Eva's face shifted. Surprise first. Then hesitation. Then fear.
She stepped closer, but didn’t cross the threshold either—respecting the line Azrael couldn’t pass.
“Azrael,” Eva said softly. “What happened?”
Azrael reached for her blindly, her fingers curling into the air between them like she was reaching across an abyss.
“There’s no time to explain. You have to go NOW. PLEASE!”
Her voice was so small now. So shattered.
“He’s all I have left.”
The silence between them cracked. Eva swallowed hard, her jaw tense as she stepped forward. Her boots hit the marble just shy of the sunlight's edge.
Azrael, trembling, unclasped the velvet ribbon at her throat. The ruby choker—the one that had once belonged to her mother—fell into her palm like crystallized blood.
Wordlessly, she extended it to Eva.
“Take this,” she whispered. “Bring him back… or don’t come back at all.”
Eva stared at the necklace, then at Azrael. Her eyes shimmered—not from sunlight, but from the weight of her words. She reached out and took it with trembling fingers, curling it into her palm like a vow.
The moment her skin touched the choker, the sunlight shimmered around her—brighter. The horses neighed in their harnesses as if reacting to something unseen. Eva turned toward the road, slipping the ribbon into her cloak.
“Where is he?”
Azrael’s voice broke. “Down the cliffs. East tower. Hurry—before it’s too late.”
Eva didn’t speak again. She just turned, climbed into the carriage, and gave the order.
Azrael stood in the doorway long after the carriage had disappeared down the winding path, her body shaking as sunlight crept closer to her feet with every passing second. She didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
All she could do now—was hope.
—
The sound of screaming echoed across the Bloodmoon Pack grounds—a sound so raw, so guttural, it didn’t sound human.
Cyrus’s body was twisted in pain as the warriors hauled him across the training fields, their hands struggling to restrain his spasming limbs. Foam clung to the corners of his mouth, his back arched violently, and his eyes—those normally keen, calculating green eyes—had rolled back into his skull.
“Hold him down!” Eryx barked, his voice a thread of panic wrapped in steel. He was already shirtless from training, sweat beading down his chest, but all trace of calm was gone. “Get the healer—NOW!”
Several young warriors ran ahead, calling for the pack healer as others surrounded the Beta, trying to keep him from tearing his own muscles apart. His body convulsed in sharp, jarring waves. Every few seconds, a wrenching scream ripped from his throat—animalistic and heart-wrenching.
Dozens of pack members had gathered around the training ring and along the path to the pack house. Warriors, servants, elders—even pups clung to their mothers, staring in stunned silence.
“What’s happening to him?”
“Is it a seizure?”
“Is he cursed?”
“He’s never been like this before…”
The whispers grew louder with every staggering step.
Eryx kept his focus, one hand braced behind Cyrus’s neck as they finally reached the front steps of the pack house. Two guards threw the doors open just as the healer came rushing down the hall.
“Get him inside, now!” she snapped, guiding them toward the infirmary wing.
They laid Cyrus out on the padded table, the warriors stepping back with wide eyes. His entire body jerked violently every few seconds, his veins glowing faintly beneath his skin with a pulsing, silver hue—unmistakably supernatural.
The healer’s brow furrowed as she leaned over him, pressing two fingers to his temple, then to his pulse. She pried open one of his eyes, muttered something low under her breath, then placed her hand over his chest and shut her eyes, murmuring an incantation of diagnosis.
That’s when the door slammed open behind them.
“What the hell is going on?!” Draven’s voice boomed through the hall like a rolling wave of thunder.
He strode into the room, all broad shoulders and storm-filled eyes, his presence like a hurricane sweeping in. His mother, Diana, was close behind, regal as ever even in simple robes, her expression tight with worry.
Eryx turned to face them, chest heaving. “We were training. Nothing out of the ordinary. Cyrus was fine one moment and then—” He gestured toward the table, helplessness creeping into his voice. “—this.”
Draven stepped closer, jaw clenched tight as he looked down at his second-in-command. Cyrus’s body had stopped flailing, but now he was trembling all over, like something was tearing him apart from the inside. His lips were parted in a silent scream, and sweat soaked his entire body.
Diana moved past Draven and joined the healer, her face pale. “Is it poison?” she asked quickly. “A magical attack?”
The healer didn’t answer right away. She kept her palm over Cyrus’s chest, the glow around her hand shifting in hue. Her eyes fluttered open, narrowed.
“No…” she murmured. “This isn’t poison. It’s not a spell either.”
Draven’s voice was tense. “Then what the hell is it?”
The healer slowly stood upright, removing her hand from Cyrus’s chest like it burned. She turned to face them all, eyes grave. “It’s the mate bond,” she said. “It’s being strained—torn, even. His mate is dying.”
The room went deathly still.
Eryx’s mouth parted slightly. “Mate…?”
Draven blinked once, his brow furrowing. “But Cyrus doesn’t—”
“Doesn’t have one?” Diana finished softly, her tone unreadable.
Draven looked toward her, confused. “He would’ve said something. I would’ve known.”
Diana’s gaze shifted from her son to Cyrus, and something passed across her face—something close to realization. “Not if he was trying to protect them,” she said quietly. “Or you.”
Before Draven could ask what she meant, the door creaked open again and one of the gate guards stepped inside, looking breathless and nervous.
“Alpha,” he said quickly, bowing his head. “There’s someone at the gates requesting entrance.”
Draven straightened, his instincts immediately flaring. “Who?”
The guard glanced up. “He says he’s the Alpha of the WarBlade Pack.”
That name dropped like a stone into the room.
“Ares” Draven muttered, his expression darkening.