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The nightmares returned that night.
Alex stood in a dark clearing, the moon swollen and red above. Around him, bodies—wolves—littered the ground, their eyes still glowing faintly. Blood soaked the earth. Fire crackled in the distance.
He wasn't himself in the dream. He was faster, older, more brutal. His claws were blackened with ash. He stood in front of someone—someone who had golden eyes and a voice filled with desperation.
"You don't have to do this!"
But he had.
He turned to face the threat behind him—eyes like polished silver glared back from the treeline.
Then pain. A flash of silver. And darkness.
He woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat, the mark on his wrist burning red-hot.
Silver eyes.
The thing that killed him had silver eyes.
He paced his room until the sky turned gray. Something about that dream felt more like a memory than a nightmare. And it left behind one crystal-clear truth:
Whatever had killed him before… was still hunting him now.
Later that day, Alex found himself outside the animal clinic, where Scott and Deaton were finishing up for the afternoon. Alex waited in the shadows until Deaton turned and said without looking, "You can come in, you know."
Alex stepped inside, the scents of herbs and blood sharp in his nostrils.
"You've been having the dreams," Deaton said, eyes calm and knowing.
"You know what they are?"
"I know they're not just dreams," Deaton replied. "They're echoes. Your soul trying to remember what your mind cannot."
Alex crossed his arms. "Do you know what has silver eyes?"
Deaton grew still. Then slowly, he walked to a locked drawer, pulling out a worn folder. He laid it on the table.
"Very few supernatural creatures have silver eyes," he said. "But one does. And it's not a werewolf."
Alex opened the file. Inside were photos—grainy, taken decades apart. The same figure in each one. Pale skin, silver eyes, always near ruins, fires, or massacres.
"They're called The Argentum," Deaton said quietly. "They're not hunters. They're older than that. Ancient. Born from broken oaths. They were created to destroy corrupted wolves. To erase those who went beyond the laws of the wild."
"And I was one of them," Alex muttered. "A protector. I crossed a line, didn't I?"
Deaton didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Alex looked at the last photo in the folder—one taken not far from Beacon Hills, less than a month ago.
The silver-eyed figure was back.
And they were close.
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Chapter 10: The Return of Argentum?