I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
Patreón.com/emperordragon
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By the time I returned to the Lockwood estate, the last golden strands of daylight were slipping behind the trees, bleeding color into the sky like watercolors left out in the rain. Shadows stretched long across the gravel driveway, reaching toward the house as if the growing darkness were trying to claim it inch by inch. The mansion loomed in quiet silhouette—elegant, timeless, and a little eerie in the amber light of dusk.
Inside, the atmosphere couldn't have been more different. The warmth hit me immediately, both in temperature and in energy. The distant sound of gunfire and explosions echoed through the hall, sharp and chaotic—an unmistakable sign that Jenny had taken over my room again.
As I made my way upstairs, her voice reached me before I even touched the doorknob. She was shouting something triumphant, a battle cry carried with the force of someone fully immersed in digital warfare.
When I opened the door, there she was—sprawled out on my oversized bean bag like she owned it, legs hanging off one side, controller gripped in both hands like a lifeline. Her eyes were laser-focused on the TV, where a fast-paced multiplayer match raged on. Bullets flew, characters ducked for cover, the screen alive with chaos.
Without even glancing at me, she smirked.
"Took you long enough," she muttered, thumbs flying across the buttons. Her voice was light, but the smugness was unmistakable.
I sighed, toeing off my shoes and tossing my bag onto the floor. "You're getting cocky," I said, grabbing the second controller. "Might be time to remind you who the real champion is."
Jenny snorted. "Bring it on, Nephew." She said it with exaggerated drama, tongue peeking out of the corner of her mouth as she landed a perfect sniper shot across a war-torn map.
We played for hours, the kind of hours that pass without notice. Our rhythm kicked in fast—trash talk, sudden shouts of victory or defeat, the dull clack of buttons being mashed in desperation. We laughed. We argued over in-game rules. At some point, she tossed popcorn at me when I accused her of screen-peeking.
And slowly—without me even realizing it—the tension on my shoulders started to ease.
For those few hours, I wasn't wrapped up in supernatural politics or secrets. I was just a guy, hanging out with his aunt, playing video games.
But reality doesn't like to be ignored for long.
My phone buzzed on the floor beside me.
I reached for it instinctively, still half-distracted by the game. The screen lit up with a new message:
Beacon Hills Animal Clinic. 9 PM. Come alone.
I stared at it longer than necessary, just letting the words sink in.
Jenny noticed. Of course she did.
From the corner of her eye, she watched me for a beat. But she didn't press. She just gave me a quiet nod, the kind that said she understood something had changed—even if she didn't know what.
She stretched and stood, yawning dramatically. "Well, I should probably start my homework before it becomes tomorrow's problem. Don't stay up all night, Lucas."
I smirked, grateful for her and the silence she offered. "No promises."
She walked out, leaving the room oddly still in her absence.
The Beacon Hills Animal Clinic looked abandoned at this hour—windows black, the sign on the door unambiguous: CLOSED. The building sat like a secret, half-swallowed by the night, tucked between trees that whispered in the wind.
I hesitated only a moment before walking up the front steps. Then I knocked—three sharp, deliberate raps.
The door creaked open almost instantly, and there stood Alan Deaton. Calm, unreadable, and somehow already expecting me.
"You must be Lucas," he said, with the kind of quiet certainty that made it feel less like a question and more like a fact.
I nodded and stepped inside.
The clinic smelled like sterilized surfaces and something more ancient. Beneath the chemical tang of antiseptic was something earthier—herbs, maybe. Mountain ash. Layers of protection woven into the structure, subtle but unmistakable.
Deaton moved ahead without another word, and I followed.
He led me into the back, deeper into the clinic where the quiet grew heavier. The moment I stepped near the door to the next room, I felt it—the unmistakable pressure of supernatural presence.
Three werewolves. Waiting.
Laura Hale sat in a wooden chair like it was a throne—poised, composed, but with a gaze sharp enough to cut. She watched me closely, assessing me like a tactician reviewing battlefield maps. Her posture was relaxed, but there was no mistaking her readiness.
To her right stood Malia. She looked tense, arms crossed, brow furrowed. She wasn't angry, but she wasn't sure what to make of me either. There was suspicion in her eyes—but also curiosity. Maybe even something like concern.
And then… there was Derek.
He didn't bother masking his emotions. His stare bore into mine like a weapon. Jaw clenched. Muscles coiled. Every inch of him screamed that I was a threat—and that and he was already halfway to a fight.
The air was thick with it—tension, heavy and electric, like the moment before a lightning strike.
I didn't blink. Didn't step back.
"I asked for this meeting," I said, keeping my tone even. "Because I wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings between me and the Hale pack."
Laura's expression didn't shift, but she offered a small, slow nod. "Go on."
But Derek wasn't interested in hearing me out.
"He's lying," he growled, taking a step forward.
His voice cut through the room, and the mood shifted instantly—sharper, colder.
"He's not here alone," Derek continued. His eyes flicked to Laura now, his tone urgent. "I went to the hospital. The kid who was attacked in the cemetery—Isaac Lahey. I checked on him."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "He's a werewolf now."
Silence fell, sudden and absolute.
I didn't flinch. I didn't look away.
Because he was right.
But not in the way he thought.