The morning after Jalen's nightmare, the world felt different.
He walked to school with his hoodie pulled low, earbuds in, music up—but every sound underneath the bass beat still clawed at his attention. A squirrel's feet on bark. A crow's wings slicing the air. Even the ants seemed too loud. His senses weren't just alert—they were sharpened like blades.
And it wasn't just sound. People smelled like their secrets. Mr. Thompson reeked of regret and bourbon. That one kid in his Chemistry class—Devan—reeked of something foul, like rot and sulfur. Jalen had no clue what that meant, but he filed it away.
At his locker, Malia leaned casually against the metal, arms crossed. "You look like you didn't sleep."
"I didn't," he muttered.
"Bad dreams?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Something like that."
She didn't push. Instead, she handed him a granola bar. "You'll need energy. Derek says the Dreadborn usually strike when they sense awakening blood."
"Awakening blood? You make it sound like I'm a vampire."
Malia's smirk faded. "You're not. But your bloodline is one they fear. Or want."
That didn't comfort him.
---
During third period, Liam pulled him out of class under the excuse of a "counselor meeting." But instead of walking toward the office, they ducked behind the old gym building.
"Someone's watching you," Liam said.
"I figured."
"Not the Dreadborn. Someone else. We think it might be a hunter."
Jalen's brows drew together. "Like... with guns and traps?"
"Worse. Magic. Silver. Poison. The Argent kind."
Jalen looked down at his hands. "Why me?"
"That's the question we're trying to answer."
Liam handed him a folded paper. It was a sketch—a symbol. Three slashes through a black moon.
"They left this on your window last night," Liam added.
"I didn't even hear them."
"You wouldn't. Not unless they wanted you to."
---
That night, Jalen sat on the roof of his foster home, knees pulled to his chest. The stars above Beacon Hills glittered like watchful eyes. Down below, the trees swayed too slowly.
He heard the whisper before he saw the figure.
"Umbra."
The word sliced through the air like a blade. He turned—and standing at the edge of the yard was a woman cloaked in feathers and shadow. Her eyes glowed purple, not with light, but with memory.
"You are the last," she said.
"Of what?"
She tilted her head. "Shadowfang. The line of guardians who walked between the real and the unreal."
"You mean like... ghosts?"
"Like truth," she said. "You were born in eclipse. That makes you a bridge. And a target."
Then she vanished, not into the trees—but into the dark itself.
---
The next day, Jalen woke with black veins spiraling up his arms. He yanked his sleeves down and rushed to the mirror.
His pupils were rings. Inside them swirled mist, like a miniature storm.
He touched his chest—his heartbeat had two rhythms.
He wasn't just awakening. He was changing.
He met Scott at the animal clinic that evening. The Alpha looked at him, grim.
"You've crossed into something old," Scott said.
"I didn't choose this."
"None of us did. But we carry it anyway."
Scott placed a clawed hand over Jalen's pulse. "You don't just shift. You phase. Between light and shadow."
"I'm not ready."
"You won't ever be," Scott said. "But people are already dying. And you're at the center of it."
Jalen swallowed hard.
The war had already begun.
---
Later that night, the first body turned up.
Hung upside down from the school flagpole, drained of blood, eyes missing.
Carved into his chest—three slashes through a black moon.
And underneath it… the word "Umbra."