The morning sun filtered through the bedroom curtains, painting stripes across the floor. The air felt lighter than it had during the night, the oppressive charge of the full moon diminished. But the hum was still there, a background current that Nikolai was becoming increasingly attuned to. It felt less like a chaotic storm now, and more like a disturbed pool of water – agitated, unsettled, with ripples still spreading outwards from a central point.
He focused, trying to sense the specific signature of Scott. It was faint, across town, but he could feel it – a deep exhaustion, a bone-weariness, overlaid with lingering fear and a quiet, profound bewilderment. The raw power was still there, thrumming beneath Scott's human energy, but it felt… contained, for the moment. Like a wild animal trapped in a cage it didn't understand.
'He survived,' Nikolai thought, a small knot of tension easing in his chest. He hadn't intervened, hadn't risked himself, but Scott was okay. Physically, at least. Mentally was another matter entirely.
He got out of bed, the carpet soft beneath his feet. He walked to the window, looking out at the familiar, yet now deeply unfamiliar, suburban street. Beacon Hills in the daylight seemed almost normal. The houses were neat, the lawns manicured, the distant sounds were just birdsong and the hum of traffic. But he knew better now. Beneath the veneer of ordinary life, this town was a cauldron of ancient power and lurking danger. The woods, visible in the distance, no longer looked merely like a scenic backdrop; they looked like a threshold.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of coffee and something sweet – maybe cinnamon rolls. The scent was incredibly vivid, almost overwhelming, another side effect of his heightened senses. Eleanor was already there, making breakfast. The kitchen itself felt warm, safe, grounded. It had its own energy signature, he realised – stable, protective, imbued with his mother's quiet power.
He sat at the table, watching her move with practiced ease. There was a quiet strength about her, a resilience that he was starting to lean on. His old life felt distant, almost like a dream now. This house, this kitchen, this woman… they were becoming his reality.
"How did you sleep?" she asked, placing a plate of warm cinnamon rolls in front of him.
"Better," he admitted. "The... storm settled. But I can still feel it. The aftermath."
Eleanor nodded, pouring coffee. "The lunar energy is receding, but the change it brought remains. He survived the night. That's a crucial first step. Many don't, without guidance."
"Guidance," Nikolai repeated, taking a bite of the roll. It tasted incredible, the sweetness and warmth almost a comfort against the lingering unease. "That's the next step, isn't it? Getting to him before the Alpha does."
Eleanor sat down, her gaze steady. "The Alpha will be patient now. He's marked his territory, ensured the bite took. He'll let the terror and confusion soften him up. Make him more… receptive."
'Receptive to becoming a killer,' Nikolai finished internally. He knew Peter's plan. Scott was meant to be his loyal beta, his weapon.
"I talked to him yesterday," Nikolai said, deciding to share. "After practice. I… I hinted that I could feel the energy, that I knew something was happening to him."
Eleanor's eyebrows rose slightly, a flicker of surprise and approval in her eyes. "Bold. And he responded?"
"He seemed desperate for answers," Nikolai admitted. "He asked me to help him understand."
"Good," she said, a genuine smile touching her lips. It wasn't just the strategic approval of one magic-user to another; it was the warm pride of a mother seeing her son take a difficult but necessary step. This quiet validation, this shared secret, was building something real between them. He wasn't just inhabiting this body; he was building a relationship. He found himself thinking of her less as 'his new mother' and more simply as 'Mum'. Her quiet care, her unwavering belief in him, even when he was just flailing around with telekinesis, was grounding him in this bizarre new world.
"What do I tell him?" Nikolai asked. "How do I explain this without sounding completely insane? He already thinks he might be."
Eleanor reached across the table, taking his hand gently. Her touch was warm, solid. "You don't tell him everything at once. You start with what he feels. Validate his experience. Show him that his senses aren't betraying him, they're just heightened. Use your own senses to reflect his. Tell him you feel the 'energy' too. That you can help him learn to understand Beacon Hills, to feel its patterns, to learn to filter the noise."
She squeezed his hand. "You have an advantage, Nikolai. You know the symptoms, the struggles. You can predict what he's feeling before he even names it. That will build trust. Make him see you as someone who understands his unique torment."
'He's going to need an anchor,' Nikolai thought, remembering the show. 'Allison, Stiles, the pack. But maybe I can be a different kind of anchor. An anchor to understanding the supernatural side of himself, not just the human.'
"And the magic?" Nikolai asked. "Do I show him that? Explain about warlocks?"
Eleanor considered this, her gaze distant. "Not yet. Not directly. Werewolves and witches... historically, it's been a complex relationship. We are often seen as manipulators, or worse. Let him process the werewolf first. Let him trust you. Once his world is completely turned upside down, and he's desperate for any control, then you can reveal that there are other ways of interacting with this power. Other kinds of power entirely. Show him subtle things first. Things that seem like uncanny coincidence, or enhanced intuition, or just... strange luck. Let the idea of something beyond the bite settle in gradually."
She smiled slightly. "Think of it as... seeding the ground. You plant the idea, you nurture his trust, and when the time is right, you show him the extraordinary flower that can grow from it."
