Chapter 6: Echoes of Unseen Bonds
The silence of the cemetery provided a stark contrast to the chaos of Beacon Hills—a brief respite that allowed me to gather my thoughts and summon the strength to face the world once again. My dad's text buzzed through, a jarring reminder of the reality I was trying to evade. The irony of my abilities wasn't lost on me—being able to travel across the globe in mere seconds was both a blessing and a curse. It offered an escape, but also made it impossible to avoid the inevitable confrontations I was running from. Back home, it was morning again, and my dad's words were sharp, a succinct reminder that I couldn't keep avoiding Stiles forever. Despite his warning, my resolve hardened. I wasn't ready to face Stiles—not yet.
The weight of our past, the unresolved mess of emotions, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead felt like a burden only I could carry. But it was a burden I wasn't ready to share, especially not with him. Stiles had always been at the centre of things, unaware of the wounds he had inflicted on me, and I wasn't ready to reopen them. I didn't know if I ever would be.
My father's strategy to engage the pack in hunting down the Benefactor came as a welcome distraction, one that promised to keep Stiles preoccupied. But despite my efforts to push him from my mind, thoughts of him lingered like a shadow, a constant presence in the back of my mind.
Lydia was, without a doubt, the most logical person I knew. While the rest of us often scrambled for answers, she approached problems with precision and clarity, like a surgeon wielding a scalpel. Her presence, particularly now, felt like a lifeline. She was the calm in the storm, the beacon of reason that helped me steady myself amidst the chaos. Together, we had forged an unspoken partnership—two minds united in a shared goal: unravelling the mysteries of the Benefactor and Tēolōtl.
That night, as the shadows deepened around us, we prepared for our next attempt at uncovering answers. We sat cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, a single candle flickering between us. Its flame wavered as if caught in the gravitational pull of the energy we were about to summon. The room was quiet, the air thick with the kind of anticipation that makes you hold your breath without realizing it.
"This is going to feel... strange," I warned Lydia, though my grin betrayed my excitement. "Kind of like a Vulcan mind-meld. Honestly, it's the coolest thing I've ever done."
Lydia rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitched in a reluctant smile. "I'll take your word for it, nerd. Let's just hope it works."
She extended her hands toward mine, her palms cool and steady. I took them, letting my own nervous energy dissipate as we both closed our eyes. The world around us faded, replaced by the vast expanse of the shadows I knew so well and the spectral whispers that always lingered on the edge of Lydia's mind.
The transition was seamless, almost startlingly so. One moment, I was aware of the soft hum of the candle and the faint rustle of leaves outside my window. The next, we were standing in the expanse of my subconscious—a space both familiar and alien. It was a realm of infinite shadow, where darkness stretched and swirled like a living thing, yet it held pockets of light, faint echoes of memory and emotion that shimmered like stars in a night sky.
"This... is unsettling," Lydia murmured, her voice echoing strangely. She turned in a slow circle, her gaze sweeping over the endless expanse. "And yet, it feels oddly familiar."
"Welcome to my head," I said with a half-smile. "Make yourself at home."
Before she could respond, a figure materialized in the distance. At first, it was a vague silhouette, but as it drew closer, it sharpened into a form we both recognized.
"Stiles?" Lydia's voice was sharp, startled.
The figure stopped a few feet from us, his hands casually stuffed in his pockets, his familiar smirk tugging at his lips. "Hey, Lydia. Hey, Andrew."
She frowned, glancing between him and me. "What are you doing here? This is Andrew's subconscious, not yours."
"I'm always here," he replied, shrugging as though the answer were obvious.
Lydia blinked, her frown deepening as realization dawned. She turned to me, exasperation clear in her expression. "Honestly, the pair of you are so oblivious."
"Oblivious to what?" I asked, though my heart skipped a beat.
She didn't answer, instead gesturing for "Stiles" to continue.
The Stiles-like figure tilted his head, his expression suddenly more serious. "You're looking for Tēolōtl, right? For answers? I can help with that."
Before either of us could ask how, he turned and began walking, the shadows parting around him as though they, too, recognized him. Lydia and I exchanged a brief glance before following.
The journey through my subconscious was disorienting. The space around us shifted constantly, memories bleeding into one another like watercolours on wet paper. Fleeting images of my past, fragments of thoughts, and echoes of emotion passed by like shadows, impossible to grasp. Lydia glanced at them occasionally but said nothing, her focus locked on the figure leading us.
Finally, we arrived at a shimmering portal of light, a stark contrast to the surrounding darkness. Stiles stopped and turned to face us.
"This is where you'll find what you're looking for," he said, his tone uncharacteristically solemn.
I hesitated, glancing at Lydia. She nodded, and together, we stepped through.
