Fire ignited the bellies of the clouds into billows of pinks, oranges, purples, and other hues only ever seen in sunsets. The snow, freshly fallen the night before, borrowed the colors of the sky until the shadows rose to claim the ground, but all eyes were on the setting sun as it gave its last few glimmers of warmth to the end of the day.
All eyes but Stiles'. His, instead, were on the rising moon- its stark white, unaffected by the moods of the sun. The moon rose pregnant with light and meaning, but few knew just how much things would change during the night. Even fewer knew who would change during the night. But Stiles did, and so the beauty of the sunset was dimmed by the rising threat of the full moon.
Stiles still remembered when Beacon Hills had seemed a quiet, uneventful village. Bore into the side of a hill, Beacon Hills had been named for the stalwart Beacon that lit the valley and farmlands from atop one of the tallest of the many rolling hills that made up the Valley of Wolves. The Beacon, bright, shining, and brimming with magic of old, fended off the terrors of night, and the village had long prospered in its protective embrace. But the Beacon was old, old magic, and things that the Beacon did not protect against had settled in Beacon Hills.
Stiles now knew full well how werewolves were immune to the power of the Beacon. How their lives as humans weren't so much a lie as a façade. Of course, he was one of but a few humans who knew it, and now, he wouldn't even be considered human by many of his fellow villagers. Of course, he was still new to his knowledge-it hadn't been long ago that Stiles had simply been the Sherriff's son- noisy, over-eager, jumpy- but his knowledge of the arcane had changed him. It had started small- the village shepherd had shown him a trick of belief; how to alter-or rather, twist and bend- reality until it matched ones belief, rather than the other way around. After that first night, however, Stiles had begun to search for more knowledge. It hadn't been long before he had found a book of sigils and runes in the little cottage at the bottom of the Beacon. Stiles had found a natural proficiency with sigils, and let himself dive deeper into the depths of the arcane.
A shake of his head cleared the memories and stray thoughts from his focus, and Stiles began to dress for the night. He shrugged into his thick, heavy grey cloak, then pulled on an old pair of gloves that had once belonged to his father. Most importantly, he threw on the red hooded cowl his mother had made him before her death- Stiles' father would often recount how meticulously she had readied the hood, and Stiles had only ever made a few changes- he had sewn in (with equal meticulousness) small, barely visible sigils for warmth and clarity of senses. He pulled the cloak tighter around himself as he opened the door of his and his father's small cottage, then let himself into the night.
The night seemed a fallacy in the constant, soft light of the Beacon, but often, sounds from the forest outside of the village assured all who heard that night had indeed descended. Sometimes, beasts large enough to shake the ground passed nearby, but even then, the villagers of Beacon Hills found little lack of sleep in their ring of light. Tonight was no such night. The fresh fallen snow seemed to blanket everything in a subtle silence, and Stiles' footsteps went quietly into the night even at a jog. He avoided the roads, not wanting any to see his approach to the base of the Beacon.
As he stamped the mud and grime from his boots, Stiles looked warily into the night, trying to spy if any had seen his coming. Assured of his stealth, his secreted his hand onto a stone and willed the hidden door open. In response, cobbles realigned and soon, as Stiles had seen it, an opening large enough to fit in had formed. His stepped inside the immense, round room that was the base of the Beacon. To his knowledge, Stiles was the only one with access to this place- what he had endearingly named The Library- for it held dozens of books, all written in the common tongue, but with symbols and sigils and runes from eras long past and forgotten. As the outer wall reformed, Stiles husked his cloak and heavy boots, but chose to leave his hood on. It was a still, small comfort in a place of unknown power. He set upon the small desk he had snuck into the place, at the center of the room, and opened the book he had left lying open from the night before- a tome entitled Moon Children. First, Stiles had read the book in search of answers on Scott's transformation. Later, it led him to different tellings and more information on various monsters of the night- all that he now believed to be very real, and very dangerous.
A knock disturbed his research, and Stiles listened for the rhythm he and his allies had set up so that he knew whether or not to open the door. A series of knocks hit his ears correctly, and briefly, Scott entered the Library.
"Hey, Scott," Stiles greeted them- he realized it was the first time he spoken aloud in quite some time, and wondered at his own voice.
"Stiles, there's no time- you've got to come to the Hall, right now," Scott fumbled, gathering Stiles' heavy cloak and tossing it to him.
"Woah, what's the rush?" stiles asked, alarmed at Scott's anxiety.
"Someone just walked into town from Outside. He went straight to the Hall and demanded a meeting- he's talking about all this… this crap that he's going to do. He's threatening to burn down the Beacon!" Scott pleaded.
"What the hell?" Stiles asked as he donned his cloak and boots. "How do we know he's not just some crazy old coot?"
"Stiles, he's got people there- he's keeping everyone there. We've got to get them out of there."
As the pair approached the Hall- the large, public hall that served as both the inn and town meeting place- panicked voices could be heard from within. Scott opened the door for Stiles, and the night erupted in a cacophony of angry and fearful yelling. At the center of it was Stile's father, pleading the crowd back from a person Stiles didn't recognize- the Outsider. Suddenly, as Stiles' eyes met the stranger's, the man perked up and raised his hands to quiet the crowd.
"I am ready for my demands to be heard," the man's voice boomed. It seemed loud and clear as a yell over the tumult of the crowd, but Stiles' noticed the grin both in his voice and on his face.
"What demands can you make?" asked Stiles' father. Though his words were contentious he, like the rest of the crowd, quieted and let the man speak unprotested.
"True, Sheriff, I have not come to make demands. I have simply… come," answered the man.
"Who are you?"
"Peter, what are you doing here?" A voice, angry, rang out from the crowd. All eyes turned to Derek Hale. Derek had been the town enigma ever since his family's cottage had burn at the edge of town.
"Derek, my nephew, you know most of all why I am here." Murmurs erupted at the implication.
"Quiet!" Peter actually yelled, and this time silence hit the room, rather than came to it. Stiles' thought he noticed atone of…power, a subtle twinge that reminded him of what magic felt like. "I have come. I have come to burn your village to the ground."
Stiles yelled out. Or, he would have, if some method of silence had not been forced upon him. Panicked, he looked at the crowd, and immediately noticed that others bore his same expression of confused panic. Peter indeed held power in his voice.
"I make no demands, sheriff, for there is nothing you can offer. I do not want your money. I do not want your land. I have simply come to burn your little kingdom down. And I will. Flames will rise from Beacon Hills that a thousand rivers and lakes couldn't put out" Peter's words rang out. The crowd stood still, fear evident on their faces, as Peter stepped down from the raised platform at the end of the inn and made his way to the door. The crowd moved like water around Peter's oil, struggling against some unbidden energy that made them move.
A little while after Peter had left, a heaviness seemed to heft off the room, and people began yelling, children began crying, and men ran out into the night to pursue the intruder. Stiles and Scott joined the other men, but as they poured into the night, Peter was nowhere to be found. There were no footprints where Peter had exited the Hall, and no other evidence as to where he might be.
"Dude, who the hell was he?" Scott and Stiles both asked aloud to Derek, who had joined them.
"That… was my uncle."