The scent of death clung to the air like a curse.
Azrael rode in silence, her golden eyes fixed ahead as her party of vampires approached the ruined estate. The once-proud manor stood in eerie stillness, its grand façade marred by claw marks and the dark stains of slaughter. The horses beneath them grew restless, their instincts screaming against the unnatural stillness. Even the wind refused to stir.
The moment Azrael dismounted, the full weight of the massacre settled on her. Blood soaked the ground in wide pools, reflecting the moonlight like blackened glass. The bodies—what remained of them—were twisted in grotesque shapes, limbs torn apart, throats ripped open, eyes frozen in expressions of terror.
Her warriors, hardened as they were, muttered amongst themselves. This wasn’t just a slaughter. It was a message.
Azrael crouched near one of the corpses, her gloved fingers ghosting over the ragged wounds. Deep gashes, massive claw marks—nothing about this was precise or clean. It was pure, unrestrained brutality. Only a certain type of creature could have done this.
A lycan.
Her jaw tightened. They were known for their strength, but this… this was different.
"Over here!" one of her guards called.
She turned sharply, stalking toward the broken remnants of a once-elegant ballroom. Among the debris and lifeless bodies, curled against the base of a shattered pillar, was a woman—barely alive. Her dress, once a work of fine craftsmanship, was torn and drenched in her own blood. Her breathing was shallow, and her skin was ghostly pale.
Azrael knelt beside her, brushing strands of blood-matted hair from her face. "Who did this?"
The woman trembled violently. Her lips parted, a broken whisper escaping her throat. "I have never seen… never seen anything like it…"
Azrael leaned closer. "Tell me."
The survivor swallowed hard. "A lycan," she rasped. "But not like any I have ever seen. It was enormous. Its eyes burned red… and it moved with such speed… none of us stood a chance."
Azrael’s grip on the woman’s wrist tightened. "Describe it."
"Bigger than any lycan I've ever seen… It was ugly. Malformed. It… it tore through us as if we were nothing. Even the strongest of our kind fell like flies. It relished the kill. It played with them—" Her voice broke into a sob.
A cold fury settled in Azrael’s chest.
There was no doubt now. This was no ordinary lycan.
The werewolves had broken the fragile balance of power. They had sent a monster into their lands to remind the vampires of their place.
Her hand curled into a fist.
"If the Lycans want war," she murmured, rising to her feet, "then we will give it to them.”
—
The Lycan settlement near the border was peaceful, its warriors relaxed for the first time in weeks. The air was crisp with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the soft glow of torches flickered against the wooden walls of their village. Pups played in the dirt, their laughter echoing into the night, while the hunters skinned freshly caught deer. A celebration was brewing—one of the elders had completed his final hunt, a rite of passage before stepping down to mentor the next generation.
Then came the wind. Cold. Unnatural. It carried something metallic beneath the crisp air. Blood.
Before the first warning howl could split the night, the first Lycan warrior fell—his throat slit so swiftly that his body still stood for a moment before crumpling to the ground. A mother turned toward the sound of his body hitting the earth, only for a silver-tipped blade to pierce her chest from behind. She gasped, eyes wide, as a pale figure wrenched the sword free, letting her crumple lifelessly next to her pup.
The vampires had come.
They descended like shadows upon the village, their movements unnaturally fast, their blades singing through flesh and bone. The guards were the first to fall, taken before they could shift.
A warrior lunged at a cloaked figure, only for the vampire to vanish before his claws could make contact. A moment later, a thin razor sharp wire wrapped around his neck sinking into his flesh as the vampire yanked. His body jerked violently before his head rolled free, eyes still open in shock.
Screams filled the night.
Blood splattered against the village walls as children were dragged from their homes, their terrified wails cut short by daggers flashing in the dark. Some Lycans shifted mid-strike, but even they were not fast enough. One warrior, half-shifted, was run through with a spear, his transformation incomplete as his body convulsed on the ground. His mate clawed at his attacker, but a vampire seized her by the hair, twisting until her neck snapped with a sickening crack.
The elders, once seated in peace, now lay in pieces—limbs scattered, their once-proud faces frozen in horror.
Azrael stood at the center of the carnage, her golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight. The scent of death clung to the air, thick and suffocating, but she reveled in it. This was vengeance. This was justice.
She had ensured it would be an ambush, that their enemy would have no warning. And now, they were drowning in their own blood.
But then, the ground trembled.
A low, guttural growl rolled through the air, deep enough to rattle bones.
The vampires froze.
A figure emerged from the trees, towering and unyielding, his presence alone enough to steal the breath from their lungs. His brown eyes burned with fury beneath furrowed brows, his battle-worn features chiseled from years of war. A deep scar slashed through one of his thick brows, adding to his already fearsome countenance.
Draven.
The Alpha of the Lycans.
He stood at the head of his warriors, each one poised for battle, their claws glinting under the moon’s gaze.
His gaze swept over the carnage—the fallen, the butchered, the torn remnants of his people. Rage boiled beneath his skin, an inferno barely restrained. He took a step forward, the ground seeming to quake beneath his weight, his muscles coiled with barely contained violence.
And then his eyes locked onto her.
Azrael.
Golden meeting brown.
Silence hung between them, thick as the blood staining the ground.
Then he spoke.
“Kill them all.”