Theron Nyx felt fire searing every inch of his skin. Pain stabbed deep into his bones, dried blood clung to his wounds, and his head pounded like a war drum. He wanted to move, but his body felt as heavy as stone. His consciousness wavered between reality and the abyss that threatened to swallow him whole.
When he finally pried his eyes open, he found himself lying on a rough wooden cot. The ceiling above was etched with strange symbols he didn't recognize. The sharp scent of herbs mixed with the metallic tang of blood hung in the air. Footsteps approached.
Lysandra Draven stood in the doorway, watching him with a neutral expression. Her emerald eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, calculating and unreadable. In her hands, she carried a bowl filled with thick, red liquid that smelled of iron.
"I'm impressed," she said, her voice calm yet laced with dry amusement. "How are you still alive after being beaten like a sack of grain?"
Theron attempted to sit up, but pain lanced through his ribs, forcing a low growl from his throat. "Believe it or not, I'm wondering the same thing."
Lysandra stepped closer, her gaze sweeping over his battered body. His arm bore fresh gashes, a deep tear marred his side, and bruises painted most of his skin. But the worst wound was on his shoulder—a massive bite mark, a brutal reminder of the attack that nearly ended him.
"Stay still," she ordered, pressing cool fingers against his shoulder. "I don't have time to deal with a patient who can't stop squirming."
Theron exhaled sharply but didn't resist. He let her unwrap the bloodstained bandages, revealing the full extent of his injuries. The flesh beneath was torn, dried blood crusting at the edges, infection already threatening to set in.
Lysandra arched a brow. "Vareth Clan?"
Theron gave a weak nod. "They were very eager to make sure I was dead."
"Of course," she replied, unfazed. "Orion Nyx made sure of that."
Theron clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as rage coiled in his chest. Just hearing his adoptive brother's name was enough to send a fresh wave of anger burning through his veins.
Lysandra tipped the bowl over his shoulder wound. The moment the liquid touched his skin, fire erupted in his veins. He gritted his teeth, barely stifling a groan.
"Oh? Does it hurt?" Lysandra smirked, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "I thought you were tougher than that."
"I'd rather be stabbed than listen to your taunts," he growled.
"What a shame. I can do both at the same time, if you'd like."
Theron let out a strained breath as she continued her work. Her hands moved with practiced ease, applying salves with a pressure just a little too firm, as if making sure he felt every second of it. There was an elegance in the way she worked—like a dancer familiar with intricate rhythms, except her performance was one of blood and potions.
Lysandra finally stepped back, arms crossing over her chest. "You need rest. Unless, of course, you'd rather die tonight—I don't particularly care which happens."
Theron closed his eyes, steadying his breath. "Then why save me if you don't care?"
Lysandra smirked. "Who said I was saving you? I'm simply keeping you alive long enough to see if you can offer me something more interesting than a corpse on my floor."
A low chuckle escaped Theron, though it felt like a blade twisting in his lungs. "You really are a cruel witch."
Lysandra tilted her head, her gaze gleaming with something sharp and dangerous. "And you're a foolish wolf if you expected otherwise."
Outside, the distant thunder of approaching footsteps rumbled through the night. The Zevra Clan was closing in. Lysandra glanced toward the door, then back at Theron, who still lay weak but breathing.
"Don't die yet, Theron Nyx," she murmured, half-mocking, half-curious. "I want to see if you're truly meant for that prophecy… or just another unlucky wolf in the wrong place at the wrong time."
With that, she turned, her black cloak swirling behind her as she disappeared through the doorway.
Beyond the walls, shadows shifted. The night held its breath. And new dangers lurked in the darkness, waiting.
*
The sky above the Umbra Clan's fortress was dark, shrouded in thick clouds that smothered the moonlight. A cold wind carried the scent of fresh blood, mingling with the damp earth and the lingering smoke from wild bonfires raging in the courtyard. The distant howls of wolves echoed through the night—not cries of victory, but warnings of the death that lurked in every shadow of the fortress.
At the peak of the towering stone watchtower, Orion Nyx stood with his arms crossed, his gaze sweeping across the endless stretch of dark forest beyond. He was searching—for a shadow that refused to die. His cold eyes gleamed with quiet calculation, as if he could feel the last heartbeat of the brother who had plummeted into the abyss.
Once a symbol of honor and glory, the Umbra Clan's stronghold had become a den of terror. The once-proud stone walls were stained with blood, and whispers of fear slithered through its halls. Since Orion seized power, loyalty was no longer earned through respect—it was enforced through the suffocating grip of fear.
In the main courtyard, dozens of werewolf soldiers gathered in a circle. Some sharpened their blades with sharp, aggressive movements, while others tore into raw meat with their bare hands, the wet rip of flesh filling the air. Severed human heads were impaled on wooden spikes—a grim warning to those who dared challenge Orion's rule. The bonfires roared high, casting wild shadows on the faces of warriors drunk on blood and conquest.
Heavy footsteps echoed from the direction of the main tower. A soldier clad in black armor halted behind Orion, bowing his head before speaking, his voice laced with hesitation.
"Master, our forces have scoured the ravine where Theron fell… but there's no sign of his body."
Orion remained silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing, lips curving into a thin, cold smile. "Then he's still alive."
The soldier swallowed hard, his shoulders stiff. "Perhaps… or the river's current may have carried his body away."
Orion let out a quiet chuckle—a low, menacing sound that felt more like a threat than amusement. "Theron won't die that easily." He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over the gathered soldiers, who stood in tense silence, waiting for his command. His eyes were sharp as a blade.
"Keep searching for him," he ordered, his voice calm but laced with danger. "I don't like… unpleasant surprises. And if you fail to find him…" He paused, letting the threat linger in the cold air, "...then you'll suffer a fate far worse than his."
The soldier gave a hurried nod before retreating, his footsteps quick, his fear palpable. Orion turned his attention back to the endless darkness of the forest, his jaw tightening. If Theron was still breathing, then this hunt was far from over.
Here, beneath a starless sky, the fate of the Umbra Clan hung in the balance. Orion Nyx would ensure that he remained its ruler—his throne forged in blood and fear. And if necessary, he would set the whole world ablaze to keep it.