Prologue

Using magic always left a bitter taste in Stiles' mouth that lay heavy on the back of his tongue, like blood. His fingertips would tingle with pins and needles and his toes would go numb every time he reached inside of himself for that small spark of power he would coax into a blaze of power.

Every time he used his magic, he felt a little piece of him die inside.

Deaton had warned him. Gone into lengthy lectures and warnings about the consequences that came with the misuse and overuse of magic. He even set down ground rules, basic instructions that needed to be followed. But since when has Stiles thought following or listening to anything set in stone anyway?

No on realised yet. No on knew or could begin to guess or ask questions. To be fair, there were more pressing matters that needed tending to. The Alpha Pack, for one. Cleaning up the mess the kanima caused another. If Stiles was a little paler than yesterday, or his breathing came shorter than the night before and no one noticed well…that was that.

The bags under his eyes had been present since his mother had died. They became more pronounced when Scott was turned and Stiles had let himself be dragged into the Supernatural (capital letter included.)

Still, though, whenever he would walk into a room with werewolves present, heads would turn in his direction, eyes would focus on his face and Stiles would get that prickling at the back of his neck that warned him he was being watched. No one ever approached him so he never had to talk about it or even explain.

It helped that the pack didn't even know about his inherent ability, so they couldn't talk to him about it in disapproving tones. Besides, he wasn't pack, he shouldn't get involved – as he had been told on numerous occasions. He was just a human with a werewolf best friend.

It didn't stop him, though. Didn't stop him from incapacitating one of the Alpha Pack members, killing him with one fell swoop of a hand while Stiles' heart stuttered in his chest. Didn't stop him from calling on rain to fall to cover the tracks of his friends, to hide their scent and keep them safe long enough to regroup even as lungs constricted and he coughed past the feeling of blood welling in his throat.

Stiles preferred it this way, actually. Out of the way, no danger of being molly-coddled, being scolded for being so human and self sacrificing. Deaton had promised to keep it a secret too and that was how it went. It was perfect.

As he sat in his bedroom, calling on his power once more to aid the Pack, the bitterness biting at his tongue and speckling his mouth black with every word that fell from his lips, he decided that he would do whatever it would take to keep the Pack alive – his pack – even if they didn't accept him. Even if it meant he himself would have to be forfeit.

He still cared and would protect them if he could. It was human nature after all. His nature. Stiles never went halfway in anything after all.