" I finally found you" the vampire said and fell into darkness.
Lycaon didn't know who this vampire was but something about him was… off.
He wasn't like the other vampires.There was no sneer, no malice in his expression. Just exhaustion. Blood. And something almost... human.
He seemed familiar. Too familiar.Not just in appearance — but in the way his presence stirred something deep within Lycaon.Like a memory he couldn't reach, or a dream slipping through his claws.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. He was running out of time.He needed to decide now.Tear the vampire apart, end it all, like instinct demanded. Or drag him back and get the answers clawing at his mind.
The vampire was weak. Barely conscious. No threat.But the old warning echoed in his head like a growl in the dark:
"Never trust a vampire. Not even when they're broken. Especially then."
Lycaon's claws flexed.
Still… something in him couldn't let go.
Without another thought, Lycaon scooped the vampire into his arms. His eyes burned as he turned to the werewolves guarding the edge of the border. A silent command passed between them — a glare sharper than words.
The three wolves hesitated, uncertain. But none dared disobey their Alpha.
With a flick of movement, Lycaon vanished into the trees — fast as lightning, silent as shadow — carrying the vampire across the border and into werewolf territory.
Meanwhile, the city stood on the edge of collapse. What was once a thriving, howling heartbeat of the werewolf clans had been reduced to wreckage and silence.Houses lay in splinters, their walls crushed beneath the weight of battle. The scent of blood and ash lingered in the air, clinging to every broken stone and shattered window.
Children cried in the streets, clinging to one another as the realization of their loss settled in. Wives knelt beside fallen warriors, their sobs muffled by the smoke, their eyes empty from watching their mates die fighting. Entire bloodlines had been severed in a single night and the soldiers… those who had once stood proud and unshakable, now lay in torn armor and torn flesh — many never to rise again.
The werewolves had taken a devastating blow — one they hadn't seen coming, not on sacred ground, not within the safety of their own borders. Their pride, their unity, their numbers — all shattered in a matter of hours.
As if in quiet mourning, the wind began to stir. It rustled through the trees gently, whispering through the wreckage as if trying to soothe the mourning souls left behind. It was no match for the silence of grief, but it moved through the leaves anyway — soft, steady, like the world itself was offering a moment of stillness in apology.
The remaining warriors, bloodied but breathing, were gathered and tended to. Their wounds ran deep, both in body and in spirit. Healers worked quickly, stitching torn flesh, salving burns, and speaking in hushed tones. There was no time to cry, only to survive.
The Grey Alphas stepped forward, assuming command with steady strength. Second only to the Black Alphas, they held authority not through brute force alone, but through wisdom, calm, and discipline. It was their duty to restore order in the aftermath, to patrol the inner city and ensure the young, the elderly, and the defenseless were protected. They moved swiftly through the wreckage, offering food to the hungry, blankets to the cold, and shelter to those left homeless.
They didn't grieve in public. They didn't show their pain. But their eyes burned with the promise of vengeance and the burden of leadership.
the black alpha, they were out side city guarding the borders with full force, not getting an ounce of rest after the battle, they didn't dared move at least not tonight.
Alvric Thorne, the revered leader of the werewolves, stood in the heart of the stone-carved manor — the last sanctuary left untouched by blood and ash. He had summoned every survivor there, ensured the wounded were treated, and the children wrapped in furs. The old walls, once a symbol of strength, now echoed with quiet sobs and uncertain breathing.
But the one person who mattered most was still missing. His son.
Lycaon.
The heir of the pack. The wolf who had led the defense, who'd driven the vampires back into the shadows, who had bought their people time to live — was now nowhere to be found.
Alvric scanned the faces crowding the manor — warriors, elders, mothers clutching pups — but Lycaon's was not among them. Not in the corners. Not outside. Not even in the healing chambers where the injured were laid.
The night deepened. The moon had vanished behind a veil of clouds, and the stars blinked in eerie stillness, as if they were watching… waiting.
A creeping unease curled in Alvric's chest like frost. He was not a man prone to panic, but this silence — this emptiness — made something ancient stir in him. Just as he moved to shift, to tear through the forest and find his son himself...
The doors opened. A gust of cold air swept into the manor. And there he was.
Lycaon. Bloodied. Breathing. Alive.
He had taken one step toward the door when it opened.
Lycaon stood there, and cradled in his arms… a stranger draped in torn black robes, blood staining every inch of him, skin pale as moonlight.
The scent in the air was unmistakable.Vampire. Not ashes. Not slain. Not defeated.
Preserved. Protected.
And the silence that followed was heavier than any howl. Above the sobs of children, the cracking of stone beneath heavy footsteps, the air seemed to hold its breath.
What had Lycaon brought home… and why had he spared it?
Alvric stepped forward, his shoulders wrapped in blood-soaked bandages, his towering frame shaking not from pain — but fury.
His eyes, red-rimmed and weary, locked onto his son.
"Why, Lycaon?" he growled, voice rough and raw."Why did you bring the vampire back alive… and not in pieces?"
Lycaon didn't flinch. Didn't lower his gaze. He simply stood still blood drying on his jaw, the weight of the vampire still in his arms, and silence thick around him.
Then, with measured calm, he spoke each word deliberate, as if he were testing them before letting them go.
"Because something's different about this one," he said quietly."He knew me. Spoke my name… before he passed out."
He paused, eyes scanning the faces in the room — some filled with horror, others with disbelief.
"He stood between our borders. Alone. Surrounded by a massacre, yet didn't strike. He could've killed me… but he didn't."
Lycaon's voice grew colder, firmer.
"There's more to this than an attack. He's not just another vampire. He's a message."
And the silence that followed was heavier than any howl. And above all the broken voices and cracked stone, the unspoken question hung heavy in the air:
How did the vampires breach the border… and why had they come for just one? who was the werewolf?