The sun hung low in the blood-orange sky as Draven and Cyrus rode toward WarBlade territory. The horses beneath them were restless, their hooves crunching the dry dirt road, the scent of ash still lingering in the air. WarBlade was a pack built on iron discipline and strength, but even from a distance, the signs of the ambush were impossible to miss—splintered towers, burned barracks, and the thick weight of mourning clinging to the air like a funeral shroud.
As they passed through the pack’s outer defenses, warriors nodded to them with tight expressions. Many bore fresh wounds, some still wrapped in makeshift bandages. Children were being ushered into homes, their eyes too wide for their age. WarBlade was not just recovering—it was stewing, simmering with rage.
Draven’s brown eyes scanned the destruction. He muttered under his breath, "All this happened just because the vampires truly believed the lycans attacked them."
Cyrus, riding just behind him, responded in a grim tone. "If only they knew the truth."
They dismounted at the steps of the main pack house, a fortress-like structure of black stone and ironwood, and were greeted by two guards who bowed slightly before motioning them inside. The air was thick with anticipation.
Inside, the familiar scent of blood, sweat, and aged wood filled Draven’s nostrils. They made their way past the main corridor, down toward the war chamber at the heart of the building. A looming set of iron-banded doors awaited them.
Draven paused at the threshold and turned to Cyrus. "Wait outside."
Cyrus nodded once, his green eyes narrowing with silent concern as he took position beside the door.
Draven pushed the heavy doors open and stepped into the war chamber.
Eleven other Alphas were already present, seated around a circular stone table carved with ancient runes. Every face turned to him. These were the fiercest leaders of the lycan race, warriors who commanded legions. Each bore the marks of battle—scars on their faces, eyes dulled by lifetimes of war.
"Draven," Ares said, his voice low, hollow.
"Ares," Draven replied with a respectful nod and took his seat.
Ares stood at the head of the table. His face was a mask carved from pain and fury. His dark hair had been cut short since Draven last saw him, and his eyes—once warm with pride—were now empty pits. He looked like hadn’t slept in days. The veins on his arms were taut, and his clenched fists trembled slightly.
He surveyed the gathered Alphas. There was complete utter silence.
"Brothers," Ares began, voice rough with restrained emotion. "I owe you an apology. At our last gathering, I was blinded by pride. I truly believed the vampires wouldn’t dare strike WarBlade. I thought our strength, our numbers, our reputation—would be enough. I thought that what was going on, didn't concern me or my pack.”
A low growl rumbled from Alpha Boros, the grizzled leader of the Jade Skull pack. “We don't blame you, Ares. The vampires have always been cunning bastards!”
Ares took a breath, his chest rising and falling with the weight of grief.
"You’ve all heard by now… my mate, Thena, was murdered during the vampire ambush."
A quiet, collective intake of breath swept the table.
"She was carrying our child."
A murmur of anguish and fury followed. Some Alphas bowed their heads. Others clenched their jaws, their eyes darkening.
Ares’ voice broke, just slightly. "They butchered my family. In cold blood."
Draven’s eyes flicked to him, jaw tight. This was not just a grieving mate speaking. This was a leader cracking.
“They crossed the line,” muttered Alpha Jorik of the IronClaw pack, his fists clenched against the table.
“They murdered innocents. They killed a mother and an unborn child.” Ronan of Stoneheart said.
“And they will pay for that with blood.” Ares said with head held high. "No more posturing. No more restraint. No more waiting for them to make the next move. WarBlade will no longer stand on the sidelines."
He stepped around the table, locking eyes with each Alpha in turn.
"I ask you now… to give me the honor of leading our race into this war. Let me be the sword that strikes for us all. Let me burn their cities. Let me tear down their towers. Let me slaughter their kings!"
One by one, the Alphas began to nod. Then came the verbal affirmations—deep, thunderous voices echoing around the chamber.
“I’ll burn every one of them myself,” added Alpha Fenric of the EmberHowl pack, slamming his fist on the table. “Let’s raze their cities to ash!"
Jorik rose from his seat. “We march to war. Under one banner. Under Ares!”
Ares inclined his head, his voice sharp and unwavering. “Then it’s decided. We will show them the wrath of the lycans! We will not rest until every vampire lies dead! From the oldest to babes in cribs… all of them must die!”
Ares raised his arms as the room erupted. Alphas slammed fists to chests, some howled, others bellowed their agreement. The ancient war chants began—an eerie rhythm of vengeance passed down from the time when the lycans were first forged in blood.
Draven sat in silence.
Cyrus’s words echoed in his mind.
***If only they knew the truth.***
He looked around at the faces twisted in hate, vengeance, and fury—and felt something else.
Dread.
Everything was spiraling beyond control. Rage was a wildfire, and Ares had just lit the match.
And Draven—Alpha of the BloodMoon Pack, strongest among them—was completely helpless to stop it.