On the other side, visions consumed us. They were vivid and overwhelming, rushing through our senses like a flood. We saw the formation of Tēolōtl's prison, its walls forged from ancient magic and sealed with a guardian's bloodline. The guardian's role became clear—a protector and servant, bound to Tēolōtl's will yet tasked with keeping him imprisoned. The silhouette of the guardian appeared repeatedly, their identity concealed by layers of magic and time, but one thing was certain: the role was passed down through generations, an unbroken chain leading to the present.
Then, we felt Tēolōtl himself—a presence so dark and malevolent it seemed to sap the light from the visions around us. His power brushed against my mind, a cold, invasive force that made me shudder. Even in this diluted form, he was overwhelming, eager to break free from his cosmic confinement.
As the vision faded, we found ourselves back in the realm of my subconscious, the weight of what we'd seen hanging heavily between us. The figure of Stiles was gone, leaving Lydia and me alone in the vast expanse.
She turned to me, her expression grave. "We're dealing with something far beyond what we've faced before," she said quietly. Her voice trembled slightly, betraying the fear that had settled in both of us.
I nodded, swallowing hard. "And the guardian..."
She looked at me knowingly. "It's you, isn't it?"
The realization settled over me like a shroud, equal parts terrifying and inevitable. As much as I wanted to deny it, I felt the truth in her words. I was bound to Tēolōtl, tied to his imprisonment in a way I barely understood.
The shadows around us pulsed, alive with the weight of what we had uncovered. Lydia placed a steadying hand on my shoulder, her eyes meeting mine with quiet determination.
"We'll figure this out," she said. "Together."
And in that moment, as the vast darkness of my subconscious surrounded us, I clung to her words like a lifeline.
Our conversation inevitably shifted to Stiles. It wasn't a topic I wanted to discuss, but Lydia, ever perceptive, had a way of zeroing in on the things I tried to avoid. She recounted how he had reacted after I'd saved him—his shock, his confusion, and the unmistakable anger simmering just beneath the surface.
"He's angry, Andrew," Lydia said softly, her tone as gentle as the words were sharp. "Angry that Scott and I knew you were back and didn't tell him."
The words stung, cutting deeper than I cared to admit. Stiles had every right to be angry. I had hidden my return from him, kept him in the dark while I hovered at the edges of their lives, stepping in only when the danger became too much to ignore.
"I know," I said, my voice heavy with guilt. The weight of my choices pressed down on me like a tangible force. "But I couldn't just let him die. Seeing him in danger... I had to act. Even if it means facing his anger now."
Lydia studied me, her sharp gaze softened by understanding. "He'll come around," she said with quiet certainty. "He always does. But you can't keep avoiding him. This tension—it's not just between you and Stiles. It's affecting all of us. We're a pack, Andrew, and we need to be united—especially now."
Her words hit harder than I expected. She wasn't wrong. My silence, my avoidance, hadn't just hurt Stiles. It had fractured the delicate balance of our group, leaving cracks where there should have been strength. And yet, the thought of confronting Stiles, of facing the storm I had created, filled me with dread.
As we packed up our research for the night, the silence stretched between us, weighted with unsaid things. Finally, I broke it.
"Lydia," I began hesitantly, my voice almost catching on the words. "About Stiles... I think it's best if I keep my distance. With him and Malia—"
Lydia raised an eyebrow, cutting me off with a look that was equal parts exasperation and amusement. "Andrew," she said, her tone edged with a knowing sharpness, "it's not my place to comment on Stiles and Malia's relationship, but... from what I've seen, that's not a factor anymore."
I froze, her words catching me completely off guard. "What do you mean?" I asked, sharper than I intended. My voice carried a mix of fear and something else—hope, maybe?
Lydia sighed, choosing her words carefully. "Things change, Andrew. People change. What mattered yesterday might not matter today. Stiles... he's been through a lot. We all have. And sometimes, that changes what we want... or who we want."
Her gaze held mine, unflinching, her words landing with far more weight than I had anticipated. Could she be right? Could everything I'd believed about Stiles and Malia, about what I'd lost, be wrong? The thought stirred something deep within me—a confusing mixture of hope and doubt that threatened to unsteady the fragile walls I'd built around myself.
"But, Lydia, I can't just—" I started, the words tumbling out before I could shape them. My thoughts were a mess, colliding in a cacophony of fear, regret, and longing.
Lydia reached out, placing a hand on my arm. Her touch was grounding, her expression firm but compassionate. "You're not alone in this," she said gently. "Whatever happens, you have us. Your pack. Avoiding Stiles isn't going to make it easier—for you or for him."
Her words stripped away the excuses I had been clinging to, leaving me exposed. I had used Stiles' relationship with Malia as a shield, an easy justification for keeping my distance. But now that shield was crumbling, and I couldn't deny the truth staring me in the face.
I nodded, swallowing hard as I forced myself to confront the enormity of what lay ahead. Lydia's faith in me, her quiet strength, was like a light in the shadows of my own uncertainty.
"Thank you, Lydia," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.
