---
The scent of sweat, steel, and damp stone filled the air. Torches flickered against the high walls, casting long shadows over the polished marble floor. The distant hum of the night was drowned out by the rhythmic clash of blades and the sharp exhales of two warriors locked in combat.
Clarke pivoted swiftly, his sword cutting through the air as he met Nikolai's strike with a resounding clang. Their movements were fluid yet brutal—sparring, but with a silent fury neither of them acknowledged.
"You've been training harder than usual," Nikolai noted, breathless but steady. He pressed forward, his blade scraping against Clarke's in a deadly dance.
Clarke exhaled sharply. "Not hard enough."
With a forceful shove, he disengaged, stepping back. The dim lighting accentuated the tension in his shoulders, the storm brewing behind his eyes.
"You're not the only one who lost her," Nikolai continued, lowering his sword slightly.
Clarke clenched his jaw. "I should've done more."
Nikolai scoffed, rolling his shoulders as he kept his stance loose. "What? Thrown yourself at the Lycans? Gotten yourself killed too? Remember we even got the Malovis Potion on us"
Clarke's grip tightened around his hilt, but he didn't answer.
Nikolai let out a slow breath. He wasn't here to fight him—not like this. "The empire is preparing," he said, voice lower now. "We won't just sit back and mourn. We will find her. And if she's alive, we'll bring her back."
Clarke's gaze flickered, his fingers curling into fists. "And if she isn't?"
Nikolai's expression hardened, his next words carrying the weight of an oath.
"Then we burn their empire to the ground."
Just then, the heavy wooden doors of the training hall groaned open.
Anastasia strode in, her presence as commanding as ever, with Olga and Tatiana flanking her like silent shadows. Without a word, she dropped her sword onto the floor with a dull thud, rolling her shoulders as she began stretching.
"There will be no burning of empires," she said, voice calm but absolute. "Not by just us."
Nikolai turned to her, brows furrowing. "What do you mean? Father is already seeking alliances with the Therianthians. Their women were taken too. They'll help us."
Olga, still catching her breath from what was clearly a hurried arrival, pushed stray strands of hair from her face.
"Unfortunately," she said breathlessly, "they refused."
A heavy silence settled over the room.
"They won't fight against their own kind," Tatiana added bitterly, arms crossed. "They won't risk war—not for us."
Clarke let out a slow, controlled breath, his gaze dark.
For a moment, nobody spoke. The only sound was the distant echo of steel clashing from another part of the training grounds.
Then Nikolai exhaled sharply, gripping his sword tighter.
---
The war chamber was dimly lit, the glow of enchanted lanterns casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. The air smelled of burning incense and aged parchment, a scent thick with history and bloodshed. The long obsidian table in the center of the room was surrounded by the empire's most powerful figures—King Viktor at the head, his expression carved from stone, Queen Irina beside him, unreadable as ever.
On one side, Nikolai, Olga, Tatiana, and Anastasia sat with rigid backs, their eyes sharp with anticipation. Across from them, the elders of the Vampire Council whispered among themselves in hushed, urgent tones.
And standing just behind, arms crossed, jaw clenched, was Clarke—silent, watchful, his presence just as commanding as those seated.
The air was thick with tension, the weight of recent failures pressing down on them all.
King Viktor's voice finally cut through the hush like a blade through flesh. "The werewolves have refused to stand with us. We are alone in this fight."
Nikolai exhaled sharply, fingers curling into fists against the tabletop. "Then we don't need them. We take our forces and burn the Lycan Empire to the ground."
Queen Irina's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "And how exactly do you plan to do that, Nikolai?" Her voice was quiet, but it carried.
"Charge into enemy territory without knowing their numbers? Without knowing where they've taken Natalia?...think Nikolai"
The table went silent.
A long pause stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Then, Lady Frieda—who had been quiet all this time—spoke up.
"Your Majesties," she said carefully, "I recall telling King Viktor of my suspicions"
Everyone's gaze snapped to her.
Lady Frieda hesitated for only a second before continuing. "Not long before the attack, I remember overhearing… whispers. Rumors that we were being watched."
A flicker of unease passed through the room.
"Watched?" Olga echoed, her brow furrowed.
Lady Frieda nodded. "It was nothing concrete—just a passing comment. But I remember someone suggesting that the Lycans had eyes on us. That they knew more about our movements than they should have, I did my findings and I fear it may be true."