He nodded, feeling a flicker of excitement. This wasn't just about survival anymore; it was about building something, carefully, strategically. And he had a powerful ally, a mother who saw his potential and was guiding him. He genuinely felt safer, less adrift, with her by his side in this strange new reality.
School felt different today. Less overwhelming sensorially, as he was learning to filter, but more charged with possibility and danger. He saw Scott and Stiles arrive, Scott looking even worse than yesterday – pale, jumpy, eyes shadowed. Stiles was, as usual, radiating frantic concern and rapid-fire theories.
He decided to wait until he could catch Scott alone again. He spent classes practicing his sensing subtly, trying to feel the life energy in the plants outside the window, the low hum of the building's foundation, the different emotional energies of the students. He felt a pang of something akin to sadness near Lydia again, sharper today. 'Premonition? Or something else entirely?' He felt Jackson's arrogant energy clashing with a new layer of frustration. 'The bite didn't take? Or something else is wrong?'
During lunch, he saw Scott get up abruptly, looking panicked, and rush out of the cafeteria. Stiles followed. Nikolai felt Scott's energy signature spike with distress.
'Bathroom. Hair. Eyes. Claws,' Nikolai instantly knew the sequence of events from the show. Scott's first involuntary transformation attempt in public.
He finished his lunch calmly, letting Scott have his moment of panic and Stiles his moment of frantic support. Direct intervention wasn't needed right now. Scott needed to experience this, to feel the terrifying lack of control, to make him more desperate for help.
He found Scott leaning against the wall near the boys' restroom hallway a little later, looking pale and shaky, Stiles hovering beside him, trying to offer comfort while clearly freaked out.
Nikolai approached slowly. "Scott?"
Scott looked up, eyes wide. Stiles immediately looked defensive, as if protecting Scott from... the new kid.
"Hey, man," Stiles said, his tone wary. "Everything alright?"
Nikolai ignored Stiles for a moment, focusing on Scott. "You felt that too, didn't you? That surge of energy. Like something trying to push its way out."
Scott flinched, looking from Nikolai to Stiles, who just looked confused. "You... you felt that?" Scott asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Nikolai nodded, his gaze steady. "The hum is stronger with you, Scott. More volatile. It's reacting to you." He looked at Stiles then, offering a small, placating smile. "Just talking about... local atmospheric weirdness. Scott seems to be particularly susceptible."
Stiles narrowed his eyes, clearly not buying it, but also clearly focused on Scott's distress.
"It was like... like something wanted to break out," Scott said to Nikolai, ignoring Stiles's puzzled expression. "Like I couldn't stop it."
"You can learn," Nikolai said, lowering his voice slightly. "It's about control. Not stopping the energy, but guiding it. Shaping it." He looked at the hallway wall behind Scott. It was covered in a faded, slightly peeling paint job. He subtly focused his energy, drawing on the hum of the building, the resonance of the materials. He pushed a tiny, almost imperceptible wave of energy towards a small section of the peeling paint.
He felt the paint respond, a subtle shift in its molecular structure. Not enough to make it adhere perfectly, but enough to make a loose flake curl inwards slightly, just a fraction of an inch, as if reacting to an unseen force.
Scott was watching him intently, and his heightened werewolf vision must have caught it. His eyes widened again, darting from the paint to Nikolai's face. Stiles was still trying to figure out what was happening, looking between the two of them with mounting suspicion.
"Did you... did you see that?" Scott asked Stiles, pointing vaguely at the wall.
Stiles peered at the wall, then back at Scott and Nikolai. "See what? The incredibly depressing beige paint? What are you guys talking about?"
Nikolai just offered a neutral smile. "Maybe you're just seeing things, Scott. Or maybe... Beacon Hills is just a weird place." He didn't confirm or deny what Scott saw. Let him wonder. Let him start questioning his own sanity and the reality of what just happened. The seed was planted.
He turned to Stiles, projecting calm. "Hope Scott feels better. See you guys around." He walked away, leaving them standing there, Scott staring at the wall with a mixture of terror and dawning belief, and Stiles looking completely baffled.
'Conflict handled,' Nikolai thought, a small, private smirk forming. 'Showed Scott something undeniable, reinforced his belief that something weird is happening, made Stiles suspicious but without concrete proof, and didn't reveal magic directly.'
As he walked down the hallway, heading towards his next class, he felt the low hum of Beacon Hills, constant and resonant. It felt like home now, in a strange, unexpected way. Not because he'd lived here before, but because it was the place where his abilities were awakening, where he was building something, where he had found a connection with Eleanor that felt more real than anything in his past life.
He felt the lingering anxiety from Scott, the confusion from Stiles. He felt the distant, patient watchfulness of Peter Hale. And he felt the quiet, steady presence of Eleanor, a comforting anchor in this chaotic new world.
Beacon Hills wasn't just a setting. It was a character in itself, a source of power, a magnet for the strange and dangerous. And he, Nikolai Ashworth, warlock, strategist, and now, son, was learning to navigate its currents. The pieces were moving. The game was definitely on.