The weight of the mate bond was a silent, insidious thing—never demanding but ever-present. He had forced himself to ignore it, to suppress the instinctual pull clawing at his insides. But now, something was wrong.
Draven sat in the grand hall of his stronghold, the torches casting long shadows over the war maps stretched before him. His warriors stood in wait, awaiting his orders. Yet his mind was elsewhere. His fingers twitched, his jaw tightened, his wolf growled lowly within him. The pain wasn’t his, but he could feel it. A faint, ghostly sensation, like distant echoes of suffering. **Azrael.**
It wasn’t overwhelming—it didn’t cripple him—but it was enough to gnaw at his focus. He closed his fists, digging his nails into his palms, willing himself to ignore it. **She is not your concern.**
Cyrus, his Beta, noticed. "You're distracted." His sharp green eyes studied Draven, his voice measured but knowing.
Draven exhaled through his nose, leaning back against his throne-like chair. "It’s nothing."
Cyrus raised an eyebrow. "It’s her, isn’t it?"
Draven’s expression darkened. "I don’t want to talk about it."
Cyrus crossed his arms, leaning slightly forward. "Ignoring it won’t make it go away, Alpha. If she’s in pain, your wolf will only push harder."
Draven clenched his jaw. "Do you think I don’t know that?"
The mate bond was merciless. It did not care that they were enemies, that she despised him, that he should despise her. His wolf only knew that his mate was suffering and demanded that he go to her, that he fix it. It took every ounce of his discipline not to ride straight into enemy territory.
And yet… something inside him, something primal, whispered that this was important. That whatever was happening to her would shift the tides of their war.
"Find out what’s happening in the vampire court," Draven finally said. "I won’t act—not yet. But I want to know what they are plotting."
Cyrus nodded, his eyes sharp with understanding. "I’ll send word immediately."
Draven gave a final glance at the war map, but it no longer held his full attention.
***Azrael. What is happening to you?***
—
Azrael's body trembled on the cold marble floor. Pain twisted through her in violent waves, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
The court was in chaos.
"My lady!" Eva was at her side, gripping Azrael’s hands, trying to still her convulsions. Blood smeared across the floor from her nails clawing into her own palms.
Raphael stood, tension carved into his face. "This is because of the mark," he declared, his voice edged with fury.
"It is poisoning her," Lord Cassius agreed, his eyes dark with judgment. "The Lycan filth has tainted our princess."
"**ENOUGH!**," Valerion’s voice cut through the pandemonium. The Vampire King rose from his throne, his wine-red eyes burning with a quiet fury. "I will not have my court descend into madness like witless mortals."
The nobles fell silent, their whispers dying in their throats.
Valerion stepped forward, his gaze locked on Azrael’s shivering form. "This is proof of the mark’s insidious nature," he said coldly. "We cannot allow this to continue." He turned to Avalon, his brother and the vampire responsible for their alliance with the witches. "Summon them. Now!"
Avalon nodded. "As you wish, my king."
A ripple of unease spread through some of the nobles.
Raphael, still at his sister’s side, shot Avalon a sharp look. "Can they even remove a Lycan Alpha’s mark? Have they done it before?"
Avalon hesitated, then admitted, "It will not be simple. Draven is no ordinary Lycan. His mark is bound by something stronger than mere possession—it is the mate bond itself."
Murmurs erupted again.
"Then it is impossible?" Lord Cassius demanded.
"No," Avalon corrected. "But it will be difficult. Dangerous."
"Dangerous to whom?" A noblewoman’s voice cut through the tension. Lady Selene, one of the oldest vampires in the court, sat with her back impossibly straight, her silver eyes cold. "To the witches? Or to the princess?"
Avalon’s lips pressed into a thin line. "The witches will try to ensure her safety. But…"
"But there are no guarantees," Raphael finished for him, his tone unreadable. His golden eyes flickered toward his sister’s pained face. His fingers twitched at his side, as if resisting the urge to reach out to her.
"Then we should not rush into witchcraft without understanding the risks," a noble argued.
"Agreed," Raphael said, surprising some of the court. He turned to his father. "The Lycans will not attack overnight. We have time to think before we act rashly."
Eva, still holding Azrael’s hand, looked up sharply. "She does not have time," she hissed. "Can’t you see her?"
Raphael’s jaw clenched, but before he could respond, a choked gasp left Azrael’s lips. Her entire body arched off the floor, a cry of pain tearing from her throat.
The sound sent a shiver through even the most hardened nobles.
And then, as if the pain had reached its peak—Azrael's body stilled.
Her breathing was shallow but even. The tremors stopped. The court watched in silence as Eva hovered over her, brushing strands of hair from her pale face.
"She’s unconscious," Eva whispered.
Valerion’s gaze darkened. "Summon the witches," he repeated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We end this."
The court was divided. Some nodded in agreement, others exchanged uneasy glances, and a few whispered behind their hands.
In the silence, Raphael exhaled through his nose, his face carved from stone. He glanced at Azrael one last time before looking away.