While Lillian tried to sleep, the meeting deep in the woods continued.
The torches along the stone walls flickered, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth. Every werewolf stood motionless, their eyes fixed on Herakim.
"That name sounds familiar," Tiana whispered to her twin.
Nimona, the strongest female alpha, stepped forward. "Is that all? Just wait and protect her?"
"No." Herakim's expression did not change. "None of you may shed any blood before the sixth moon. If you do, everything we have waited for will be lost."
Gandulf stared at him in disbelief. "You're saying we should let the vampires kill us instead of fighting back? Just stand there and die?"
"Yes," Herakim replied flatly. "That is why you must never let them near her. Ever."
Bryan shook his head, his knuckles cracking as he flexed his hands. "Everyone here knows we can't even smell the vampires. They look more human than we do sometimes. How are we supposed to keep them away if we can't detect them?"
Tyler sighed, already exhausted by the weight of the conversation. "What is it again? I've lost track."
Herakim suddenly closed his eyes. The chamber fell silent. No one moved. No one breathed. The only sound was the faint crackle of the torches.
Seconds later, his eyes snapped open, and a small smile appeared on his face.
"Help is coming," he said quietly. "Someone who is not yet like any of you. That will make protecting the Savior easier."
Blaine leaned in, his brow furrowed. "Who? Tell us who."
"I do not know. Only that this person will aid us." With that, Herakim turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing into the darkness until they faded completely.
Gandulf stepped forward, Nimona at his side. "Then it is time to make decisions."
His gaze swept across the room and landed on the seven youngest alphas. Tiana and Tyler stood shoulder to shoulder beside Bryan, who was still cracking his knuckles out of habit. Diana sharpened her nails against her palm, a bored expression on her face. Shawn leaned against the wall, eyes half‑closed, his chest rising and falling slowly. Luna stood apart from the others, already looking toward the exit, as if she had somewhere else to be.
And Blaine — Blaine was staring at the floor, lost in thought. His jaw was tight. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. He didn't look up when Gandulf called his name.
"You seven will be the ones to protect our Savior," Gandulf announced.
His voice boomed across the chamber. "We have come to the end of this meeting. See you all at the next full moon."
He left first, Nimona close behind. The others followed in silence, the weight of the mission pressing down on them like the stone ceiling above.
---
Back at the mansion, Lillian sat up in bed and reached for her phone. The screen glowed in the dark. 2:47 AM. She had been staring at the ceiling for hours.
She opened the notes app and typed: "Healed a cut. Heard a voice. Saw myself dead."
Then she deleted it. Then she typed it again.
If I write it down, it's real, she thought. And I'm not ready for real.
She locked the phone and placed it face down on the nightstand. The castle keys glinted beside it. She picked them up, ran her thumb over the teeth, and let the cold metal ground her.
Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow I'll move into the castle. Tomorrow I'll forget all of this.
But even as she thought it, she knew she wouldn't forget. Not the blood. Not the whisper. Not the way her skin had sealed itself like nothing had ever happened.
She lay back down and closed her eyes, but sleep stayed somewhere far away.
---
Later that night, Blaine walked home alone. The moon hung full and white overhead, casting pale light across the empty streets. His boots echoed off the pavement with every step. No cars. No people. Just him and the heavy silence.
The city felt different at this hour. Quieter. More dangerous. The shadows between buildings seemed deeper, as though something could be hiding in them. He zipped up his jacket and shoved his hands into his pockets.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out and read Bryan's message: "Meet at your café tomorrow morning. Our Savior is our age. A popular story writer."
Blaine sighed and slipped the phone back into his pocket. His thoughts drifted to the prophecy. A Savior. A young woman with special blood.
He kicked a loose stone on the sidewalk and watched it skitter into the gutter. The sound was too loud in the silence.
Then he smelled it.
A thick, heavy scent hit him from above – raw anger, fear, and deep wrath tangled together. It was the smell of someone who had given up. Someone standing on the edge, ready to fall. The scent was so strong it made his nose burn.
He looked up.
On the rooftop of a tall building, high enough that a fall would be fatal, a young man stood right at the edge. His shoulders trembled. His hands hung loose at his sides. He was staring down into the darkness below, his body swaying slightly as if caught by an invisible wind.
"Oh my God," Blaine whispered. "Why is he trying to kill himself?"
Without hesitation, he leaped onto the roof of a shorter building beside it, then sprang from a windowsill to the top of the taller one. He landed silently behind the stranger, barely making a sound. His heart pounded in his chest, but his breathing was steady.
"What do you think you're doing?" Blaine asked, his voice low and calm.
The guy didn't turn around. "Don't you dare try to stop me," he snapped, tears streaming down his face. His voice cracked. "I'm tired of this life. It's too cruel. I hate it. It's better if I just die. Everyone would be better off."
"There's more to life than what you're feeling right now," Blaine said gently, taking a small step closer. "You can get through this. I promise you. Whatever it is, it's not worth ending your life over."
The young man gave a bitter laugh, hollow and broken. "That's what therapists always say. But I don't care anymore. None of it matters. Nothing matters."
He stepped backward off the edge.
Blaine lunged.
He was a split second too late. Instead of grabbing the man's wrist with human hands, his claws shot out – sharp, sudden, involuntary – and sliced deep into the stranger's flesh.
The guy screamed in pain as he plummeted toward the ground.
Blaine didn't hesitate. He jumped down after him, pushing off the side of the building to gain speed, and caught the falling body in his arms just before they hit the pavement. The impact jarred his bones, but he held him tight.
The stranger had already fainted from terror, his face pale as ash, his wrist bleeding heavily onto Blaine's jacket. Blood soaked through the fabric, warm and sticky.
Blaine laid him down gently on the cold pavement and stared at the deep gashes. Blood pooled around the wounds. His own claws were still extended, stained red. His hands were shaking.
What have I done?
He looked up at the rooftop, then back at the unconscious man. A terrible realization crept into his chest, cold and heavy.
"Did I just turn him into a werewolf?" he whispered, fear flooding through him.
No one answered. The street was empty. The moon watched in silence.
Blaine pulled out his phone with shaking hands and typed a message to Herakim Healer: "I need help. Now. Please. It's bad." Then he sat on the curb, waiting, watching over the stranger he had accidentally bound to himself for life.
The night stretched on, and the stars offered no comfort.
[Questions for readers]
"Comment a single emoji that describes this chapter."