The night breeze whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of damp leaves and smoldering wood from the village's small homes. Dim torchlight flickered at the edges of the dirt pathways, casting long, restless shadows between the trees. This secluded village, hidden deep within a valley surrounded by dense forest, was a refuge for those cast out from their clans—those who had nowhere else to go.
Theron stood in front of the abandoned house he now called home. The wooden structure was worn down, its windows creaking with every gust of wind. But despite its state, it was more than enough for someone who had lost everything.
Since his arrival, many of the villagers still eyed him with suspicion, whispering behind his back. Word had spread quickly—the heir of the Umbra Clan, a man who was supposed to be dead, now walked among them. Yet, there were some who began to regard him with something else—respect. Especially after hearing the stories of how he had survived the cursed forest.
But Theron didn't care about their whispers. He had his own purpose.
*
One night, under the pale glow of the moon, an old man approached him. Thin and draped in tattered robes, his face was lined with deep wrinkles, yet his eyes remained sharp—holding wisdom carved by time.
"You're starting to settle in, Umbra child," the elder rasped.
Theron met his gaze, expression unreadable. "If that's what you think."
The old man gave a knowing smile. "I knew your father. Before I was exiled, I was once his advisor."
Theron's eyes narrowed slightly. "If you were his advisor, then why are you here?"
"Sometimes, telling the truth is more dangerous than lying," the elder murmured. "The Umbra Clan is not what it once was. Orion is desperately clinging to his power, but the clan is fracturing."
Theron clenched his fists. "Are you saying I should return and take back what's mine?"
"It's not my place to tell you what to do," the elder replied. "But I will tell you this—you are not strong enough yet."
Theron scoffed. "I've survived this long."
"But not long enough to defeat your real enemy."
Training in the Shadows
The elder's words echoed in Theron's mind as he pushed his body through relentless training.
Behind his home was an empty clearing, rarely used. It became his training ground. His muscles, still stiff from past wounds, gradually regained their strength. He refined his movements, sharpening his speed and endurance. Yet, no matter how much he trained, one thing continued to haunt him—the weakness he had felt in his last battle.
His father had always told him that a true Alpha possessed power beyond mere physical strength. There was something in their blood—something that made them superior. But Theron had never truly felt it.
Until that night.
As he pushed himself to his limits, something inside him stirred.
It was like fire coursing through his veins, burning from within. His vision sharpened, his heartbeat roared in his ears. He could sense every vibration in the ground, every breath in the air. And as he struck a tree with his fist, a sharp crack rang through the clearing—the bark shattered as if struck by iron.
Theron staggered back, his breathing ragged, eyes wide in shock.
"What… what is that?"
Before he could process it, a voice emerged from the darkness behind him.
"You're starting to feel it, aren't you?"
The elder stood at the edge of the shadows, his gaze gleaming with quiet satisfaction.
"That power… it's always been inside you."
Theron stared at his trembling fingers, still tingling with raw energy. For the first time, he felt something more than just physical strength.
Something hidden. Something that belonged to him.
***
The fire in the hearth flickered weakly, casting wild shadows across the walls of the small cabin. The air was thick with the scent of herbs, laced with the faint metallic tang of blood. In the dim glow, Lysandra sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, her breath steady, her fingers stained with a deep crimson liquid.
Before her, in a black stone bowl, the blood swirled slowly, as if it had a will of its own. Faint light shimmered across its surface, forming ancient symbols—symbols only those of her bloodline could understand.
Lysandra let out a slow breath. "Damn fate…" she muttered under her breath.
A sudden rustling outside broke the silence. Her eyes narrowed, her body tensed. With a flick of her fingers, every candle in the room snuffed out. Darkness swallowed the space.
Through the window, silhouettes moved between the trees. Not just one. Several.
They finally found me.
Closing her eyes, Lysandra took a deep breath and raised her palm over the swirling blood. "Show me," she whispered.
The blood trembled. Then, like rolling mist, it began to reveal something—faint images flashing in her mind. Figures cloaked in black. Cold, hate-filled gazes. A crescent moon emblem carved into their chests.
They weren't just witch hunters. They were executioners, enforcing the laws of the clans with merciless precision. And to them, blood witches were the greatest threat.
Lysandra clenched her fist. Instantly, the blood in the bowl froze solid, hard as stone. Rising gracefully, she pulled up the hood of her cloak and melted into the room's darkest corner.
Footsteps approached.
Three… no, four of them.
They moved carefully, fully aware that their target was no ordinary prey.
One of them spoke in a hushed voice. "Her magic is strong. She's here."
Another tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade. "Don't let her escape. You heard the orders. If she really carries that blood… we can't let her live."
A slow smirk curled across Lysandra's lips in the darkness. They came to kill me? How amusing. They have no idea who they're dealing with.
She pressed her palm against the wooden wall beside her. Instantly, dark roots slithered out, crawling like hungry veins. The wall pulsed, alive.
One of the men pushed the door open cautiously, the scent of blood thickening in the air.
"She's not—"
Without warning, the roots lunged, ensnaring their bodies in an instant. Their muffled screams were drowned in the tightening grip.
Lysandra stepped forward, her eyes glowing a deep, blood-red. "If you were foolish enough to come here unprepared… you deserve to die."
One of them struggled, trying to whisper a protection spell. But before he could finish, Lysandra snapped her fingers.
Their own blood began to boil.
Agonized screams tore through the air. Within seconds, their bodies collapsed—lifeless.
Lysandra stared at the scene, her expression unreadable. Yet deep down, she knew one thing.
If these four had come… the others wouldn't be far behind.
A greater enemy was already watching.