The night still clung to the land, the sky an endless stretch of inky blackness, untouched by the first light of dawn. The air was cold, but not as cold as the moment that had arrived too soon. Draven and Azrael stood close, their foreheads touching, their breaths mingling in the stillness. The world around them felt frozen, as if time itself mourned their parting.
Draven’s hands framed Azrael’s face, his thumbs grazing her high cheekbones as he studied every inch of her—committing her to memory. Her golden eyes glowed softly, filled with emotions she refused to voice. He could feel it though, the way her body pressed against his, the way her fingers clutched at his furs like she wanted to keep him here, just a little longer.
“You could come with me,” Draven murmured, his voice deep and rough with emotion. He knew the answer before she even spoke, but he had to say it, just once.
Azrael let out a soft, breathy laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “And you could come with me.”
They both knew that neither could abandon their worlds. Their responsibilities.
Draven exhaled heavily, his arms tightening around her. “This isn’t the end.”
“No,” she whispered, tilting her chin up. “It’s not.”
Draven leaned down, capturing her lips in a slow, lingering kiss. It wasn’t just passion, it was desperation. A silent plea. His hands slid into her raven-black hair, holding her to him as if that could somehow make time stand still. Azrael kissed him back with equal fervor, her nails digging into his back. When they finally pulled away, their breaths were ragged, their bodies unwilling to part.
A presence stirred behind them. The moment shattered.
Valerion emerged from his tent, his tall, imposing figure a shadow in the early morning gloom. Raphael walked beside him, his usual smirk absent as his icy gaze flickered between his sister and Draven.
Draven straightened, his expression hardening, his body instinctively bracing. Valerion stopped a few paces away, a long, tense silence stretching between them. The weight of their truce hung thick in the air. The memory of their conversation from the night before still burned in Draven’s mind.
Finally, the Vampire King inclined his head ever so slightly. It wasn’t respect, nor was it acknowledgment of anything beyond the necessity of this moment. Draven returned the gesture, his jaw clenching. Then his gaze shifted to Raphael.
“Try not to get yourself killed, princeling,” Draven muttered.
Raphael’s lips twitched. “I could say the same to you, Alpha.”
Draven turned to mount his horse, but as he did, his Beta caught his eye. Cyrus was already seated atop his own horse, but his gaze flickered toward Raphael—who was watching him with an unreadable smirk.
Cyrus swallowed, and heat flared in his veins as memories of the previous night resurfaced. The press of Raphael’s body. The heat of his breath. The teasing, the challenge, the way Raphael had left him gasping, undone. Cyrus shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, adjusting himself before anyone could notice.
Raphael, however, had noticed.
His smirk deepened, and without a word, he winked.
Cyrus’ breath hitched. He quickly looked away, his fingers tightening around the reins.
Draven gave Azrael one final, unreadable glance before he clicked his tongue, and his horse lurched forward. Cyrus followed, his heart still hammering for an entirely different reason than before.
Azrael watched them ride off, feeling an ache settle in her chest. Raphael, standing beside her, nudged her lightly with his shoulder.
“Hi,” he said simply.
Azrael turned to him, slightly startled.
“I’m glad you’re still alive.” His voice was quieter than usual, lacking its usual edge.
By the time she gathered herself enough to respond, Raphael was already walking away.
She exhaled, turning to her father. “So what happens now?”
Valerion’s expression remained unreadable as he watched the retreating figures of the Lycans. “We go home.”
—
The sun had begun to set, casting the world in hues of amber and crimson as Draven and Cyrus approached the stronghold. The towering wooden gates loomed ahead, their metal reinforcements gleaming in the fading light. As they rode through, the village surrounding the stronghold stirred with life.
Villagers paused in their evening routines, their gazes turning toward their returning Alpha. Some bowed their heads in respect. Others whispered among themselves, eyes tracking the two warriors.
Draven inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scents of the village ground him. The scent of burning wood, fresh bread, the musk of wolves shifting in the distance. It was home.
A group of children ran past, laughing, chasing each other through the narrow streets. A blacksmith wiped the sweat from his brow, sparing a glance at Draven before returning to his work. A group of warriors stood near the training grounds, pausing mid-spar to acknowledge their Alpha’s return.
As they neared the heart of the stronghold, the large stone fortress came into view—its towering walls a stark contrast to the wooden homes surrounding it.
The moment they passed through the inner gates, a blur of movement barreled toward them.
Draven barely had time to brace himself before two smaller figures tackled him.
“You’re back!” His younger sister’s voice rang with excitement.
“Where the hell have you been?” His younger brother demanded, arms crossed.
Draven chuckled, ruffling his sister’s hair before glancing at his brother. “Hunting.”
“For two days?” His brother raised an eyebrow.
Draven just smirked. “It was a long hunt.”
His sister narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but before she could interrogate him further, he turned to Cyrus. “Where’s Mother?”
“In a meeting,” his brother answered.
Draven’s smirk faltered. He exchanged a glance with Cyrus. ***A meeting?***
Playfully shoving his siblings aside, he strode toward the main hall, Cyrus following closely. The moment they reached the large oak doors of the council chamber, Draven pushed them open.
Silence.
The room was full of his highest-ranking warriors, advisors, and elders. All of them turned as one, their eyes locking onto him.
At the head of the long wooden table, lounging comfortably in his chair, was his mother, Diana.
“Oh, you’re back?” she said, smiling. “How was your hunt, dear?”
Draven frowned, his eyes scanning the room. Something was off.
One of the elders stood, his expression serious. “Alpha, why did you keep such a thing from us?”
Draven’s frown deepened. “What are you talking about?”
Another warrior stood. “Something this important should not have been hidden.”
“The whole pack deserves to know.”
Confusion twisted in Draven’s gut as he walked towards his mother with Cyrus trailing behind. As soon as he approached her, he opened his mouth to speak but immediately paused when he saw it.
His mother held a letter in her hands, her fingers idly tracing the edges of the parchment. Not just any letter.
Valerion's letter.
Draven’s heart skipped a beat.
A cold, sinking feeling settled in his stomach as his gaze flickered to Cyrus, whose eyes were wide with realization.
Diana turned to him, her expression unreadable. Then, she held up the letter.
“I just called a meeting,” she said smoothly, “to tell them that you have found your mate.”