Jalen didn't go to school the next day.
Not because of fear—but because Derek told him not to.
Instead, they met in the burned-out ruins of the old Hale house. The place smelled like ash and memory, and the walls still whispered if you listened too long.
"You're going to learn control," Derek said.
"I don't need control. I need answers."
Derek crossed his arms. "Answers without control are a weapon in the wrong hands."
Jalen exhaled. "Fine. What do I do?"
"Focus on the shadow inside you."
Jalen closed his eyes. And for the first time, he *felt* it—the cold, weightless pressure that coiled in his chest. It wasn't pain. It wasn't fear. It was... space.
Like the dark between stars.
And when he breathed it in, his skin shimmered briefly with black energy.
Derek stepped back. "You're not pulling power. You *are* power."
Suddenly, the trees around them snapped.
Three black-robed figures emerged.
Dreadborn.
"Test's over," Jalen said. "They brought the final exam."
He didn't wait.
He charged.
---
Jalen moved like something born from a storm. He dodged one Dreadborn's blade, countered with a punch that sent the figure flying into a tree. The second aimed a charm at him—but the spell fizzled before it touched his skin.
"They can't touch you," Derek shouted. "You're protected by what you are."
The third Dreadborn tried to run.
Jalen appeared in front of him in a blink.
"Tell your master," Jalen said, voice deeper than before, "Umbra doesn't bow."
He let the man live.
For now.
---
That night, the storm came.
Beacon Hills lost power.
The wind screamed.
And Jalen dreamed.
Of a war. Of claws and fire. Of a throne carved from bone and shadow. And a name spoken by gods and monsters alike.
Umbra.
His name.
And his curse.