Chapter 35 The Alpha’s War
35\. The Alpha’s War
If castles could hold their breath, Dravenmoor would’ve suffocated by now.
The great hall that used to echo with clashing swords and sarcastic arguments over dinner was now a war room a place where strategy and madness had started sounding suspiciously the same.
Lucian stood at the head of the long obsidian table, a storm in human form, every inch of him carved from tension. The council was gathered, though “gathered” was a generous word more like fractured but pretending not to be.
Half of them bowed their heads to him in obedience. The other half bowed because they knew what happened when they didn’t.
Maps littered the table. Red marks bled across parchment enemy lines, Silvermoon’s movement, and the northern ridge where Rowan Hale’s army was closing in.
Lucian’s hands braced against the table’s edge, veins glowing faintly silver beneath his skin. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, and if the rumors were right had probably threatened at least three diplomats before breakfast.
I was supposed to be quiet in these meetings, but as a reader who already read this part in the novel Blood Moon Requiem from spoilers, you tend to have opinions.
“So let me get this straight,” I said, arms crossed, perched on the edge of a chair that was definitely too big for me. “You’re declaring open war on Silvermoon because your curse is flaring, your generals are scared, and the last time this happened, half of Lunareth burned down?”
Dozens of eyes turned toward me.
Lucian didn’t.
He just said, “You’re suggesting I do nothing?”
“Yes, preferably while alive,” I shot back. “Because, fun fact, I’ve read this before, and spoiler alert: you don’t survive Act Three.”
That made him look up.
And when Lucian Drevane looked at you, it wasn’t a casual glance it was a gravitational event.
He tilted his head, voice low. “Act Three?”
“Figure of speech.” I swallowed. “You die. Horribly. Lots of blood. Great drama. Terrible reviews.”
A few of the councilmen exchanged bewildered looks, probably wondering if I was hexed or high.
Lucian’s lips twitched. “I see.”
Elijah cleared his throat, bless his diplomatic soul. “The scouts confirmed that Silvermoon’s front lines are advancing faster than anticipated. They’ve allied with the Halecrest rebels. If we don’t act—”
Lucian cut him off. “We will act. We’ll meet them at the ridge before the Blood Moon rises.”
Blood Moon.
The phrase hit me like a punch.
Because I’d read this part. I’d lived through its pages, screaming internally while sipping coffee at 3 AM, thinking, wow, this villain is so tragic and hot that made me want to read the whole novel.
Now I was standing in the middle of it.
“Lucian,” I said softly. “You can’t fight under the Blood Moon. That’s when the curse takes full control. It’s exactly how—”
“How I die?” He looked at me again, sharper now. “Maybe this time, I don’t.”
The council erupted—shouting, arguing, desperate voices overlapping.
“You can’t risk—”
“The prophecy—”
“The curse will—”
Lucian slammed his hand down. The room fell silent.
The sound wasn’t loud, but it carried authority. The kind that made walls flinch.
“I will not sit in the dark and wait for Silvermoon to tear down what’s mine,” he said, voice like steel. “Let Rowan come. Let him bring his army. The last time I bled under a Blood Moon, the gods called me a monster. This time, I’ll make them worship one.”
Okay. Great. Wonderful. Totally fine. That exact line was one of the promotional lines in Tiktoks that made everyone want to read this.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Do you hear yourself? You’re quoting your own villain monologue.”
He glanced at me, faint amusement flickering in his eyes. “Was it a good one?” he whispered.
“Yes. Chilling. Five stars. Don’t actually do it.”
Lucian’s smirk faded. “You think fate can’t be rewritten?”
“I think fate doesn’t care about your ego.”
He took an intent glance at me, and suddenly the whole war room felt smaller. “Then let me prove it wrong.”
The silver in his veins pulsed brighter, as if the curse itself agreed.
“Your highness,” Elijah warned, “the Blood Moon amplifies everything the curse, the bond, even your control over the pack. It’s unpredictable.”
Lucian didn’t blink. “So is war.”
And with that, he turned to the table, dragging a line across the map where Silvermoon’s forces were last spotted. “We strike here. At dawn.”
Dawn.
Exactly as the book said.
Exactly how it started the Battle of Dravenmoor pack and Silvermoon pack on the Ridge, the war that ended in his death.
I stood there, numb, as the council scrambled into motion. Orders were given. Messengers ran. Armor clinked like ghosts.
History was looping, line by cursed line.
And I was watching it happen.
Hours later, the corridors of Dravenmoor hummed with preparation. The air reeked of steel and adrenaline. Wolves in armor passed, heads bowed to their Alpha King.
I found Lucian on the battlements, watching the horizon.
The Blood Moon had begun its climb slow, inevitable, glowing like an open wound.
“You’re really going through with this,” I said quietly.
He didn’t turn. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Yes, you do. You could—oh, I don’t know—not die?”
He exhaled through his nose, the faintest trace of a smile. “You’re scared.”
“Of losing my favorite character? Absolutely.”
“Keira.”
His tone was soft, dangerous, like he was saying my name just to see how it fit in his mouth.
“I’ve read this scene,” I said, stepping closer. “You march out at dawn. Rowan meets you at the ridge. He calls you a monster. You laugh. He kills you.”
“Then let me rewrite it,” Lucian murmured.
“That’s not how this works.”
“Maybe it is now.” He turned, eyes catching the moonlight silver on silver. “If what you said was true, that you read my life as a book. That means one thing, you weren’t in the book before. You changed everything just by being here.”
I shook my head. “Not enough. You will still die if you choose this path.”
He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face, and for a moment, his fingers lingered. “Then watch me live.”
The mark on my neck burned faintly, echoing his heartbeat. The same pulse, the same rhythm. His curse. His craving.
“Lucian—”
He leaned in, so close I could taste the war on his breath. “If I win tomorrow,” he said, voice low, “then the gods were wrong. If I lose—”
“I’ll never forgive you,” I finished for him.
He smiled, faintly. “Good.”
And then he was gone walking down the stone steps, cloak sweeping like shadow, heading into a destiny that was supposed to end him.
I stood there long after he vanished, watching the Blood Moon climb higher, painting Dravenmoor in red.
The same lines from the novel echoed in my head, cruel and familiar:
And beneath the crimson light, the Tyrant Alpha fell cursed, unloved, unredeemed.
But as the drums
of war thundered through the valley below, I whispered into the night,
“Not this time.”
Because if Lucian Drevane was going to defy fate then so was I.