A heavy silence settled over the room. Valkyrie sat poised in her chair, her sharp gaze fixed on Diana, waiting for an answer. The question hung between them like a blade.
Diana feigned confusion at first, her brows knitting together. Then she laughed lightly before she turned look at Valkyrie.
Diana met her gaze without faltering, but there was a moment—a fleeting hesitation—that Valkyrie didn’t miss. Then, smoothly, Diana exhaled and said,
"Azrael? Where did you hear that name?”
Valkyrie remains cold, watching her closely. Diana then shrugs it off. "Ah, you must mean Azrael Blackthorne, the Vampire Princess. She’s well-known, but surely you don’t think Draven has anything to do with her? That would be ridiculous. A Lycan and a Vampire? Impossible.”
Diana leans in as if sharing a secret. "Besides, if Draven had any secret connection to her, wouldn’t I have mentioned it? What reason would I have to hide it from you?”
Diana holds Valkyrie's hands. "You are Draven's future, Valkyrie. He wouldn't waste his breath on a bitter enemy long dead to him."
For a long moment, Valkyrie simply studied her. Diana's words were measured, careful—but careful words were often the ones that carried the most deception.
The tension was interrupted by a knock at the door. One of Valkyrie’s attendants stepped inside, dipping her head respectfully.
"My Lady, it's time."
Valkyrie didn’t respond at first. She merely stood, adjusting the silk of her gown, her mind still turning over Diana’s words. With a final unreadable glance at her future mother-in-law, she stepped forward.
Diana, watching her closely, finally allowed herself to breathe.
The ceremony awaited.
—
The night was alive with the energy of the Bloodmoon pack, their voices rising in celebration beneath the vast sky. A full moon hung overhead, casting an ethereal glow over the gathered Lycans and the honored guests from the Stoneheart pack. Torches flickered against the dark, illuminating the ceremonial grounds, a vast clearing encircled by towering trees that stood as silent sentinels to the ancient traditions about to unfold.
Draven sat at the head of the gathering, his expression unreadable as he observed the revelry. The ceremonial drums thrummed in a steady rhythm, an ancient pulse that vibrated deep in his bones. Despite the celebration, a heavy weight pressed on his chest, suffocating him.
Cyrus, seated beside him, leaned in slightly. “How are you feeling?” His tone was light, but his eyes were watchful.
Draven exhaled, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames ahead. “For the first time in my life, I feel fear,” he admitted, his voice quiet but heavy. “Because whatever choice I make tonight… I lose.”
Cyrus studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Then make the choice you can live with.”
Before Draven could answer, movement in the crowd caught his eye. The Stoneheart delegation approached, their presence commanding as they made their way toward him.
At the forefront was Ronan, Alpha of the Stoneheart pack. He was a massive figure, even among Lycans—broad-shouldered, his dark brown hair streaked with silver, his sharp green eyes betraying a keen intelligence. A leader forged in blood and war.
He stopped before Draven, his presence a force in itself. “Draven.” His voice was deep, carrying the weight of authority.
Draven stood, clasping Ronan’s forearm in a firm grip. “Ronan. Welcome.”
Ronan nodded, his gaze sharp as if searching for weakness. After a beat, he stepped back, gesturing toward the figures at his side.
“This is my mate, Rhea.”
The woman beside him inclined her head gracefully. She had a beauty that was sharp, regal—a presence that spoke of quiet strength. Her amber eyes assessed Draven in a way that made it clear she was not one to be easily impressed.
“A pleasure,” Draven said smoothly.
“And this,” Ronan continued, gesturing toward the towering male at his left, “is my Beta, Varric.”
Varric was a brute of a man, thick with muscle, his features set in a permanent scowl. He gave Draven a short nod, his expression unreadable.
“And my mother, Lady Sigrun.”
Lady Sigrun was an older woman, though the years had done little to dull her fierce aura. Her silver-streaked auburn hair was tied back in elaborate braids, her piercing blue eyes holding the weight of generations. She studied Draven with a sharp, discerning gaze before finally offering a slow nod of approval.
Draven returned the gesture before introducing his own. “This is my Beta, Cyrus.”
Cyrus dipped his head respectfully, though his eyes remained calculating as they flicked between Ronan and his people.
“And Eryx, my Gamma.”
Eryx, ever the quieter of the two, simply gave a short nod in greeting.
Formalities exchanged, Draven turned his gaze back to Ronan. “Your presence honors our pack.”
Ronan smirked, though there was no humor in it. “As it should.”
