---
The crisp night air did little to ease the tension in Neil's shoulders. As they strolled in silence, Evans emerged from the shadows, his presence as bold as ever. He bowed slightly toward Ruth before his piercing gaze settled on Neil.
"Has the ritual been completed?" Evans asked. His voice was even, but the weight behind his words was unmistakable.
"Is the girl dead already?"
Neil stopped walking.
Slowly, his eyes flicked toward Evans, sharp and unforgiving. A silent warning.
Then, without a word, he turned and continued forward, clasping his hands behind his back, his stride lengthening.
Evans and Ruth followed, their conversation hushed but charged with tension.
Evans, never one to sugarcoat, muttered under his breath, "I know it. Deep inside, I know this will be another failed experiment."
Ruth nudged him lightly. "Oh, hush now. You don't know that."
Evans scoffed. "No one ever listens to Evans," he murmured, shaking his head.
For a long moment, the air was thick with unspoken thoughts.
Then, suddenly, Evans hastened his steps, tapping Neil's shoulder repeatedly.
"She was quite the damsel, wasn't she?" he mused, grinning. "More beautiful than the others. What made you choose her?"
Neil didn't answer immediately.
"Hm..." His voice was distant, disinterested.
Evans smirked, undeterred.
"Come now, admit it—she stood out to you. Maybe even caught your eye?...we should've kept her instead and gone out to find someone else, don't you think?"
Neil stopped abruptly.
"Isn't it astonishing," he drawled, his tone calm but laced with ice, "how you manage to show forth stupidity every single time you're given the slightest chance, Evans… even at your age?"
He still didn't look at him.
But Evans felt the warning all the same.
---
"You see, I've always known Marshall to be better than you in everything. It's sad, really, what happened to him… It should've been you instead."
Evans' voice was steady, but the venom in his words dripped like poison.
Neil froze.
For a moment, nothing moved. The air hung heavy, dense, as if the entire world was holding its breath.
Then, slowly, too slowly, Neil turned to face him. His expression was unreadable, but something behind his eyes shifted.
"Indeed," he murmured, almost as if he were agreeing. "It should've been me."
A pause.
Then his lips curled into a smile. But it wasn't warm—it was the kind of smile a knife might have, if it could grin.
"And yet… I wonder…" He tilted his head, his voice dipping into something cruel, deadly. "Why was it your mother who died instead of you, dear Evans?"
Evans stiffened.
The hit landed. Ruth inhaled sharply, her body going rigid.
Neil stepped closer, his tone still smooth, almost gentle. "Oh, I remember her… such a kind woman." His eyes gleamed with something wicked. "I wonder what her last words were when she realized you weren't coming for her."
Evans lunged.
But Neil was faster. He sidestepped easily, hands still tucked behind his back, his expression one of mocking amusement.
"Careful," he cooed. "That temper of yours—so unrefined. You should've been a dog instead of a wolf."
Evans' breathing was ragged, his hands shaking. But he didn't back down. "You talk big, but deep down? You're just a rabid monster desperate for a cause." He took a step closer, eyes burning. "You think finding Marshall's mate will fix everything? Wake up, Neil. He's gone. And even if he wasn't, what makes you think he'd still want you?"
Neil stilled.
For the briefest moment, a crack. A flash of something dangerous.
Then, in an instant, he was smiling again. "You know, Evans, I may be a monster…" He leaned in, lowering his voice to a deadly whisper.
"…but at least I was wanted."
Evans' body went rigid.
Neil's eyes glowed, drinking in the pure rage that flickered across Evans' face. "My parents chose me. You? You were just a charity case. A mistake. A pathetic little orphan my father pitied enough to let stay. Like a stray dog."
Evans snapped.
"Shut your damn mouth!" His voice was a snarl as his hands flew for Neil's throat.
A blur of movement—
Neil caught his wrist, twisting it with an ease that sent Evans crashing to his knees.
"Pathetic," Neil whispered, his grip tightening. "You've trained all your life, and yet, here you are. Beneath me. Like always."
Evans struggled, teeth clenched, but Neil only tightened his hold. "You should've been stronger," he murmured, his voice eerily soft. "Maybe then your mother wouldn't have died screaming."
Evans roared.
A sudden force crashed between them—Ruth.
"Enough!" Her voice was sharp, unshakable.
Neil released Evans instantly, stepping back with a look of bored disinterest.
Evans rose to his feet, chest heaving, fists trembling, eyes burning with unspoken fury.
Neil just smoothed out his sleeves, his tone light. "I won't waste my breath indulging in childish banter, dear Evans." He turned, already walking away.
"Now, resume your duties as a guard, as you were."
Evans stood frozen, hands clenched at his sides.
Neil didn't look back.
---
King Viktor paced the chamber restlessly, his boots clicking against the polished stone floor. His expression was a storm of frustration, his sharp brows furrowed as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair. Queen Irina sat poised on a velvet couch, watching him with quiet concern, her fingers gently clasped together in her lap.
"Two crepuscular periods have passed," Viktor muttered, his voice laced with irritation. "And still, not a single word from Lady Frieda or the councils." His fist clenched at his side. "It's as if they've vanished into thin air."
The once-grand palace bore the scars of war, its shattered halls slowly being rebuilt after the Lycans' vicious assault. Olga, Anastasia, Tatiana, Clarke, and Nikolai—were confined to the spare rooms, recuperating from their injuries. Yet, one thing had not gone unnoticed.
Clarke.
His recovery was nothing short of unnatural. Faster than the others. Stronger. His wounds, which should have taken days to mend, had sealed within hours. Even now, while his siblings remained weak, Clarke moved as if nothing had ever happened.
