The Noctari Forest was always silent. As if every creature understood that the darkness here wasn't just the absence of light—it was something alive, breathing, watching. Thick mist clung to the gnarled black trees, their twisted branches reaching for the sky like claws. At its heart stood a forgotten stone tower, home to its last remaining occupant—Lysandra Draven.
From the tower's peak, Lysandra gazed at the sky. The moon glowed faintly, half-veiled by clouds, as if waiting for something to come. She could feel the tension vibrating in the air, a whisper echoing in her mind. The eclipse was drawing near. And with it, a fate long written was beginning to stir.
Inside her chamber, red candles flickered wildly, responding to the energy around them. Old books with blackened leather covers lined the shelves—some coated in dust, others worn from frequent use. A wooden table in the center of the room was cluttered with potions, pulsating crimson crystals, and a silver dagger engraved with ancient markings. Symbols of unknown origin adorned the ceiling, glowing dimly under the moon's touch.
Lysandra reached for a small glass vial filled with thick, red liquid. Her emerald-green eyes glowed in the candlelight as she inhaled deeply, letting the scent of metal and spices seep into her senses. As her eyelids fluttered shut, the air around her shuddered. Shadows in the corners of the room began to stir, crawling up the walls as if they had a will of their own.
She opened her eyes and whispered an ancient incantation. Instantly, the shadows stretched and formed a faint figure—a reflection of herself—standing before her with empty, hollow eyes. A voice echoed from within the darkness, mirroring hers, but deeper, heavier.
"What do you seek?"
Lysandra's lips curled into a smirk. "The future. Or perhaps, the past."
Soft footsteps emerged from the shadows behind her. A hooded figure knelt before her, their glowing red eyes lowered in deference.
"Lady Draven, the elders of Noctari have confirmed your vision. This eclipse is more than just a celestial event. It is a sign."
Lysandra turned slowly, her gaze locking onto the man with an invisible grip.
"A sign of destruction… or rebirth?"
"It's unclear, but… there are whispers that the Umbra Clan has fallen. Their Alpha has been slain, and his heir—Theron Nyx—has fallen with him."
For a moment, Lysandra was silent. Her vision blurred, and in an instant, she was elsewhere. Blood. Fire. A man plunging into darkness, betrayed, hunted by his own shadow.
She snapped back to reality, her breath unsteady.
"Theron Nyx isn't dead. Not yet."
The hooded figure bowed lower. "What are your orders, my lady?"
Lysandra stepped toward the window, staring out at the forest—silent, yet filled with secrets. She raised a hand, and the mist beyond seemed to respond, swirling like ghostly fingers whispering ancient truths. She knew her power extended beyond blood magic. She was a keeper of secrets, a summoner of shadows, and an interpreter of the fates written in darkness.
"We wait and watch. If his fate is entwined with mine… then I will find him myself."
The shadows danced in her eyes. There was something far greater at play than a mere war between clans. And when the eclipse reached its peak, the destinies of all involved would shift—hers included.
*
Night thickened over the borderlands, a place where clan laws didn't always apply. A hidden village nestled within the trees served as a refuge for those escaping the rule of the alphas. Here, Lysandra lived—not as the feared blood sorceress, but as a healer tending to the wounded and sick.
Concealed beneath her hood, she knelt beside a small child, treating a deep gash from a hunter's trap. The wound slowly closed under her touch, though she took care to mask the traces of magic she used. Too many eyes watched in places like this.
Then, from the distance, a low rumble. Hooves. Heavy footsteps.
Lysandra stiffened.
Through the mist, a figure emerged, staggering. Blood streaked across his body, his black clothing torn, deep claw marks and gashes covering his skin. He nearly collapsed before catching himself against a tree, his breath ragged.
Lysandra frowned. Instinct told her to walk away. To not get involved.
But then their eyes met—dark and filled with pain and fury. The same eyes she had seen in her vision.
Theron Nyx.
A strong jaw, an old scar cutting across his cheek, long black hair matted with blood. His broad frame bore the marks of a warrior, his body built for battle. Despite his wounds, his gaze remained sharp—like that of a wounded beast, ready to strike.
Lysandra, in contrast, was his opposite. Though slender, there was an undeniable strength in the way she moved. Silver hair cascaded down her back, shimmering under the moonlight like silk. Her emerald eyes pierced the darkness, keen and unreadable. Her porcelain skin seemed untouched by time, but beneath her beauty lay a power that even the alphas feared.
"Help…" Theron's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
Lysandra hesitated. But before she could decide, the rumbling of hooves grew louder. The Zevra Clan. They were hunting someone—and she had no doubt who.
She cursed under her breath. In one swift motion, she grabbed Theron's arm and pulled him into the safety of her hidden home among the trees.
He collapsed onto the floor, his breaths labored.
"Great," she muttered. "I was hoping my first patient of the night would be a farmer who fell from a tree. But instead, I get a half-dead wolf dragging an even bigger mess behind him."
She narrowed her eyes at him.
Theron managed a weak smirk, though his body trembled with exhaustion.
Lysandra crossed her arms. "Listen up, wolf. You owe me your life."
*
"Did you find him?" Orion's voice broke the silence. Until now, Theron's body had not been found, even though all the best troops had been deployed.
"We've searched all over the area, sir. But we can't find even a trace of him."
Orion clenched his fists, he was sure that Theron was dead because he fell into the abyss of darkness.