The wheels of Eva’s carriage skidded to a halt on the jagged, uneven terrain at the eastern edge of the castle cliffs. The horses neighed restlessly, their hooves scraping stone, almost as if they too sensed the dread clinging to the air like smoke.
Eva flung the door open before the footman could reach for it, her cloak flowing behind her like a torn shadow. The scent hit her first—sharp, thick iron, like rusting blades drenched in blood. Her heart thudded in her chest, wild and relentless, as her feet touched the scorched earth.
She ran.
A blur of motion, her vampire speed tearing across stone and dirt as the scent of blood grew heavier, fouler. The sky above was mercilessly bright, the sun glaring down with predatory focus. But even through the burning light, she saw it—curling wisps of dark smoke rising from behind a jagged wall of rock, like a beacon of agony.
Her boots skidded against gravel as she rounded the stone.
And stopped dead.
There he was.
***Raphael.***
—or what was left of him.
The scream that built in her throat never made it past her lips. Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between horror and heartbreak.
His body was crumpled in a grotesque sprawl, twisted at unnatural angles. Bones jutted out from ruined limbs, exposed and splintered, ivory against the blackened meat of his charred flesh. His clothes had burned away entirely, leaving only tatters melted into scorched skin. His face—once regal, cruel, proud—was barely recognizable. The fire had taken it all. Only his golden eyes, dim and fading, gave any indication of who he was.
He was lying in a pool of his own blood, the earth beneath him soaked through like a sacrifice made to the gods of pain. The blood sizzled softly under the sun.
And yet—he lived.
Barely.
Eva dropped to her knees beside him, eyes wide with disbelief and anguish. She didn’t hesitate. Her hands flared with magic, the air around them dropping in temperature instantly as frost crackled along her fingertips.
With a gasp of breath, she slammed her palm to the earth.
A dome of ice burst from the ground, enclosing them in a sphere of shadow and cold. The sunlight disappeared instantly, and the temperature dropped to freezing, ice crawling up the rock walls and down over Raphael’s blood. Relief. Silence.
He stirred.
Barely.
A cracked, wet gasp wheezed from his throat. His mouth moved, lips splitting and bleeding as he tried to speak.
Eva leaned closer, her hair brushing his ruined skin like silk.
“Am... I... dead?”
His voice was a ghost. A whisper dragged across shards of glass.
“No,” Eva said softly, her voice breaking. “You’re not. But you need help. Now.”
She reached out and touched his cheek. He flinched.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Azrael sent me. You're safe now.”
His eyes flickered, wetness gathering at the edges, though no tears fell—his body was too broken to spare the water.
“Don’t talk. Save your strength.”
Eva’s magic pulsed, weaving around them in glowing threads of silver and blue. She whispered an incantation, her mother’s voice echoing in the syllables, ancient and forbidden. Energy poured into Raphael, easing his pain enough that his trembling slowed. But the damage was immense. He would not last long—not like this.
She would carry him. She would drag him through fire if she had to.
But for now, she clutched him close, shielding him with her body, as her magic held the ice dome around them.
—
Draven strode out from the pack house, his boots heavy against the wooden floorboards, every step crackling with tension. He had left Cyrus inside with the pack healer and his mother, though his mind still burned with questions. With anger. With dread.
The scent of the new arrival reached him before the guards did. He descended the steps in time to see the pack warriors flanking a lone figure at the edge of the training grounds.
Ares, Alpha of the WarBlade Pack.
A man who had once been rage restrained by duty. Now, that restraint was gone.
Draven halted in the dirt, eyes narrowing.
Ares stood in silence, hands at his sides, posture straight. The sunlight caught his armor—scratched, bloodstained. His face was carved in stone. The wind toyed with the ends of his dark, braided hair. He looked like something sculpted from war.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
The only sound was the wind moving through the trees and the distant murmurs of the pack behind them. Even the warriors flanking Ares seemed... unsettled, unsure.
Draven stepped forward, slow, deliberate.
Their eyes locked.
Ares didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
Then finally—Draven’s voice cut through the silence, low and sincere.
“I heard about what happened to your pack,” he said. “And... your mate.”
A muscle in Ares’ jaw twitched.
“I can’t begin to imagine the pain you're in. I’m sorry, Ares. Truly.”
Ares said nothing.
Draven stepped closer. “I mean it. I wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone.”
And then, Ares finally spoke.
His voice was low. Quiet. Deadly.
“I don’t need your condolences, Draven.”
His eyes gleamed with something dark—rage held just barely at bay.
“I didn’t come here for sympathy.”
He took a single step forward. The warriors shifted behind him, but none moved.
“I came here... because I’ve changed my mind.”
Draven’s brow furrowed. “Changed your mind?”
Ares nodded slowly.
“At the meeting of the Alphas back in Stoneheart, I challenged you. I thought that I shouldn't get involved because what was going on at the time didn't concern me. But I was wrong. They weren’t just coming after you… they were always going to come after all of us.” His voice cracked once, barely perceptible, then hardened again.
“But now? After what the vampires did to her? To my mate? To my people?”
A long silence.
“I want blood.”
Draven’s eyes darkened.
Ares’ voice dropped to a whisper—a quiet threat that carried like a roar.
“I want revenge. I want them to feel what I felt. Tenfold. I want them to burn. I want their children to wail, their cities to fall. I want the bloodsuckers to weep in ruin before they die screaming.”
Draven’s lips parted. A flicker of emotion crossed his face—sympathy, uncertainty—but before he could speak, Ares took one more step.
“I won’t stop, Draven. Not until every vampire has been wiped off the surface of this world.”
The air around them grew still. Too still.
Even the wind dared not move.
Now, the war had truly begun.