The carriage wheels screeched to a halt against the gravel, scattering dust and loose stones into the night air. The ornate black doors of the vehicle burst open before the coachman could dismount.
Azrael stepped out, her boots hitting the earth hard, her long black cloak flowing behind her like a shadow with wings. Her gold eyes, red-rimmed from hours of crying and unspoken grief, scanned the massive spires of Darkholmme Manor. The moon bathed the ivy-covered stone in a cool glow. It looked like something pulled from a fairytale—and yet, it was the only place in the world where she felt like her brother had a chance.
She didn’t wait to be guided. She stormed past the stone archway, her footsteps echoing through the candlelit corridor.
“Where is he?” she demanded, her voice cracking as she addressed a startled servant standing in the foyer.
“This way, my lady,” the servant stammered, bowing quickly before spinning on her heels and leading her down the dark hallways.
Azrael’s heart thundered in her chest as the doors loomed ahead, the scent of old blood, magic, and ash lingering in the air. As the servant opened the tall mahogany doors, Azrael’s breath hitched.
There, lying pale and deathly still on a grand four-poster bed, was Raphael.
Her feet moved before her mind could process, and she rushed inside. The moment she reached him, her knees buckled beside the bed. Her hands reached out, trembling, as she cradled his head onto her lap. Her fingers brushed through the white strands of his hair, now free from ash and soot, though his skin was still too pale—too cold.
“Raphael…” she whispered, her voice cracking, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You idiot… you’re not allowed to leave me.”
She held him tighter, burying her face into his shoulder as quiet sobs overtook her. She barely noticed the doors open behind her again.
Eva entered first, with her graceful stride and keen eyes soft with worry. Behind her were her parents—Lilith, regal and mysterious as always, and Avalon, stoic but visibly disturbed, his crimson eyes landing on Raphael’s form.
Eva moved quickly to Azrael and wrapped her arms around her from behind. Azrael turned and rose to her feet, embracing her tightly.
“Thank you,” Azrael whispered, voice trembling. “Thank you for saving him…”
Eva pulled back, brushing a tear from Azrael’s cheek. “Don’t thank me. You’re my sister in all but blood. I would burn the world for you.”
Azrael gave a watery smile, just as Eva reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out the black choker—her mother’s ruby pendant gleaming once more. She held it out silently.
Azrael gasped softly. Her fingers closed around it reverently. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s okay.” Eva said.
Avalon’s voice broke through the emotional haze.
“What happened, Azrael?” he asked, calm but firm, as his eyes bore into her. “How did your brother end up like this?”
Azrael’s breath caught in her throat. Her mind scrambled for a lie, something that wouldn’t shatter the fragile line she still clung to—something that wouldn’t reveal the truth of her bond with a Lycan, or the brutal betrayal of her father.
“There was a… disagreement,” she said slowly, voice measured. “Father and Raphael argued. It escalated. Raphael challenged him, and it turned into a fight.”
Avalon’s jaw tightened. He looked down at his nephew, lying there as though kissed by death.
“Valerion was always like this since we were chidren,” Avalon muttered, more to himself than to them. “Hot-headed. Arrogant. His ego has always demanded blood for the smallest slight.”
Lilith placed a gentle hand on her husband’s shoulder, her eyes full of sorrow.
“Regardless, Raphael needs more,” she said softly. “He’s healed, yes—but he’s still fading. His blood loss was too severe.”
Azrael looked down at her brother, brushing his hair back from his brow. His breathing was still faint. He was alive, but just barely.
“What do I do?” she asked, voice desperate.
“He needs blood. Not just any,” Avalon said, stepping forward, “but his own kin’s. Your blood, Azrael. It’s the only thing that will fully bring him back.”
Without hesitation, Eva walked to a nearby table and picked up a ceremonial dagger, handing it hilt-first to Azrael.
Azrael moved to sit beside her brother again. She shifted him gently so that his head rested on her lap. With her free hand, she pushed back the long sleeve of her gown and positioned the blade to her wrist.
With a quick breath and no hesitation, she sliced the skin open. Blood immediately welled up, dark and rich. She tilted her wrist over Raphael’s lips.