Queen Irina's gaze flickered toward Viktor, a silent question lingering between them. He knew what she was thinking. He had been thinking the same thing. But now was not the time to voice their suspicions.
A knock at the door shattered the silence.
"Enter," Viktor called, his voice tense.
The door creaked open, and a royal guard stepped inside, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.
"Your Majesties," the guard announced, his voice steady, yet tinged with urgency. "Lady Frieda has arrived. The Council of Vampires is with her."
Viktor's jaw tightened. A mixture of relief and anticipation flickered across his face. He turned to Irina, their eyes meeting in silent agreement.
"We will be there shortly," Queen Irina said, her tone as firm as steel.
The guard bowed once more before retreating, the door clicking shut behind him.
Viktor exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his shoulders.
As King Viktor and Queen Irina descended the grand staircase, their presence commanded immediate silence. The torches lining the chamber flickered, casting long shadows across the stone walls. At the foot of the stairs, Lady Frieda stood tall, her gaze sharp as it locked onto the approaching monarchs.
"Ah, Your Majesties," she greeted, her voice honeyed with practiced courtesy. "It is an honor to finally meet with you again."
Behind her, the council members bowed in unison, their expressions solemn, their dark robes swaying slightly. King Viktor barely spared them a glance as he gestured sharply for them to rise.
Lady Frieda smiled, though it did little to hide the tension in her eyes. "We bear gifts—"
"I don't need your gifts," Viktor cut her off, his voice edged with impatience. "Let us proceed."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The council members exchanged quick, uncertain glances, sensing the sudden chill in the air. Lady Frieda's poised mask faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered.
"As you wish," she said smoothly, stepping aside to allow the king to pass.
Viktor strode toward his throne, his movements sharp, his presence suffocating. He barely waited for the council to settle before speaking again.
"Two crepuscular periods have passed," he began, his tone dark, controlled—dangerous. "And in all that time, not a single word from any of you. I have searched every corner of Tenebrous, seeking answers. And now, now you choose to stand before me?" His voice thundered, filling the chamber.
Lady Frieda met his gaze evenly, though the tension in the room was thick enough to suffocate. "Our deepest apologies, Your Majesty," she said carefully. "In my defense, I was occupied with gathering evidence and confirming certain... information."
Viktor's lips curled into a snarl, ready to tear into her with words sharper than any blade. But before he could continue his tirade, a gentle yet firm hand rested on his.
Queen Irina.
Her silent touch was enough to pull him back from the brink, a quiet reminder that anger would do nothing to mend what had already been broken. Viktor exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring, before leaning back into his throne.
Lady Frieda seized the moment. Her voice, though measured, carried an undeniable weight.
"I may know why our dearest Princess Natalia was taken by the Likarian Empire."
The chamber seemed to freeze. Every breath held. Every muscle tensed.
The council members gave solemn nods, their faces grim.
"Indeed," one of them murmured, his voice a low, ominous whisper. "We have made some disturbing discoveries."
Viktor's grip on the armrest of his throne tightened, his nails digging into the polished wood. His eyes—cold, unforgiving—bored into Lady Frieda.
"Go on," he commanded, his voice barely above a whisper.
Yet, in that whisper lay the weight of an entire kingdom's fury.
—
Lady Frieda's expression turned grave as she locked eyes with King Viktor. The air in the chamber thickened, the tension suffocating.
"You see, Your Majesty," she began, her voice steady but laced with unease, "I cannot say with absolute certainty, but I have reason to believe that Natalia was taken for a ritual—one that has existed in the Lycan Empire for centuries."
The weight of her words settled over the room like a heavy fog.
"Tell me," she continued, scanning the faces of those present, "do you know the story of the Lycan King, Marshall?"
Silence.
A ghost of a humorless smile flickered across her lips. "I suppose not."
With slow, deliberate movements, she rose from her seat, her fingers lightly grazing the polished wood of the table.
"Every year," she revealed, her voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper, "a female is offered to Marshall. It is an ancient practice, one shrouded in secrecy. And we are not the only victims of this."
A sharp breath was drawn somewhere in the room.
Queen Irina's hands clenched against the fabric of her gown. "Offered?" she echoed, her voice weak with horror.
Lady Frieda nodded. "The ritual is said to be a test—of strength, blood, and bond. It is their way of determining if the chosen female is... worthy."
She hesitated, her fingers curling slightly as if trying to grasp something unseen.
"The chosen girl is thrown into darkness, subjected to trials meant to push her to her very limits. Some are devoured. Some go mad. Others... simply vanish."
Queen Irina shuddered. "Then why—" she swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper, "—why did they take our daughter?"
Lady Frieda took a deep breath, choosing her next words carefully.
"Because they are looking for something," she admitted, her voice low and heavy. "Or rather, someone"
The room stilled.
"They seek a girl who will survive... a girl who will bind with their king in ways we do not understand. A girl who is unlike any other."
King Viktor's fingers curled against the arms of his throne. His voice was as sharp as a blade.
"Why?"
Lady Frieda held his gaze, her expression unreadable.
"I do not know," she admitted.
Unbeknownst to them, the truth was far more sinister.
They did not know that the ritual was not about testing strength.
It was about finding a mate.
Not just any mate—but Marshall's mate.
The one girl in all of existence destined to break his curse and awaken the full extent of his power.
And Natalia had been chosen.
Queen Irina let out a strangled sob, pressing a hand to her trembling lips. The sound echoed in the chamber, a stark contrast to the deafening silence that followed.
King Viktor sat motionless, his jaw tightening, his knuckles turning white.
Then, like the storm before the thunder, his entire demeanor shifted.
His expression hardened into stone. His gaze, cold and unrelenting, burned with an inferno behind ice.
To be continued...