Cyrus stood frozen for a heartbeat, his gaze locked onto Valkyrie’s piercing blue-green eyes. The question hung between them, heavy with implication. He had anticipated something like this, but not so soon.
"What's the actual connection between Azrael and Draven?" Valkyrie’s voice was quiet, but firm.
Cyrus forced a chuckle, running a hand through his hair as he shook his head. "You really do have sharp instincts."
She didn’t react, only waiting, expectant.
Cyrus sighs and glances around as if debating whether to tell her. Then, in a hushed voice, he says:
"Draven isn’t reckless. He doesn’t waste time on things that don’t serve a purpose. His connection to Azrael is strategic. He believes she’s the only one in House Blackthorne who might be reasonable—someone who could be turned against her father. The court favors her brother, but she still holds influence. If we ever have a chance of fracturing the vampire court from within, she’s the key."
Valkyrie narrowed her eyes, skepticism still present. "Then why does it feel more personal than that?”
Cyrus exhaled sharply, feigning reluctance. "Because it is."
She watched him carefully as he continued, his voice dropping lower. "During one of the past battles, Azrael was wounded. Draven had every reason to kill her, but for some reason, he spared her. He’s never said why, not even to me. But in his mind, she owes him a blood debt. He’s waiting for the right time to collect—whether that means turning her against her father or using her for something bigger."
Valkyrie tilted her head, considering his words. "And you’re sure that’s all it is?"
Cyrus met her gaze, steady and unflinching. "I swear it.”
Valkyrie was silent for a long moment before she finally nodded, as if satisfied for now. "Good. I only ask because if something else was at play, it could endanger all of us."
Cyrus forced an easy smile. "Draven knows what he’s doing."
Valkyrie studied him for another second before turning away, disappearing into the crowd of warriors outside the great hall. The moment she was gone, Cyrus let out a breath, tension stiffening his shoulders. That had been too close.
—
The hall was thick with tension, the scent of sweat, dominance, and barely restrained aggression clinging to the air like a storm about to break. Draven’s gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of the assembled Alphas, some brimming with fury, others with wary contemplation. At the center of the gathering, Ronan stood firm, his powerful stance commanding attention as he turned to Ares.
“You would abandon your brothers to face the vampires alone?” Ronan’s voice was sharp, each word a blade aimed at the pride of the WarBlade Alpha. “I saw what happened at the Bloodmoon pack. That was not an isolated attack—it was war. The vampires are gathering, and if we do not unite, we will be slaughtered one by one.”
Ares leaned back in his seat, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression unreadable save for the slight curl of his lips, the barest hint of a sneer. “I do not see why I should spill my warriors’ blood for a war that does not concern me. The Bloodmoon Pack and House Blackthorne have a disagreement? Let them sort it out themselves.*
Draven’s jaw clenched, his muscles coiling like a predator ready to strike. “This isn’t just about the Bloodmoon Pack, and you know it!” His voice was low, lethal. “The vampires planned this. They waited for our guard to be down, for our leaders to be gathered in one place. It was not just one kingdom’s forces that attacked—there were multiple houses involved. This is bigger than any one of us.”
Ares chuckled darkly. “Us? Who are you referring to? Who is ‘us’? I wasn't the one who marked the vampire princess which led to all this. This is all because of Draven’s stupidity so why should I get involved?!”
The words sent a ripple of unease through the room. Some Alphas exchanged glances, the seeds of doubt already taking root. Draven’s eyes darkened, his hands flexing at his sides. “Watch your tongue, Ares.”
Ares stood slowly, deliberately, his predatory gaze locked onto Draven. “Or what?” he drawled, voice mocking. “You’ll order me to fight your war? You’ll growl at me until I submit?” His expression turned cold. “I will not throw my pack into a war for your personal affairs. WarBlade fights when it chooses, and I do not follow weaklings.”
A challenge.
The room went silent. Every Alpha knew what had just happened. Ares had questioned Draven’s strength, his right to lead, and there was only one response to such an insult.
Draven stepped forward. The movement was slow, measured, but it carried the weight of a looming avalanche. “Say that again,” he murmured.
Ares smirked, rolling his shoulders as he prepared for what he knew was coming. “I said—”
Draven struck.
The impact was like thunder cracking through the hall. Ares staggered back but recovered quickly, snarling as he lunged forward, his fists swinging. Draven ducked, his movements fluid as he sidestepped the attack, his own fist crashing into Ares’ ribs with enough force to send him skidding across the stone floor.
The other Alphas rose to their feet, some roaring in approval, others watching with calculating eyes. The hall had become an arena, and this was no mere brawl—this was dominance, a clash between two of the strongest Lycans in existence.
Ares wiped the blood from his mouth, his grin widening. “Good.”
He shifted.
The sound of bones cracking filled the air as his body expanded, muscles twisting, fur sprouting as his face elongated into a monstrous snout. His claws gleamed in the torchlight, and his red eyes burned with the fury of a warrior who lived for the thrill of battle.
Draven followed.
His transformation was seamless, effortless. His form towered over the others, his fur a darker shade than most Lycans, his sheer presence making the air feel heavier. His claws flexed, his canines bared in a snarl that promised devastation.
Ares didn’t wait. He lunged, his claws aiming for Draven’s throat.
Draven caught his wrist mid-strike, the bones cracking beneath his grip. Ares snarled in pain but retaliated immediately, slamming his knee into Draven’s gut before twisting free. They broke apart, circling each other, two apex predators calculating their next kill.
Ares moved first again, feinting left before striking right. His claws raked across Draven’s side, tearing into flesh, but Draven didn’t even flinch. He countered with a devastating uppercut that sent Ares flying into the stone pillar, the impact shaking the entire hall.
Ares growled, shaking the daze from his head. His pride demanded he rise, but his body hesitated for half a second too long.
Draven was on him in an instant.
His claws gripped Ares’ throat, pinning him against the pillar. Ares struggled, but Draven’s strength was absolute. With a snarl, Draven smashed Ares’ head into the stone, once, twice, before throwing him across the room.
The hall was silent, save for the sound of Ares gasping for air.
Draven stepped forward, shifting back into his human form as he loomed over Ares’ battered body. Blood dripped from his knuckles, but his voice was steady, unwavering. “You call me weak, yet you are the one on the ground.” He crouched down, eyes cold as steel. “You can either stand with us, or you can crawl back to your pack, alone.”
Ares groaned, rolling onto his side, coughing up blood. He wiped his mouth, glaring up at Draven, but there was no fight left in his eyes. Not tonight.
Without another word, he pushed himself up, staggering toward the exit. The room watched in silence as Ares limped away, his retreat a clear message: WarBlade would not stand with them.
As the doors slammed shut behind him, Ronan exhaled, stepping forward. “Those who wish to protect our kind, to stand against the vampires, will prepare. We will not wait for them to come to us. We will be ready.”
The remaining Alphas nodded, some hesitant, others resolute. The alliance had been forged, but the divide was still there. And in the shadows, war loomed ever closer.
Draven stood in the center of it all, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. This was only the beginning.