The silence that followed Azrael’s words was brittle.
Eva, Avalon, and Lilith exchanged a sharp glance, something passing between them—equal parts of curiosity and unease.
"What is it that you want to tell us?" Avalon asked, his voice calm but edged in caution.
Azrael exhaled slowly, gathering her thoughts. Her gold eyes shimmered with unreadable weight as she glanced toward Raphael, who now slept with a deep, steady rhythm—healing.
She raised her gaze again and spoke, her voice, low and deliberate. “I need to take you back to the night of the Blackthorne massacre. The Royal Ball.”
Lilith’s brows furrowed. Eva crossed her arms, stepping closer.
“That night,” Azrael went on, “when the Lycans attacked... I remember seeing them clearly. They weren’t just feral or bloodthirsty.” Her voice turned grim. “Their eyes. All of them—pitch black.”
“Not silver. Not gold. Not even the Alpha reds,” Lilith murmured.
“No,” Azrael confirmed. “Completely black. As if there was nothing human—or beast—left inside them.”
Lilith’s expression grew stormy, while Avalon’s jaw tightened, thoughtful.
Azrael paused, carefully choosing her next words. “I didn’t want to bring this up before because I wasn’t sure. But... I’ve received information. From my informants. Spies positioned near the Bloodmoon Pack.”
Eva gave Azrael a subtle side-eye—barely noticeable, but Azrael caught it. Of course she would. Eva already knew the truth: Azrael didn’t have informants. Draven was the source.
Azrael ignored the look and pressed on.
“They were ambushed that same night,” she said. “By vampires. And not just from one region—vampires from several kingdoms. Including Blackthorne.”
Avalon’s expression turned sharply incredulous. “That can’t be right. Blackthorne didn’t even mobilize any warriors that night. Not a single unit was dispatched toward the Bloodmoon territory.”
“Exactly,” Azrael said, her tone clipped. “But that’s what my informant said. And there’s more.”
She turned toward all of them. “The head of one of the vampires who attacked the Lycans... was brought back. I examined it myself. And the eyes—just like the Lycans—were pitch black. And when I pierced through it...” she hesitated, searching for the right words, “black energy seeped out. Like ink or smoke. Alive and cold.”
Eva and Lilith stiffened, realization dawning on the both of them.
“Black magic,” they said simultaneously, their voices barely above a whisper.
Avalon took a step back, hands on his hips as he tried to absorb the information.
“So you’re saying,” he began slowly, “someone is manipulating everything. Both sides. Pulling strings to push vampires and Lycans into a war we didn’t start?”
Azrael nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“But why?” Eva asked, her brows drawing together. “Who benefits from this?”
“I don’t know,” Azrael admitted. Her voice had softened, a hint of frustration beneath it. “But I plan to find out.”
She turned toward Lilith. “That’s why I need you. I need you to investigate the covens. Find out if anyone is practicing black magic. Anyone, even from the outskirts or the cast-outs. If someone’s been breaking the ancient laws...”
Lilith’s expression had already hardened. She nodded once. “I’ll see what I can uncover. But if any of the witches have been using black magic—especially on this scale—it won’t go unnoticed for long.”
Avalon folded his arms. “Does Valerion know about any of this?”
Azrael’s gold eyes dimmed. “No. And I don’t plan on telling him—not yet. It wouldn’t change anything. Especially now.”
“Because of the WarBlade assault,” Avalon said quietly.
Azrael nodded.
They stood in tense silence for a moment. Then, movement behind them reminded them of Raphael, still resting.
The silence held until Azrael whispered, “We’re running out of time.”
—
The rain had lightened outside, but the storm inside Draven hadn’t.
The heavy doors creaked as he stepped into Cyrus’ chamber. The room was dim, lit only by a few lanterns glowing softly on the walls. The air was heavy with herbs, salves, and faint incense from the healer’s work.
Cyrus lay on the bed, pale but breathing—awake. His green eyes were open, though dulled with exhaustion. His skin was clammy, but the worst had passed.
The pack healer and two assistants were quietly working around him, checking his pulse, whispering healing words.
Draven took one look and his voice cut through the quiet.
“Leave us.”
The healer didn’t argue. She bowed her head and led her assistants out. The door shut behind them with a soft click.
Draven stood there for a moment, just looking at him.
Cyrus tried to sit up.
“Don’t,” Draven said, walking over and pulling a chair next to him. He sat, his tall form folding in a rare show of restraint. He reached forward and gently grasped Cyrus’ wrist, then his hand.
“You really had me scared for a moment,” Draven said, his voice quieter than usual.
Cyrus gave a faint smile, cracked and tired. “Sorry to disappoint.”
Draven smirked despite himself. “You don’t get to go out like that. Not without pissing me off first.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Draven’s tone shifted.
“When were you going to tell me?”
Cyrus blinked. “Tell you... what?”
Draven lifted a brow. “That you found your mate.”
Cyrus’ expression faltered—guilt and conflict written plainly across his face.
“I wasn’t... hiding it,” he muttered. “I just... didn’t know how.”
Draven tilted his head slightly. “You didn’t think I’d understand?”
“I wasn't sure of how you would react,” Cyrus said, half a laugh, half a groan.
Draven leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Depends. Who is it?”
Cyrus hesitated. His eyes flicked toward the wall, then back to Draven.
A long moment passed.
Finally, his lips parted, and he said it.
“Raphael.”