The night sky above the forest was darker than usual, as if hiding secrets desperate to rise from the shadows.
Lysandra stood at the heart of a ritual long abandoned by her kind. Blood dripped from her palm, forming a crimson symbol that pulsed against the earth. A low rumble echoed—not from the sky, but from beneath her feet, as if the ground itself was answering her call. Her breath was heavy, her eyes glowing red like embers, sparking fear even in those foolish enough to stand against her.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps approached. A Zevra Clan spy had managed to track her, moving carefully between the trees. Lysandra sensed his presence without turning. With a swift flick of her hand, the blood still dripping from her wound lifted into the air, reshaping into razor-sharp spikes that shot toward the intruder.
A strangled cry broke the silence. The spy collapsed, paralyzed with terror. "How… how did you…?" His voice trembled, his eyes wide with horror as he looked at his wounds—no blood spilled, yet his flesh burned from within, as if set ablaze by an unseen force.
Lysandra took slow, deliberate steps toward him. "Did you think a blood witch could only chant simple spells?" Her whisper was sharp, cold as the night wind that carried the scent of death.
The air around them swirled violently, filled with ghostly murmurs only those attuned to the old magic could understand. The ground beneath Lysandra pulsed in response to her presence, alive with something ancient. Her glowing eyes locked onto the spy, who now trembled uncontrollably.
But something else was stirring in the darkness. A long, eerie howl cut through the night—not from an ordinary wolf, but from something older, something far more dangerous. Lysandra's gaze sharpened. "Looks like I'm not the only one being hunted tonight."
The tension thickened. Shadows deepened around them, lit only by the crimson glow of suspended blood. A greater threat was beginning to move, and Lysandra knew—this was just the beginning.
Her blood was not just a curse. It was the key to something far greater—something the world was not ready to face.
***
Theron walked through the cobbled streets of the outcast village, still feeling the weight of suspicious gazes trailing his every step. Though some of the villagers had begun to accept his presence, many still questioned who he was and why he had come here. The rumors of the Umbra Clan heir's death still echoed among them, and to most, Theron should have been nothing more than a ghost.
But he didn't care.
He ignored the whispers, focusing on one thing: finding a place to stay. The village was filled with old houses—some abandoned, others occupied by those who no longer had a place in the outside world. After wandering for a while, he found a house at the edge of the village, more isolated and shadowed than the rest. Its wooden door hung slightly askew, its windows coated in dust and tangled in cobwebs, but the structure was still solid.
Theron pushed the door open slowly. The hinges let out a sharp creak, protesting after years of neglect. Inside, dust swirled in the dim moonlight that seeped through the cracks in the wood. A worn-out table stood in the corner, a rickety chair leaning precariously beside it. There were no signs of life, only silence and the scent of old wood.
"At least it's better than sleeping on the ground," he muttered, shutting the door behind him.
He shrugged off his tattered cloak, tossing it onto the chair without a care if it collapsed. His wounds had mostly healed, but his body was still stiff. With a deep exhale, he let himself fall onto the old cot in the corner. The rough wood pressed against his back, but he didn't complain.
Just as his eyes began to close, footsteps sounded outside.
Theron stayed still, sharpening his focus. The steps halted right in front of his door. Someone was out there.
In one swift motion, he reached for the dagger strapped to his waist. If trouble had come looking for him, he was more than ready to meet it.
***
At the heart of the Umbra Clan, tension was at its peak. Two of the clan's top Betas, Kaef and Daxel, stood face to face in the center of a restless crowd. Their eyes locked, each sizing up the other. Both had once served under Orion's leadership, but now the growing divide within the clan had placed them on opposing sides.
Kaef, tall with dark hair and piercing eyes, stood for the return of the Umbra Clan's former glory under its rightful heir—Theron Nyx. Meanwhile, Daxel, scarred and battle-hardened, remained loyal to Orion, believing that sheer brute force was the only way for the clan to survive.
"Orion is leading us to ruin! This clan needs a real leader, not someone who makes deals with Vareth!" Kaef growled, stepping forward.
Daxel smirked. "And you think Theron is any better? He wasn't even strong enough to survive! If he were alive, why hasn't he returned? Because he's weak."
A furious roar erupted from Kaef's supporters. The argument ignited into a full-blown fight. The ground trembled as the two Betas lunged at each other, claws clashing in a brutal exchange that left the gathered clan members holding their breath. Each strike, each wound deepened the fracture within their ranks.
All around them, clan members took sides. Some shouted that Theron was the rightful heir, while others defended Orion with unwavering loyalty. The forest that had long been a silent witness to the Umbra Clan's reign now echoed with the sounds of rage and bloodshed between its own kin.
Orion watched the chaos unfold below him, a faint smirk playing on his lips as his fingers drummed lazily against the arm of his chair. Blood stained the ground, brother against brother, all for a so-called heir who hadn't even shown his face.
This division could spell the downfall of the Umbra Clan—or it could be the perfect way to eliminate the threats within.
He let out a dramatic sigh, then chuckled softly before murmuring, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the night air.
"How amusing... They're tearing each other apart for someone who might already be rotting in the forest. But very well... let's allow them their little game a bit longer. After all, every game needs an ending, doesn't it?"