Queen Irina exhaled slowly, her gaze darkening. "It makes sense."
The realization crept through the room like a slow poison.
Anastasia's voice, steady but laced with something sharp, cut through the silence. "What if there was no spy?"
Nikolai frowned, his brows knitting together. "What?"
Anastasia leaned forward, fingers pressing into the cold surface of the table. "We've been searching for a traitor. Looking within. But… what if they were never among us?"
Tatiana, catching on, straightened. "You mean…"
Anastasia's voice dropped to something almost deadly. "What if they were outside our walls? What if the Lycans were never working with someone inside the palace—what if they were watching us themselves? What if they found a way to spy on us without ever stepping foot past our gates?"
The weight of the thought settled over them like a storm cloud.
King Viktor's fingers tapped once against the table, slow and deliberate. "If that's true… then it means they could still be watching."
The entire room seemed to still.
Queen Irina's gaze swept across those gathered, her mind working behind her sharp eyes. "Then before we act, before we make another move… we need to know how they did it."
Because if the Lycans had truly been watching them this entire time—then it meant they weren't just vulnerable before.
They were vulnerable now.
---
Inside his dimly lit room, Neil lay motionless on his bed, a book draped over his face, its words long forgotten. The fire crackled in the hearth, a flickering reminder of time passing, of moments slipping through his fingers. He barely noticed. His mind was too loud—a storm of its own, filled with shadows and questions without answers.
He had not eaten. Had not slept.
Because no matter how still he lay, he felt it.
Felt her slipping away.
The book slid from his face, landing soundlessly beside him. His chest rose with a slow, ragged breath, but his heart pounded with a quiet, relentless desperation.
Outside, the palace held its breath.
Neil finally emerged from his chamber. For two days, he had kept his distance, telling himself it was for the best. Yet, no matter how much he tried to ignore it, something in his chest twisted tighter with every hour that passed. He could no longer stay away.
His stride was slow but deliberate as he walked through the dim corridors of the palace. Shadows stretched across the walls, flickering in the torchlight, but even the darkness couldn't conceal the way the servants stole nervous glances at him before bowing and retreating into silence. He paid them no mind, his thoughts consumed by the one person he shouldn't be thinking about.
As he neared Natalia's chamber, a strange energy prickled against his skin. The air felt heavy—charged, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Neil paused at the door, fingers flexing at his sides. Then, without a word, he pushed it open.
---
The Lycan Empire was shrouded in an unsettling silence, as if the very air was bracing for a storm. The usual palace murmurs had dulled, servants moved cautiously, and the ever-present shadow of Evans was nowhere to be seen. His sudden suspension had sent ripples through the court, yet it was Natalia's condition that had cast a deeper, more chilling pall over the empire.
For two days, she had remained unresponsive. Silent. Still. Her breaths were shallow, each rise and fall of her chest too slow, too fragile. The pauses between them stretched unnervingly long, as if she teetered on the edge of something unseen.
Ruth had attended to her without fail, washing her body, whispering prayers, hoping for a flicker of response. But there was none. The girl remained trapped in whatever abyss had claimed her.
Meanwhile, the empire itself trembled under the weight of its king's unrest. Marshall's power had grown volatile—uncontained, untamed, unnatural. The very air around the palace pulsed with his fury, as if the walls themselves struggled to hold him in.
But Neil had disappeared into his chambers.
The room was eerily quiet except for the faint sound of her breathing. Natalia lay motionless against the pillows, her skin pale, her body unnervingly still.
Neil stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. His sharp gaze swept over her form—the hollowed-out look of her cheeks, the unnatural stillness of her chest rising and falling.
Something inside him clenched.
He wasn't sure what he had expected, but seeing her like this... It didn't sit right.
Slowly, he approached the bedside, his boots making no sound against the stone floor. He stood over her, his tall frame casting a shadow across the bed.
His eyes lingered on her face–
She was weak. Vulnerable. And yet, something about her presence—even in unconsciousness—felt impossibly loud.
Neil's jaw tensed. He had come to reassure himself, to prove that she was fine. But the sight of her stirred something deeper, something he wasn't ready to name.
Without thinking, he reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face.
The second his fingers touched her skin, a jolt of something—heat, power, familiarity—surged through him.
His breath hitched.
---
The bruises along her skin had begun to fade, but her unnatural stillness made something inside him twist.
Without thinking, his fingers drifted to her hair, stirring the soft strands, letting them slip through his touch. He brushed a lock over her face.
