The battlefield was silent now.
No more howls of rage. No more screams of the dying. Only the distant crackling of torches and the labored breaths of the surviving Lycans filled the cold night air.
Draven stood in the center of it all, his bare feet planted in the blood-soaked earth. The moon, high and full, cast a silver glow over the carnage, illuminating the severed limbs, the gaping wounds, the broken bodies of both vampire and Lycan alike. The ceremonial grounds, once a sacred place, were now nothing but a slaughterhouse.
The smell was suffocating—copper, burnt flesh, the sharp scent of fear and fury lingering in the air. Blood painted the ground in deep pools, congealing beneath his feet.
Draven exhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling with measured control. Around him, the rest of his warriors shifted back into their human forms, panting, bruised, some clutching their wounds, but all still standing. Their victory had come at a cost.
Cyrus wiped the back of his hand across his jaw, smearing blood that wasn’t his. His emerald eyes flickered with suspicion as he took in the scene. “Something about this ambush wasn’t normal.”
Draven’s gaze flickered to his Beta, and he could see the same unease in his expression that sat heavy in his own gut. He hadn’t spoken it aloud yet, but the battle had felt wrong.
“They were disorganized,” Draven muttered, scanning the bodies of their fallen enemies. “Reckless. Even for vampires.”
“They fought like they were desperate,” Cyrus agreed, his lips curling slightly. “Like they weren’t meant to win, just to inflict as much damage as possible.”
Ronan scoffed, rolling his shoulders, his skin still glistening with sweat and blood. “Does it matter?” he said, his voice rough with exhaustion. “The vampires made their move. They planned an ambush.” He turned, spitting onto the ground. “That won’t go unanswered.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the surviving Lycans. Their fury was tangible, simmering beneath the surface, waiting to erupt.
Eryx, standing a few feet away, surveyed the aftermath with a calculating gaze. His silver eyes gleamed in the moonlight as he spoke. “This is the second time our pack has been ambushed.” He turned his head toward Draven, his tone measured. “The first time, it was the Vampire Princess of House Blackthorne but this?.... This has House Blackthorne’s name written all over it.”
Draven’s jaw tightened.
Rhea, Ronan’s mate, crossed her arms, her piercing gaze locked on Draven. “Valerion must have been plotting this for a while.” There was a pause before she added, “After all, you did mark his daughter.”
Silence.
The words settled over them like a heavy fog.
Draven turned his head slowly toward her, his expression unreadable, though his body tensed.
“You know about that?”
Ronan let out a dry chuckle, cracking his knuckles. “Who doesn’t?” His smirk was knowing, but there was respect in his tone. “All the Lycan packs have heard about it.” He shook his head. “It was a bold move, Draven. Disgracing the Vampire King like that.”
Draven didn’t answer.
Because he hadn’t marked Azrael to disgrace Valerion. He hadn’t even been thinking about the politics, the implications, or the war it would bring.
He had marked her because the bond had demanded it. Because every inch of his being needed to claim her, to carve his presence into her very skin so that no one—not her father, not her brother, not her court—could take her from him.
Valkyrie, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. “This vampire princess,” she mused, tilting her head, curiosity flickering in her blue-green eyes. “What’s her name?”
No one thought much of the question at first.
Ronan frowned, thinking for a moment before replying, “Azrael.”
Something shifted in Valkyrie’s face as soon as her brother said Azrael's name. A flicker of recognition.
Her lips parted slightly before she pressed them into a thin line, her brows drawing together in a way that told Draven she was thinking—putting something together in her mind.
But she didn’t voice it. Not yet.
Instead, Eryx let out a slow breath. “I smell war on the horizon,” he murmured, his voice like a low growl. His fingers flexed at his sides as his gaze darkened. “And we need to start preparing. Before the vampires make another move, and it will be too late for us.”
Ronan nodded, turning to Draven. “I’ll send word to the other Alphas,” he said. “The other Lycan territories need to know what’s coming. In a fortnight, we’ll gather our forces and decide how to strike back. The vampires will be doing the same.”
Draven gave a slow nod. “Do it.”
But even as the decision was made, his mind was elsewhere.
Valerion.
The Vampire King was ruthless. But he wasn’t careless. He didn’t throw away warriors for nothing.
So why?
Why would he send them here? Especially after their truce back in Valaem.
And more importantly…
Did Azrael know?
Draven had sent her a letter and still there was no response.
Not even a sign that she’d received it.
His jaw clenched. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
There were too many unanswered questions. Too many uncertainties.
But one thing was clear.
If Valerion wanted war, Draven would give it to him.
And by the time it was over, the Vampire King would wish he had never made an enemy of him.