Julian's brush moves across the canvas like he's trying to perform an exorcism through oil paint. Which, honestly, might not be far off given the way this stranger's green eyes haunt his every waking moment. The man from his dreams emerges stroke by stroke: hair as dark as a raven's wing (very Edgar Allan Hoe), muscles that belong on the cover of "Supernatural Hotties Monthly," and eyes that make spring leaves look washed out. At this point, Julian's art studio is basically a shrine to "Hot Strangers I've Seen Once and Can't Stop Thinking About: A Series."
Perfect. Because being a mute omega healer isn't enough of a supernatural romance cliché—now he's painting prophetic visions of his maybe-mate like some kind of psychic Pinterest board. At least his art supplies don't judge him. Unlike literally everyone else in Moonvale Pack, who treat him like he's one full moon away from starring in his own CW drama.
He steps back, breath catching as the full image comes into focus. There he is—the mystery man—rendered in vivid color and bold strokes. Naked (because of course he is, this is literally turning into werewolf Twilight), with dirt and blood smeared across skin that shouldn't be marked. The birthmark on his shoulder stands out stark against pale flesh: a wolf's head, detailed enough to make Julian's hands shake. Because subtlety apparently died along with his voice.
The realization hits like a supernatural two-by-four to the face: this stranger carries a wolf within him, fierce and majestic and completely unknown to its human host. Talk about the world's worst case of dissociative identity disorder. Julian can feel the wrongness of it, like a song played off-key, like puzzle pieces forced together, like pineapple on pizza—just fundamentally incorrect on a cosmic level.
Julian chews his lower lip, setting aside his brush. How does someone even begin to explain "Hey, so you're actually a werewolf" to a complete stranger? It's not exactly something you can slip into casual conversation, even if you could speak. Which he can't. Because the universe has a twisted sense of humor and apparently decided that making him a mute omega wasn't enough of a character backstory.
With urgency coiling in his chest like a caffeinated snake, Julian abandons his art supplies and heads for Meemaw's room. Agnes Whitlock's chamber smells like a New Age shop had a baby with a medieval apothecary and then raised it on Pinterest DIY videos—all herbs and healing salves with a dash of what's probably contraband wolfsbane. The air tingles with old magic, the kind that predates Instagram filters and dating apps, the kind that doesn't care about your aesthetic but will absolutely ruin your whole week if you disrespect it.
"I need your help," he signs once inside. "The man from Silverbern... I need to find him."
Agnes's gaze locks onto her grandson's face with that all-knowing look that makes Julian wonder if mind reading runs in the family. "Why now, Jules?"
His hands fly through the signs: "He's not human. He's in danger—his wolf is unknown to him." And isn't that just the understatement of the century. Like saying the Titanic had a minor ice problem.
Understanding dawns in her wise eyes as she reaches for a leather-bound book that looks old enough to have witnessed the invention of fire. Inside, yellowed pages covered in runes tell stories of ancient magic that definitely violates several supernatural copyright laws. Julian catches glimpses of words like "fated mates" and "destiny's mark" because apparently the universe is determined to make his life read like a paranormal romance novel that got mixed up with an aesthetic witchcraft blog.
The ritual they perform feels like something out of "Witch TikTok," but with actual consequences beyond getting shadowbanned. Julian watches as Agnes mixes herbs with practiced hands—wolfsbane for protection (and possible death if handled wrong), lavender for clarity (and aesthetic), and a lock of his own silver-blonde hair (because blood would be too mainstream, and they're trying to contact a mate, not summon a demon... yet). Each ingredient carries weight, history, power that makes the air thick with possibility and probably several EPA violations.
They add pieces of his painting to the mix, because apparently art really is magic when you're desperate enough. The room fills with energy that makes Julian's skin tingle like he's stuck his finger in a metaphysical socket. Agnes chants in a language that sounds like what would happen if Latin had a goth phase and then decided to become an influencer. Julian focuses on channeling every ounce of yearning and need into their supernatural crafts project, hoping whatever powers that be appreciate his dedication to the aesthetic.
Days pass in a blur of paint fumes and ritual aftermath. Julian maintains his routine with the precision of someone trying very hard not to look like they just performed illegal magic in their grandmother's kitchen. He helps in the kitchen (where his notepad gets a workout telling people to stop touching his herbs with increasingly creative threats), paints more portraits (because apparently one wasn't enough to summon his destiny), and pretends he didn't just try to mystically DM a complete stranger. His most-used notepad page these days just says "Not Today, Satan" with a little doodle of a wolf rolling its eyes.
Then Luna Elsa glides into his sanctuary like she's auditioning for "America's Next Top Werewolf," all silver hair and ancient wisdom wrapped in casual elegance that probably cost more than Julian's entire art supply collection. She's wearing that expression that says "We need to talk" but in a way that makes it sound like she's about to reveal the secrets of the universe, not ground him for breaking supernatural law.
Julian immediately regrets not hiding his latest painting—the one where Mystery Man is looking particularly broody and birthmarked, surrounded by shadows that seem to move on the canvas like they're trying to start their own TikTok dance trend.
"Julian," she says softly, her voice carrying that energy that makes him wish he had more pre-written sassy responses. Or maybe just a trap door. "You've been distant lately."
He nods because what else can he do? It's not like he can say "Sorry, just been trying to magically contact my potential mate who doesn't know he's a werewolf, NBD, how's your day going?" His notepad doesn't have a pre-written response for "I swear this isn't as sketchy as it looks."
