The smell of pine hit him first.
Fresh. Wet. Alive.
Jalen Pierce stepped off the rusted Greyhound bus with a heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a half-eaten bag of trail mix in his hand. His dark eyes scanned the unfamiliar streets of Beacon Hills—a quiet town nestled between too many trees and not enough people.
The last time he saw this place was through the window of a cop car when he was ten. Now, nearly seventeen, he was back—but not by choice.
His mom called it a "fresh start."
He called it a forced restart.
The old social worker, Ms. Romero, was waiting by the curb, fanning herself with a file folder.
"Jalen," she said with a cautious smile, "you look taller."
Jalen didn't reply. He just nodded once and followed her silently to her Prius. She made small talk the whole ride—something about Beacon Hills High being more "accepting," the school's rebuilding after the "gas leak," and how the foster home he was staying at had "good energy." He tuned most of it out.
The truth was, Jalen didn't expect to stay long. He never did.
But Beacon Hills was different.
He could feel it in his bones.
Literally.
---
The first night in his new room was quiet—too quiet. There were no sirens, no yelling neighbors, no bass thumping through the walls. Just the constant whisper of the wind rustling the trees, and something else underneath it…
A howl.
Low. Long. And close.
He sat up in bed, eyes alert.
Then came the scratching at the window.
Three short scrapes. A pause. Then two more.
Jalen slowly pulled back the curtain—and saw nothing.
But something saw him.
Yellow eyes. Glowing. Watching from the woods.
And gone.
---
Beacon Hills High was a mix of small-town normal and urban weird. Everyone looked too familiar with each other, like they'd all been surviving something no one talked about.
In second period English, a girl with blue hair leaned across her desk.
"You're new," she said. "Name?"
"Jalen," he replied.
She squinted at him, then smirked. "You got secrets. I like that. I'm Malia."
He barely had time to respond before the teacher walked in. But the moment he sat down, he felt eyes on him again. Not Malia's.
From the back of the class, a pale guy with a tight jaw and haunted stare watched him like he was a threat.
Later, he learned that was Liam Dunbar.
---
It didn't take long before weird things started happening.
On Tuesday, the school fire alarm went off—except there was no fire. Just a student found in the locker room, claw marks on their chest, mumbling about "a black wolf."
On Wednesday, Jalen's shadow moved before he did.
And on Thursday, Jalen punched a guy through a locker door.
Literally through it.
He didn't even mean to—some senior cornered him near the gym and cracked a joke about his skin, saying something about how "the jungle" must've missed him.
Jalen's vision blurred. His heartbeat exploded. And the next thing he knew, the guy was on the ground and the locker was twisted metal.
The principal suspended him on the spot.
But not before a tall guy with salt-and-pepper stubble and a leather jacket showed up, staring at Jalen like he already knew everything.
"Name's Derek," he said. "We need to talk."
---
The talk wasn't in the principal's office. It was deep in the woods, near an old abandoned train depot.
That's where Jalen first saw the pack.
Liam. Malia. Mason. Even Scott McCall, the Alpha everyone whispered about but no one seemed to see.
"You've been changing," Scott said, his voice calm but firm. "Losing time. Feeling stronger. Hearing things."
Jalen nodded. "And seeing things. My dreams…"
"What do you see?"
"A shadow wolf," he said. "But it's not just a wolf. It talks."
The pack exchanged glances.
"It talks?" Derek asked.
"Yeah," Jalen said. "And it calls me 'Umbra.' What the hell does that mean?"
Derek frowned. "Umbra is Latin. It means 'shadow.'"
Scott stepped closer. "You're not just turning. You're awakening something older."
Jalen shook his head. "I'm not turning. I didn't get bit."
"No," Derek said. "You were born with it."
---
That night, Jalen had another dream.
He stood on a cliff, shirtless, the moon full above. The wind howled, but the trees below were still. Then the ground cracked, and from the shadows rose a massive black wolf—bigger than any normal creature, with horns curling from its skull like a ram and smoke swirling from its fur.
"You are Umbra," it growled. "Last of the Shadowfang line. They hunted your bloodline down. But they missed one."
"Who?" Jalen asked, voice trembling.
"You."
Then the wolf leapt forward, and Jalen woke up screaming.
In his mirror, his eyes glowed pure black.
Not gold. Not blue. Not red.
Black.
---
At school, things got worse.
A group of strangers in dark robes appeared near the edge of campus. No one else seemed to notice them—but Jalen did. He could hear them whispering in dead languages. One of them left a claw mark on his locker that didn't heal.
Later that day, Malia and Liam cornered him.
"You're being followed," Malia said.
"I noticed."
"They're called the Dreadborn. They hunt creatures born from pure shadow."
"Lucky me," Jalen muttered.
"Not lucky," Liam said. "Powerful. And dangerous. You're not just some beta-in-waiting. You're something Beacon Hills hasn't seen before."
"What am I?"
Malia looked at him and grinned, sharp and wild.
"You're a goddamn Shadow Alpha."