A single breath. A single moment of tension before chaos tore through the ceremonial grounds.
Draven snarled, his fangs elongating as his keen gaze darted through the shadows, taking in the swarm of vampires descending upon them like a tide of death. Their eyes—black as the void—felt wrong. Not just in the way of his kind’s natural hatred for vampires, but in a way that sent something primal and ancient shuddering inside him. These creatures were different. Unnatural.
“Secure the pups! Get them away from here—NOW!” Draven’s command was a thunderous snarl, his voice cutting through the bedlam.
Eryx reacted immediately. “You heard him! MOVE!”
The Gamma’s voice boomed across the grounds as he turned, already in motion. The young Lycans and non-combatants scattered, some in human form, others shifting into smaller, leaner wolves to run faster. Several warriors peeled away to escort them, forming a defensive barrier as they vanished into the night.
Draven’s sharp gaze flicked toward Cyrus. They exchanged a single look. A single nod.
At once, their bodies snapped, contorted, their bones lengthening, reshaping in bursts of searing heat. Fur erupted over their skin, claws slashing through the air as their jaws stretched into lethal maws lined with glistening fangs.
The Alpha had shifted.
And so had his pack.
Valkyrie’s transformation was a blur of white against the night, her fur radiant beneath the moon as she landed gracefully on all fours, her sleek form rippling with power. Ronan and Rhea followed, their massive wolves standing shoulder to shoulder, muscles coiled.
Diana and Sigrun, their faces impassive, quickly guided Jason and Kara toward the treeline, disappearing into the darkness.
Then—
The vampires lunged.
And the Lycans met them head-on.
Draven’s world became fangs, blood, and violence.
A vampire lunged at him, its blade flashing in the moonlight. Draven pivoted with lightning speed, his claws slicing upward, severing the arm at the elbow. A shriek of pain filled the air, but it was cut short as Draven’s jaws snapped down on the creature’s throat. With a savage jerk, he tore the vampire’s head clean from its shoulders, sending a jet of black blood spraying across the grass.
Another came from behind, its dagger aimed at his spine. Without looking, Draven twisted, catching the vampire mid-air. His claws tore deep into its chest, wrapping around the thing’s still-beating heart. With a wet, sickening squelch, he ripped it free, and the vampire crumpled into the dirt.
His brown eyes glowed with fury as he turned, already seeking his next target.
Three more closed in, their movements unnaturally fast, blades flashing. Draven crouched low, waiting. The moment they struck, he was gone—vanishing into the dark blur of battle before reappearing behind them.
His claws slashed through the first one’s spine, severing it in half. He whirled, catching the second by the skull, and with a bone-crunching squeeze, shattered it like glass. The third hesitated.
A mistake.
Draven lunged, catching the vampire mid-step. He sank his fangs into its jugular and ripped, tearing its throat away in one brutal motion. It collapsed, gurgling as black blood pooled beneath it.
His chest rose and fell heavily, but his hunger for destruction was nowhere near sated.
Cyrus was precision incarnate. While Draven tore through enemies with brute force, Cyrus wove through the chaos like a ghost, striking with deadly efficiency.
A vampire charged at him, a silver blade arcing toward his ribs. Cyrus sidestepped at the last second, his movements eerily smooth, and in a blink, his fangs were at the vampire’s throat.
One bite. One swift twist—and the head rolled to the ground.
Another vampire tried to catch him from behind. Foolish.
Cyrus turned, his emerald eyes burning, and in a single, fluid motion, he leapt. He crashed onto the vampire’s shoulders, twisting its neck with a sickening snap before slamming its lifeless body into the earth.
A group of four came at him next.
He grinned.
They didn’t stand a chance.
Valkyrie was a vision of lethal beauty. Her snowy fur streaked with crimson as she danced through the battlefield.
A vampire swung at her, aiming to carve a silver blade through her flank. She dodged, lightning-fast, her form twisting in mid-air before her claws raked across its face. The vampire staggered back, screeching. Valkyrie didn’t give it the chance to recover.
With a single leap, she was on it, her jaws locking around its skull. A violent crunch, and the thing went limp.
Another vampire took its place immediately, but Valkyrie was already moving, weaving through enemies like a phantom. She was everywhere and nowhere, her pristine fur a stark contrast against the carnage she left behind.
She was magnificent.
She was merciless.
Ronan was destruction given form. His massive dark wolf barreled through the vampires like a wrecking force, his powerful jaws snapping bones like twigs. He tackled one to the ground, his claws carving deep furrows through its chest before he sank his fangs into its ribcage and ripped out its heart.
Rhea, his mate, was just as ruthless. Her amber eyes burned as she lunged at a vampire, her fangs catching it mid-air before she slammed it into the ground and tore out its throat.
They fought as one, an unstoppable force, moving in perfect harmony as they carved through the invading swarm.
Blood soaked their fur.
Their enemies never stood a chance.
Eryx was a brawler, a mountain of muscle that crushed anything in his path.
A vampire leapt at him, daggers flashing. Eryx caught it mid-air and slammed it into the ground with enough force to shatter stone. Before it could rise, his massive paw crushed its skull, ending its struggles instantly.
Another one lunged. Eryx turned, catching it by the throat and lifting it clean off the ground. With a snarl, he hurled it into a tree, the impact snapping its spine like dry wood.
He roared, challenging the next wave.
They hesitated.
A fatal mistake.
Eryx charged.
And he did not stop.
The ceremonial grounds had become a slaughterhouse.
The Lycans ripped and shredded, their howls of fury drowning out the wails of the dying. The vampires fought back viciously, but they were no match for the raw savagery of an enraged Lycan pack.
Draven stood at the center, a god of war cloaked in blood, his fangs gleaming, his breath ragged.
But even as they cut the vampires down, he knew—
Something was wrong.
These creatures were not ordinary vampires.
They fought like pawns.
Like they were being controlled.
And as Draven slashed his claws through yet another enemy, his instincts screamed a single warning.
This attack is only the beginning.