.
The kid could analyze situations faster than most fully trained adults. He had a talent for connecting dots that others would never even see. And he wrote everything — every observation, every theory, every failure, every step forward — with a dedication Ronan still didn't fully understand.
Some days Ronan saw flashes of the hunter Stiles would eventually become.
Other days he saw the scared boy who had showed up five years ago.
Tonight, he saw both.
He didn't tell Stiles much about tomorrow because he didn't want the boy spiraling. But he knew Stiles was sitting in there, going through every possible fear, doubt, and worst-case scenario. He always did that before big milestones.
Ronan watched the window — the glow behind the curtain flickering slightly.
"Easy, kid," he murmured under his breath. "Don't build storms that aren't there."
He wasn't sending Stiles into a fight tomorrow — not a real one. He would never throw the boy into danger he wasn't ready for. This test wasn't about killing or proving strength. It was about seeing if Stiles could assess the world on his own. If he could observe without being guided. If he could look at a situation and trust himself.
Stiles had grown so much, but he still didn't see what Ronan saw.
Potential.Instinct.Heart.
The kind of heart that made a good hunter — not because he was ruthless, but because he cared enough to want to understand the things he faced.
Ronan rubbed a hand over his jaw.
He wasn't Stiles' father — Noah Stilinski held that place. But over the years, Ronan had become… something else. A guide. A mentor. The person who shaped the kid's path. And tomorrow, that path would widen.
He looked at the mountains again.
This was the right time.
He trusted Stiles. Maybe more than Stiles trusted himself.
Ronan pushed away from the railing and took one last look at the glowing window. The kid needed sleep. Tomorrow would take all his focus, all his senses, all his discipline. Ronan wasn't planning to sleep much either — he'd keep watch from a distance, unseen, making sure nothing truly dangerous came close.
But Stiles didn't need to know that part.
Ronan stepped back inside the cabin, boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. The hallway was dim, quiet. He paused outside Stiles' door for a second — not long enough to intrude, just long enough to listen.
The kid was still awake.
"Try to rest," Ronan whispered, keeping his voice low enough not to carry. "You're ready, Stiles. More than you think."
Then he walked toward his own room, the floor creaking gently beneath him, leaving the kid the space he needed to settle.
———
STILES
Stiles eventually turned off the lamp, the room falling into darkness except for the soft moonlight sneaking through the curtains. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself and closed his eyes, trying to breathe the way Ronan had taught him — slow, steady, controlled.
Tomorrow scared him.But tomorrow also meant something else.
Tomorrow meant he had grown.
He wasn't sure what would happen, what he'd find, or if he'd pass whatever invisible standard Ronan had set. But he knew one thing for certain:
He wasn't the same kid who had started this journey.
And tomorrow, he'd prove it — to Ronan, to himself, and maybe even to the world waiting far below these mountains.
Stiles eventually drifted to sleep, nerves still fluttering under his ribs, but determination warming his chest.
Tomorrow was a big step.
But he would take it.
Wherever it led.