She smiled, a small but reassuring gesture. "You'll be fine, Andrew," she said confidently. "Stiles is stubborn, but he's not immune to reason. Or to you."
Her words lingered long after she left, their weight settling into the quiet spaces of my mind. Reconciling with Stiles felt like an insurmountable challenge, a storm I wasn't sure I was ready to face. But Lydia was right—avoiding him wasn't the answer. If we were going to survive the threats looming over us, if I was going to be part of this pack, I couldn't keep running.
The prospect of facing Stiles terrified me more than anything else, even more than Tēolōtl. But for the first time, I felt a flicker of something other than fear—a tentative, fragile hope.
Later that night, I drifted into the shadows, my mind still reeling with Lydia's words. Her voice echoed in my thoughts, unsettling truths that refused to be ignored. But I couldn't focus on that now. Beacon Hills was teetering on the edge of chaos, and the shadows carried whispers of an impending confrontation. I followed their pull, moving seamlessly through the darkness, until I arrived at the heart of the turmoil.
The scene before me was one of imminent violence. Kate Argent stood at the centre, flanked by her monstrous berserkers, her presence radiating danger. Scott was her focus, his stance tense but determined as he tried to reason with her. Stiles stood too close to the fray, his jaw tight, his fists clenched, as though sheer defiance could protect him from the threat she posed.
Seeing Stiles there, exposed and vulnerable, ignited something primal within me—a protective fire that burned hotter than the shadows surrounding me. The thought of losing him, of watching Kate's cruelty snuff out the light in his eyes, was unbearable. The darkness around me swirled in response to my emotions, coiling like a living thing, eager to strike.
Kate's attention was fixed on Scott, but the way she moved—subtle shifts, calculated glances—revealed her true intent. She was positioning herself closer to Stiles, her steps deliberate, her malice sharpened to a deadly edge. My breath hitched, and my fists clenched as I fought the urge to act too soon. My father's voice, calm and measured, cut through the tension as he attempted to reason with her, his words a precarious attempt to soften the simmering violence in the room.
I stayed hidden, watching, waiting, my entire being coiled like a spring ready to snap. Kate wasn't the Benefactor we had been hunting—that much was clear now—but her role in the chaos of Beacon Hills was undeniable. She was a wildcard, dangerous and unpredictable, and her motivations remained a mystery. What drove her now? Was it revenge? Power? Something deeper, more personal? The questions circled in my mind, but I couldn't afford to dwell on them. Not while Stiles was in danger.
The shadows wrapped tighter around me, their cold, familiar embrace steadying my nerves as I prepared to intervene. Kate's focus shifted back to Scott, her voice dripping with condescension as she taunted him. She was toying with us, testing the limits of our patience. But then, in an instant, her gaze flicked toward Stiles, her body shifting with ruthless intent.
That was my moment.
The shadows surged forward at my command, enveloping her berserkers like a tidal wave of darkness. They stumbled, momentarily disoriented, their hulking forms thrashing against the unseen force. The room erupted into chaos, the sudden distraction giving Scott and my father the opening they needed.
Scott lunged, his movements precise, his claws raking across one berserker's chest. My father stepped into Kate's line of sight, his tone low and commanding as he tried once more to appeal to her humanity—if any remained.
I stayed hidden, my presence cloaked by the shadows. But my focus remained fixed on Stiles. He had backed away from the centre of the fray, his breathing heavy, his wide eyes darting between Scott, Kate, and the berserkers. Relief flooded through me when he seemed to realize the immediate danger had passed.
And then it happened.
Stiles' gaze shifted, snapping toward the corner where I stood concealed. His eyes locked onto the shadows enveloping me, piercing through the veil with startling clarity. My breath caught, my heart hammering against my ribs. There was no way he could see me—not through the layers of darkness that cloaked me from sight. And yet, his expression said otherwise.
His gaze held mine for a moment that felt like an eternity, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. It was as though he knew I was there—not in the logical, observable sense, but in some deep, unspoken way that defied explanation.
The connection left me reeling, the certainty of my invisibility unravelling under the weight of his awareness. My instinct screamed at me to retreat, to break the connection before it could solidify, but I couldn't move. I stood frozen, caught in the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken question in his eyes echoing through the shadows.
And then the moment was over.
Stiles turned back to Scott, his focus shifting to the ongoing confrontation as my father managed to push Kate back, her berserkers retreating at her command. The danger subsided, the room settling into an uneasy stillness, but the image of Stiles' eyes finding mine refused to fade.
As I withdrew into the shadows, retreating from the scene, my thoughts spiralled. How had he seen me? Was it a fluke, a trick of the light? Or was it something more—a bond that couldn't be broken, no matter how much I tried to distance myself?
The shadows carried me back into the night, their embrace cool and steadying, but my mind remained unsettled. No matter how far I ran, no matter how carefully I hid, some bonds were impossible to sever. And the way Stiles had looked at me, the silent understanding in his eyes... it was a bond I wasn't sure I wanted to break.