He should step away.
He should leave.
But instead, his body betrayed him.
Before he could stop himself, he leaned in, his lips pressing against her forehead. The contact was barely more than a whisper, a fleeting moment—but it ignited something sharp and electric inside him.
His breath hitched.
What the hell am I doing?
Natalia was not his. Not his woman. Not his mate. She was bound to Marshall, claimed by him in ways that could never be undone. She was the empire's prisoner, the king's possession, and Neil had no right to touch her.
Yet, as he pulled back, a soft sound escaped her lips—a quiet moan, barely audible.
His chest tightened as he watched her fingers curl weakly into the sheets, her body tensing before going still once more.
For a moment, Neil didn't move. His face remained unreadable, but beneath the surface, his heart was racing.
What was this?
This pull. This need.
A connection that shouldn't exist.
He inhaled sharply, willing himself to push it down, to bury it deep where it could never surface again.
---
Silence choked the room.
Neil stood at the foot of the bed, his jaw tight, fingers curled into fists at his sides. The only sound was the faint crackling of the candlelight, flickering against the stone walls, casting long, twisting shadows.
His breath was slow, measured—but the storm inside him was anything but.
With a sharp pivot, he strode toward the door. The guard outside barely had time to straighten before Neil's voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Fetch Ruth. Now."
The guard didn't ask questions. He dipped his head in a quick nod before hurrying down the corridor.
Neil lingered, his fingers twitching at his sides as he turned back to face Natalia.
Still. Unmoving.
The door creaked open, and Ruth stepped inside, her eyes flickering to him, then to Natalia.
They didn't speak for a moment. The tension in the air was thick, almost suffocating.
Then, finally, Neil spoke.
"Summon Edgar."
Ruth's breath hitched. Just barely. But he caught it.
Her brows furrowed, uncertainty clouding her expression. "Are you sure?"
Neil's gaze flickered, cold and sharp as steel.
No.
He wasn't sure. He didn't trust Edgar. The man was an enigma, wrapped in whispered rumors and secrets that even the most powerful Lycans dared not pry into. Some claimed he was one of them—others whispered that he was something else. Something that should not exist. He tampered with ancient magic and was feared by many.
But right now, trust didn't matter.
Neil clenched his jaw, forcing the words through his teeth. "Call him. Now."
A beat of hesitation. A second too long.
Ruth exhaled and gave a slow, reluctant nod before disappearing down the hall.
Neil turned back to Natalia. The shadows stretched around him, twisting and curling at the edges of the dim light.
The air felt thick.
The room grew cold.
Not a gradual chill, not the slow creeping of a winter breeze—but an instant, bone-deep cold that sucked the warmth from the air. The candle flames flickered violently, shrinking into weak, trembling wisps of light.
Neil's fingers twitched at his sides. His spine went rigid.
He's here.
Then—the door opened.
No creak, no hesitation. Just movement. Smooth, confident, deliberate.
And then, Edgar stepped inside.
He wasn't rushed, wasn't hurried. He moved with a grace that did not belong to a man born of flesh and blood, but rather to something beyond. His long, dark coat billowed slightly with each step, the silver lining catching the dim candlelight. His hands were gloved, resting lazily in the pockets of his coat, and the moment his gaze landed on Neil, the corner of his lips tugged upward.
That damn smirk.
Like he knew something Neil didn't. Like he always did.
Neil's jaw clenched.
He had never liked Edgar. Never trusted him. Their history was tainted, twisted in ways neither of them cared to acknowledge aloud. Edgar was no royal, no noble-blooded Lycan, and yet he carried himself like one. Like the world should bow at his feet. Like he had already won.
And the worst part?
His presence felt like a threat. Not just to Neil but everyone else in the room.
Edgar had a power that unsettled even the strongest Lycans. He wasn't just skilled—he was something else. Something no one dared to name aloud. There were whispers, of course. Whispers of a man who should not be. A man who had dabbled too deep, who had walked the line between predator and something far worse.
Neil had once seen it firsthand. And he had never forgotten.
The door shut softly behind him, the sound barely a whisper, and Edgar tilted his head slightly, his sharp eyes flickering between Neil and the bed.
His smirk deepened.
"I was beginning to think you'd never call me," Edgar mused, voice smooth, rich with amusement. "You must be truly desperate."
Neil said nothing.
Because Edgar wasn't wrong.
And that only made this worse.
---
To be continued...