Luna Elsa's sharp intake of breath tells him she's spotted it—the wolf's head birthmark that's basically a supernatural neon sign saying "PLOT POINT HERE" in flashing lights with bonus sparkles. Her finger hovers over the painted symbol like she's afraid it might bite, or worse, start a prophecy. (Spoiler alert: too late for that.)
"This mark..." she trails off, and Julian resists the urge to write 'Yes, it's exactly what you think it is, and no, I didn't sign up for this destiny nonsense' on his notepad. Though he probably should add that to his collection of standard responses, given how his life is going.
"It speaks of an old prophecy," she continues, like Julian hasn't spent his entire life hearing about The Prophecy™ in hushed, dramatic tones around every supernatural campfire. The words hang between them like smoke from an overenthusiastic sage cleansing.
Julian knows the stories—they all do. A man bearing the wolf's head mark, destined to bridge worlds, to unite what was torn asunder. To maybe save them all, if the prophecy is to be believed (which, given the track record of supernatural prophecies being about as reliable as Mercury in retrograde, is debatable).
"My husband has one similar," Luna Elsa reveals, her voice barely above a whisper, like she's sharing nuclear launch codes instead of birthmark gossip. "Smaller, less defined, but in the same place." Her hand drifts to her own shoulder, as if feeling phantom pain or maybe just remembering her own meet-cute supernatural destiny moment.
Julian sketches the birthmark on paper when she asks, his strokes precise and practiced from hours of painting it like some kind of obsessed supernatural forensic artist. Luna Elsa's eyes widen with recognition, and Julian mentally prepares for the supernatural equivalent of a college admissions interview. Complete with the "where do you see yourself in five years" question, except it's more like "how do you plan to fulfill this ancient prophecy without getting everyone killed?"
"Is he... one of us?"
Julian shakes his head. No, Mystery Man is currently living his best oblivious human life in Silverbern, probably wondering why he suddenly has the urge to chase squirrels and howl at the moon. His Google history is probably full of searches like "why am I suddenly allergic to silver jewelry" and "is craving rare meat a sign of vitamin deficiency?"
Later, because the universe has a Netflix deal for drama, Julian finds himself in Silver Lake with Nadia and Zoe. It should be a simple supply run—art materials and Meemaw's herbal deliveries. Key word: should. But this is his life now, so of course it turns into supernatural drama faster than you can say "problematic alpha."
Enter Damien Blackthorn, looking like every bad boy cliché rolled into one leather-clad package that probably came with a Hot Topic loyalty card. He's leaning against a motorcycle because apparently he raided the "Supernatural Bad Guy Starter Pack" on his way to ruining Julian's day. The rumors about him and Serenity—the omega he took, who vanished without a trace—make Julian's skin crawl like he's wearing a sweater made of red flags.
"Pretty little omega," Damien coos, and Julian wishes he had a pre-written notepad response for "Go fuck yourself" in multiple languages. With illustrations. And maybe a PowerPoint presentation about consent and personal space.
Nadia and Zoe flank him like the world's most fashionable bodyguards (seriously, how do they manage to look runway-ready while radiating "I will end you" energy?). Tension crackles through the air like static before a storm, or like that moment before someone starts drama in the pack group chat.
Julian clutches his sketchbook closer, mentally calculating how many ways he can weaponize his art supplies. Paper cuts from his collection of sassy pre-written responses? Check. Tactical use of expensive paintbrushes as impromptu stakes? Also check. The possibilities are endless, much like his patience is not.
The confrontation ends thanks to an elderly shopkeeper who has apparently maxed out her "done with supernatural bullshit" stat. But Damien's parting look promises this isn't over, because apparently being a creepy stalker is his whole personality trait.
At the café later, when Damien shows up again like a bad penny with emotional damage and boundary issues, Julian meets those predatory eyes with silent defiance. He might be mute, he might be an omega, but he's also got a direct line to whatever powers gave him these prophetic painting abilities. And if Damien wants to play supernatural chicken, Julian's got a whole notepad of sass and a paintbrush that might literally be mightier than the sword.
Rex, his surgically-attached henchman, looms beside Damien like a mountain of bad decisions and questionable tattoo choices. "Mind if we join you?" Damien asks, already pulling out chairs because consent is apparently not in his vocabulary.
Julian flips to a fresh notepad page: "Sorry, we don't accept applications for redemption arcs."
The art supplies in his bag feel like ammunition, each brush a weapon loaded with possibility. The prophecy thrums through his veins like a second heartbeat, or maybe that's just anxiety with good PR. Let Damien think he's prey—Julian's been painting destiny itself, capturing a future that could change everything. He's got better things to do than play damsel in distress to some discount supernatural villain who probably practices his brooding face in the mirror.
Besides, somewhere in Silverbern, there's a man with forest-green eyes and a wolf's head birthmark who needs him. Someone who's probably having an identity crisis about suddenly wanting to mark his territory and growl at the mailman. And Julian's got a prophecy to fulfill, one snarky notepad page at a time. Because that's what you do when destiny comes knocking—you answer with style, sass, and maybe a few well-chosen emojis.
Let Damien play his games. Julian's got bigger problems, like figuring out how to explain to his future mate that he's basically a werewolf who forgot to read the instruction manual. But first, he needs to survive this café encounter without committing murder via art supplies. Because nothing ruins a prophetic destiny quite like having to explain to the supernatural authorities why you stabbed an alpha with a paintbrush.
The universe might have plans, but Julian's got attitude and a notepad full of pre-written shade. And sometimes, that's all the weapons you need.