The moment stretched between them before Ronan gave a single nod and turned away, leading his pack toward their designated seats.
The festivities carried on, the scent of roasted meat and spiced mead thick in the air. Laughter and conversation filled the space, but all of it began to fade into a hushed murmur as the moment everyone had been waiting for arrived.
Draven felt it before he saw it.
A presence. A shift in the air.
Then, Valkyrie emerged.
She was breathtaking.
Draped in a flowing gown of deep blue that trailed behind her, she moved with a regal grace that demanded attention. The intricate embroidery of her dress caught the moonlight, shimmering with threads of silver and gold. Diana followed closely behind, her emerald robes whispering against the ground.
Draven forced himself to his feet as Valkyrie approached. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, he saw something in hers—calculation, understanding.
He knew she could see right through him.
As Valkyrie came to stand beside him, Diana turned her attention to Lady Sigrun. The older woman’s face softened slightly, her eyes warming as she greeted her.
“Diana, it has been too long.”
Diana smiled faintly. “It has.” She embraced the older woman briefly before stepping back, her gaze shifting to Ronan and the rest of his people. “Alpha Ronan, it’s an honor to finally meet you.”
Ronan inclined his head. “And you.”
After pleasantries were exchanged, Diana took her place before the gathering.
The ceremony began.
Diana’s voice rang clear across the gathered Lycans, her words imbued with authority. “We welcome our honored guests from the Stoneheart pack,” she declared. “Tonight, we stand as witnesses under the full moon, before the eyes of the Goddess herself, as Alpha Draven claims his mate.”
A thunderous cheer erupted from the pack.
Draven’s stomach twisted.
Diana continued, her voice unwavering. “Valkyrie of the Stoneheart pack, chosen by the Goddess herself, will be bound to our Alpha. And tonight, their souls will be joined, forever bound in blood and loyalty.”
More cheers. More voices. More expectation.
Draven remained motionless.
An elder stepped forward, carrying a wreath of wildflowers woven into a long strand. His weathered hands worked with precision as he wrapped it around Draven’s and Valkyrie’s joined hands, binding them together in a symbol as old as their kind.
His voice was solemn as he prayed, his words an offering to the Goddess. “Bless this bond, sacred and unbroken. May the moon’s light guide them. May their union bring strength to our people.”
Draven barely heard him.
His mind was elsewhere—on the bond that already existed. On the mark that already lay upon another woman’s skin.
Valkyrie was watching him, sensing his turmoil.
He could feel her sharp eyes studying every twitch of his muscles, every shift in his breathing.
Then, the moment came.
The elder stepped back.
The marking was next.
A silence fell over the gathering.
Draven swallowed hard. His fingers flexed against Valkyrie’s hand, his jaw clenching as he tried to will himself to move. To obey. To do what was expected.
He glanced at Cyrus. Then his mother. Then his younger siblings, Jason and Kara, their wide eyes filled with expectation and faith in him. He couldn't even imagine what would happen to them if he refused. If the pack finds out that his true mate is Azrael.
He closed his eyes.
And surrendered.
His grip tightened slightly on Valkyrie’s waist as he tilted his head toward her neck. His fangs elongated, aching to pierce, to claim. The heat of her skin was inches away.
His breath was uneven. His heart thundered.
He hesitated.
His wolf growled in protest.
His fangs hovered, unmoving.
Then—
The scent hit him.
Sharp. Cold. Metallic.
His body stiffened. His every sense sharpened as the scent curled around him, sickly sweet and unmistakable.
Vampires.
The realization barely registered before the sound of movement—too fast, too many—rippled through the darkness beyond the ceremonial grounds.
Draven’s hand shot out, halting everything. His voice was low, edged with steel.
“Vampires.”
The word alone sent a ripple of tension through the pack.
The air was suddenly thick with an unfamiliar energy. The distant shuffle of feet—many feet—circled them like a predator toying with prey.
Then, all at once, they emerged.
A flood of figures burst from the shadows, leaping over the ceremonial barriers, landing like specters of death. Dozens of them. Their eyes were pitch-black voids. Their fangs gleamed. Silver weapons glinted in the moonlight.
The moment of stillness shattered.
Chaos erupted.
Growls and roars filled the air. Lycans immediately shifted in bursts of fury.
Draven’s pulse pounded as he turned to face the onslaught. His instincts screamed, his wolf snarled.
Something was wrong with these vampires.
Something unnatural.
Their eyes. Their eyes were completely black. As black as void.
And in that moment, as the first blade slashed through the air, he knew—
Tonight was about to become a war.