Born from Darkness (Sterek)

Chapter 1 - The Spark Beneath the Surface

He's so in love it's made him blind. To me. To everything.

And yeah, maybe I sound bitter. Maybe I am bitter.

Because I've stood by him through everything—bitten exes, berserk betas, a literal kanima—and now that I'm not just the comic relief? I'm the problem. I'm the threat.

And the pack? They've followed his lead. Lydia avoids eye contact. Malia pretends she doesn't hear my jokes. Even Kira keeps her distance.

And no one's saying it, but I know what they're thinking:

I don't belong anymore.

I'm not one of them.

Not really.

Not now.

But screw that. Because I bent the ash. I lit up the world. I changed the game.

And I'm not going to keep apologizing for it just because Scott Crocked-Jaw McCall has a problem with not being the only special one in the room.

Fast forward to now: I'm sitting cross-legged in Deaton's clinic like a budget monk, picking at a loose thread on my hoodie while he packs a bag like he's off to Narnia, not wherever magical vet druids go for vacation.

This place smells like antiseptic and lavender and old books, and it's weirdly comforting. Familiar. Like muscle memory.

Deaton's been training me for weeks now—guiding me through basic channeling exercises, grounding rituals, mental focus drills that feel suspiciously like Jedi mind tricks. He taught me how to listen to the energy in the room, how to push and pull it with intention instead of panic. And sure, I still suck at meditation (who doesn't?), but I've managed not to blow up anything in, like, ten days. Progress.

It's been... weirdly good. Calm. Structured. A kind of peace I didn't realize I needed. And maybe, just maybe, I was starting to believe I wasn't just the comic relief in someone else's story.

"You sure you have to go?" I ask, trying not to sound like a clingy ex, but probably failing. "Because, no offence, but Peter Hale as my magical Yoda sounds like a bad idea. Like, horror movie sequel bad."

Deaton glances at me, unbothered. Of course. The man could walk through an active volcano and still be calm. "Peter has resources I don't," he says simply. "Books. Knowledge. Some of it stolen, most of it earned. He knows more about the Spark than I ever will."

"Great," I mutter. "So now I'm a magical science experiment in the hands of a reformed homicidal maniac with cheekbones sharp enough to stab someone."

Deaton smiles faintly. "He's trying, Stiles. And he cares more than he lets on. Besides, you're not just a Spark anymore."

I pause. "Not just a Spark?"

He just gives me that knowing look and pats me on the shoulder like I'm a ticking magical time bomb he's passing off to the next poor soul. "There's more in you than you realize. That moment with the mountain ash? That was only the beginning. Peter can help you control your Spark. But I think one day you'll realise it's not the only thing inside you."

So now it's just me and Peter Hale.

Awesome.

Derek's loft smells like old books, cedarwood, and morally questionable intentions.

"Don't touch anything," Peter says the moment I walk in.

I touch the wall. "Like this?"

He glares at me. "You're not funny."

"Tell that to everyone else."

Peter doesn't laugh. Instead, he walks past me with the smooth arrogance of someone who thinks they're the smartest person in the room—and is usually right. He leads me toward a large table covered in books, herbs, old runes, and what I'm 90% sure is dried blood.

"The Spark," he begins, flipping open a leather-bound book, "isn't just power. It's potential. And potential unchecked is dangerous."

"Gee, thanks. You sound like every teacher who's ever threatened to call my dad."

He looks at me, unamused. "This isn't a joke, Stiles. What's inside you? It's... potent. Most Sparks barely light candles. You nearly cracked reality."

I blink. "Okay, but like—just a little reality, right? Not a whole dimension or anything?"

He ignores that. Typical.

He hands me a small piece of obsidian. "Focus on this. Channel the energy without letting it consume you."

I raise a brow. "You make it sound so relaxing."

"It won't be."

Just as I'm about to try it, the loft door opens. Derek steps inside, his boots echoing heavily on the concrete. He freezes when he sees me, eyes narrowing, and then flicking to Peter.

"Why is he in my house?"

Peter doesn't look up. "Technically, you gave up the deed."

Derek's gaze snaps to me. "You're training him?"

I shrug. "Surprise?"

"With you?" he asks Peter, incredulous.

Peter finally meets his gaze. "I'm the only one who understands the depth of what's in him. He needs guidance."

Derek grits his teeth but doesn't argue. He just stalks up the stairs, muttering something about needing reinforced walls.

"He'll come around," Peter says, flipping another page. "Now, again. This time, with intent."

I stare down at the obsidian and take a breath.

Let's see what happens when chaos learns control.