Chapter Text
The History and Culture of Wolfkind, Index, Page 247:
Mate: a perfect counterpart; one with whom Mother Moon deems our equal in all things, and who was made for us and whom we were made for; the missing part of a wolf's soul. Once a mating bite has been given, the bond between a wolf and their mate is unbreakable.
The History and Culture of Wolfkind, Index, Page 248:
Mate Pull: the instinctual and magical bond shared by a wolf and their mate; strong enough bonds allow for each of a mated pair to sense the other, even at a distance. The strongest of bonded mates can feel the emotions of one another, though cases of such powerful bondings are rare.
The History and Culture of Wolfkind, Chapter 1, Page 1:
Wolves mate for life.
When mates meet, the wolf is almost always the first to know. To a wolf, the scent of their mate will be unlike anything they've ever encountered; they will smell unique and perfect in ways many are unable to describe. If the wolf's mate is human, the mate pull will be instinctual, but often weak at first. If a wolf's mate is also a mage, the bond will be even stronger than any other type of bond. In addition, a wolf in no way can harm their mage-mate (save for the mating bite), while a mage's magics have no harmful effect upon their wolf-mate.
Oftentimes, if a mage overexerts themselves, their wolf-mate can pull them from the brink. Likewise, if a wolf-mate is an Alpha, a mage can aid their wolf-mate in partial and full shifts regardless of the phases of the moon.
Stiles has never felt fear like this.
The Wolf King, the very man Stiles has spent his childhood terrified of, practically nips at his heels as he and his father run through dense woodland. He thought the man a myth, a boogeyman, whom the old scullery maids had threatened would come after him when he misbehaved.
The stories hadn’t done the man justice; he’s far more terrifying than Stiles could have ever imagined.
A sharp sound cuts through the air, and in the next moment, his father cries out and stumbles. In the time it takes Stiles to kneel down and hoist his father’s arm over his shoulder, they are surrounded by a fearsome bunch, all decked in armor, swords steady and bows strung tight.
His father doesn’t stay upright for long, the wound from the arrow in his leg already bleeding profusely.
The Wolf King nears - the man can be no other; he’s tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in decorative armor, and carries himself like only royalty can. His features are dark, as is his hair and scruff, and Stiles’ heart nearly beats out of his chest as the man stalks toward them like a true predator.
Sword raised, The Wolf King points the tip directly at Stiles. “You wear Argent robes, and flee from my men. Tell me, spy, which of the Argents do you answer to?” The wind blows from behind the king, the straps of his armor fluttering in the breeze.
“Please,” Stiles begs, trying to hold his father upright. Every story he’s heard of The Wolf King tells of a man without mercy, but Stiles knows not what else to do but tell the truth. “I’m an escaped slave from the Argent keep. I hold no love for them.”
The king pauses, raises his face. The wind continues to blow from behind him, a particularly large gust sweeping through the clearing.
“Please,” Stiles begs again. “Please don’t send us back. They’ll kill us, they-”
“Stiles,” his father gasps from his side, his grip on Stiles’ shoulder tightening.
The Wolf King nears, his sword still drawn, his features blank. Perhaps that’s what scares Stiles the most, the lack of emotion across the man’s face.
Suddenly, the wind picks up again, this time coming from behind Stiles. He stumbles slightly forward, an inadvertent step that brings him that much closer to the king.
But the king stops suddenly, as if struck by something. Stiles watches the man as his nostrils flare, his eyes widen, and his eyes begin to glow a deep, blood red. Much to Stiles’ great surprise, the king drops his sword. It makes a dull sound as it hits the mossy carpet of the forest floor.
Each of the soldiers around them freeze for just a moment.
The Wolf King throws his head back and, like a beast, howls. Every soldier Stiles can see in the clearing follows suit, throwing their heads back and joining their king.
Stiles’ mouth goes dry. All of the stories he’s heard tell of how, when the king who can transform into a beast knows he has his prey cornered, he howls to signal a feast for the rest of his pack of bloodthirsty, nightmarish creatures. Stiles knew begging for mercy was a long shot. Only one other choice is left to him.
Stiles rips his cloak off, lets it flutter in the wind. “Do you know what these markings are?” he yells directly at the king, taking up a fighting stance.
The Wolf King stops howling, his gaze turning back to Stiles, his eyes sliding over Stiles’ silver tattoos, watching as they undulate on his skin like water. His mouth falls open. “You’re a mage?” he asks, and Stiles thinks he’s rendered the king breathless for a moment.
He almost falters. “Then you know what I’m capable of,” he says in warning.
But it does little to deter The Wolf King, who slowly starts walking toward him once more. “You’re a mage,” the man repeats himself, as if he hadn’t heard Stiles’ warning at all.
“Stiles, no-” his father begins, but it’s too late, they’ve come too far to either be forced back into the Argent’s keep, or worse, taken into slavery by The Wolf King himself, and his monstrous followers.
Stiles plants his feet, lets go of his father, mutters an incantation under his breath, then forces his hands out at his sides.
Each and every soldier that surrounds him is pushed over from the huge gust of wind Stiles conjures with his magic.
All save The Wolf King, who, while he hasn’t been knocked over, still stumbles backwards several steps.
“This is your last warning,” Stiles says, though his voice is already quivering from exertion and terror. “My next spell will kill you all.”
The king straightens and, the bloody fool, starts walking toward Stiles again.
“Please don’t make me do this,” Stiles begs of the man.
“You won’t kill me,” the king informs him, and Stiles is shocked at the gentle tone of his voice.
If Stiles waits much longer, the king will be close enough to reach out and touch him. So, as much as it pains him, Stiles takes a deep breath and starts another incantation.
“Stiles, don’t!” he hears his father shout.
But, it’s either he and his father, or Stiles and all of his enemies.
Stiles raises his hand out in front of him. The king leans forward, reaches out as if he means to take Stiles’ hand in his own, but before he has a chance to, Stiles’ entire body erupts into flames.
It’s excruciating, but he knows the amount of pain he feels is nothing compared to what he’d feel if he lost his father again, so Stiles shuts his eyes and lets the flames explode outward.