The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth, a heavy, primal musk that clung to Kael Draven's skin. He stood in a vast, empty plain, the horizon swallowed by a churning black sky. Lightning cracked, illuminating jagged silhouettes of twisted trees, their branches clawing at the air like desperate hands. His heart pounded, a drumbeat echoing in his chest, but he didn't know why. The ground beneath his bare feet pulsed, warm and alive, as if it breathed with him. Somewhere in the darkness, a low growl rumbled—not his own, though it stirred something deep within, something wild.
Kael's caramel skin prickled as the wind howled, whipping his braided hair against his neck. He was 15, decently filled out for his age, standing at an almost 6'0. But here, in this nowhere place, he felt small. Exposed. His golden eyes scanned the void, searching for the source of that growl. It could've been a dragon, like the stories his mother used to whisper back in Tanzania, before the hunters came. But this was bigger. Older.
A silhouette loomed against the storm, massive and indistinct, its edges blurring into the clouds. It had a lion's mane, jagged and flickering like flame, but its form was wrong—too tall, too sharp, with wings that sliced the air like blades. Kael's breath caught as its eyes, twin embers, fixed on him. His instincts screamed to run, but his legs wouldn't move. The creature's roar shook the earth, a sound that wasn't just sound but a force, pinning him in place, stealing his air. It surged forward, jaws gaping, a maw of endless black.
It swallowed him whole.
Kael gasped awake, his body jerking upright in bed. Sweat soaked his tank top, his braided hair sticking to his forehead. The room was dark, the only light a faint glow from the streetlamp outside his window. His heart still raced, the echo of that roar lingering in his bones. But worse was the voice—low, guttural, sliding into his ear like smoke.
"I will return," it hissed, not a promise but a certainty. "And you will be mine."
Kael clutched his chest, willing his pulse to slow. Just a nightmare. He'd had them before, ever since the night his pride burned, their screams drowned by gunfire. But this one felt different—too vivid, too heavy, like it had clawed its way into his reality. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand: 6:03 a.m. Beacon Hills was still asleep, its quiet streets a far cry from the storm in his head.
He swung his legs over the bed, bare feet hitting the cold hardwood of his empty apartment. No parents, no siblings, no pride. Just him, alone in a sleek, modern loft that screamed money but not home. His foster parents, some faceless wealthy couple who'd plucked him from a Tanzanian orphanage for the optics of it, were never around. They'd adopted him at 13, post-massacre, to parade him at galas for their "charitable" image, then left him to fend for himself with a credit card and a penthouse in whatever city they weren't in. Kael had chosen Beacon Hills, though he couldn't explain why. Something about the town had pulled at him, a tug in his gut like a lion scenting prey. So, he'd begged to move here, to live alone, and they'd agreed without a fight. Easier for them to keep up appearances from a distance.
He stood, stretching his muscular frame, decently filled out for a 15-year-old, his caramel skin catching the dim light. He ran a hand over his braided hair, checking the mirror to make sure the nightmares hadn't left a mark. They never did, but he always looked. His golden eyes—too bright, too wild—stared back, a reminder of what he was. Lion shifter. Last of his pride. A secret he'd sworn to keep, back home they said even the trees had ears.
Kael pulled on a black hoodie, ripped jeans, and sneakers, grabbing a protein bar from the barren kitchen. The loft was all glass and steel, a sterile cage he filled with music and chaos to feel less alone. He didn't bother with breakfast; food was fuel, not comfort. His bike, a matte-black motorcycle he'd bought with his foster parents' money, waited in the garage. It was his escape, his roar on wheels. He wasn't too concerned about the fact that he was still 15, as he learned quick enough there were rarely any issues money couldn't fix. He slung his backpack over his shoulder, the weight of textbooks a flimsy excuse for normalcy, and headed out.
The ride to Beacon Hills High was a blur of crisp September air and winding roads. The town was small, nestled in a valley that felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath. Kael had read about its history—animal attacks, disappearances, nothing concrete but enough to make his instincts prickle. He didn't know why he was here, only that he had to be. Something ,though he didn't know its name yet, hummed in his blood, a call he couldn't ignore.
He parked his bike near the school's entrance, ignoring the stares from early arrivals. Beacon Hills High was a sprawl of brick and glass, kids milling about with backpacks and bleary eyes. Kael's presence turned heads—his caramel skin, braided hair, and confident stride marked him as different, a spark in the mundane. He flashed a grin at a group of girls, their giggles following him as he pushed through the crowd. Charisma was his armor, hiding the cracks beneath.
The lessons were a blur, and he was beyond relieved to be done learning at the end of the day. Getting out of class, he found the halls buzzed with first-day energy. Kael scanned the chaos, spotting a lanky kid with a buzzcut—Stiles, he'd heard—arguing with a taller guy, Scott, his close friend, he gleamed. They seemed tight, like brothers, but there was a tension Kael couldn't place. His shifter senses caught a whiff of something wild on Scott, not quite human, but he shrugged it off. He wasn't here to play detective. He was here to survive, to live, for those he knew who couldn't, and that meant minding his business.
His locker was near the science wing, and as he stuffed his bag inside, a girl with auburn hair and sharp eyes—Allison—walked by, her smile hesitant but warm. Kael's pulse quickened, his insides stirring. He flashed his best smirk, leaning against the locker. "New girl, right? Welcome."
She laughed, a sound that cut through his haze. "You're one to talk. I heard you're new too."
"Guilty," he said, happy for some conversation. "Name's Kael."
"And I'm Allison." Her eyes lingered, curious, and Kael felt the pull—dangerous, tempting. He pushed it down, but the lion in him growled, hungry for connection. He turned away, slamming his locker shut, the echo of that nightmare voice still in his ears. I will return.
"Are you okay?" Kael looked back at her face, her eyebrows furrowed, and gave her a steady nod, already having collected himself, "Yeah, just thought I left the stove on, it's okay though"