“Come on, Raphael,” she murmured, voice shaking. “Come back to me.”
The blood dripped into his mouth, drop by drop. At first, nothing happened.
Then—
His eyelids twitched. His lips parted slightly.
A low sound escaped his throat—a groan. Instinct took over. His hand rose shakily, clutching at her wrist. Then, slowly, his fangs sank into her skin.
Azrael flinched but held him there, her fingers stroking his hair as he drank. His breathing deepened. Color began to return to his face.
Azrael smiled through the pain. “That’s it. You’re not allowed to leave me yet.”
—
The fire in the hearth had long since turned to embers, casting a dull orange glow across the stone walls of Draven’s chambers. The room was silent save for the low growl of thunder rolling in the distance. Draven paced in a tight circle, the floor beneath his boots already scuffed from hours of restless movement. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached.
Ares had left just minutes ago, and the weight of his words still echoed in Draven’s mind.
***I’m summoning the Alphas of the Twelve. The WarBlade pack will not only march—we will lead the war against the vampires.***
A war they were being herded into like pawns. And Draven could feel it, something dark moving beneath the surface. Manipulation. Deceit. And they were all too blind with rage and pride to see it.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration rippling through every inch of his towering frame. “Damn it,” he muttered to himself.
He should have spoken to Eryx the moment he returned from Valaem—should have asked if any pack members had gone missing. But everything had spiraled so fast. Between the meeting with the council and the crisis with Cyrus...
***Cyrus.***
A fresh jolt of anxiety twisted in his gut.
The door burst open with a crack that startled the wolf in him. He spun around, body tensing as the scent hit him.
“Mother?”
Diana stood there, her silvery-gray cloak damp from the rain and her expression grave. Her sharp eyes, the same shade of brown as Draven’s, locked on to him with a fierceness that cut through the tension in the air.
“What is it?” Draven asked, heart slamming in his chest. “Is it Cyrus?”
Diana stepped into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft thud. She didn’t speak for a moment, and that hesitation made his heart race faster.
Then she finally said, “Yes, it’s about Cyrus. He’s recovering.”
Draven let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His shoulders dropped, and for a moment, he just stood there in silence, eyes fluttering shut.
“Thank the moon,” he whispered, voice rough with relief.
Diana’s next words cut through the calm before it could settle.
“He’s still unconscious. But the pain has stopped. Whatever was torturing him... it’s passed.”
Draven’s relief darkened again, replaced by a slow churn of unease.
He nodded once. “Then something’s changed.”
Diana tilted her head. “You think this was tied to—?”
Draven’s voice dropped. “Cyrus isn’t just my Beta. He’s bound to someone else now—someone who was dying.”
Diana’s brows lifted slightly, but she said nothing.
Draven looked toward the window, out into the dark night.
***Whoever his mate is... they were slipping away.***
And now—now they weren't.
—
Raphael’s grip loosened, and his eyes fluttered open, still heavy with exhaustion.
“…Azrael?” he whispered, voice hoarse.
“I’m here,” she said quickly, gently laying him back against the pillow.
His gaze shifted sluggishly toward the others. “Where am I?” He rasped.
Lilith stepped forward with a soft smile. “You’re safe. You’re at Darkholmme.”
Azrael leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Rest. You need to heal fully.”
Raphael’s eyes began to close again, and he slipped back into unconsciousness—this time, peaceful.
Azrael turned to Lilith, a question pressing hard in her chest, refusing to be silenced.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, but… I forgot in the chaos.”
Lilith tilted her head. “What is it?”
Azrael hesitated. “Are there any witches… with the power to control minds? Not just individuals—but large numbers. Crowds. Armies.”
Lilith’s expression grew immediately serious. She shook her head.
“No. That sort of power doesn’t exist—not naturally. Only by practicing the darkest form of magic—black magic. It is forbidden, deadly. It eats away at the soul. The covens destroy any witch found tampering with it. There’s no forgiveness for that path.”
Avalon narrowed his eyes. “Why are you asking, Azrael?”
Azrael lowered her gaze for a moment, then raised her head. Her gold eyes were sharp, haunted, but clear.
“Because… I have something to tell you.”