Intro/Prologue

Long ago, before the rise of packs and Alphas, the Lycans ruled. Beasts of unmatched strength, they were neither mere werewolves nor any lesser creature that walked the earth. They were power itself—immortal, indomitable, divine. Hidden from the world, they lived in peace, thriving in their secluded kingdom.

But peace never lasts when jealousy takes root.

The werewolves envied them and resented their power. They saw the Lycans as a threat, an insult to their existence. And so, for the first time in history, the scattered werewolf clans united under a single cause: to bring down the Lycans.

Even against an entire species, the Lycans stood unshaken. They were stronger, faster, and smarter. Victory should have been theirs.

But power is never just about brute strength.

Desperate, the werewolves turned to an ancient force, the Twelve Blood Witches. A deal was struck, and a truce was made. In exchange for sparing the witches' kind from future wars, the witches agreed to weave a spell of darkness. A curse seeped into the very bloodline of the Lycans, poisoning their strength and weakening their dynasty.

The war that followed was brutal. It was a massacre. One by one, the Lycans fell, their legendary resilience turned to dust beneath the weight of the witches’ dark magic. The dynasty was wiped out. Erased.

But greed is never satisfied.

The werewolves had won, but their hunger for dominance was endless. There was still another kind they despised: the Wolf-Men.

The Wolf-Men were not just werewolves. They were the ancients, the first of their kind. Stronger than any ordinary wolf, they were the original rulers of the werewolves, the royal bloodline to whom all packs once answered. A legacy of might and command.

The pack leaders, hungry for absolute control, conspired once more with the Twelve Blood Witches.

On a night bathed in moonlight, the final betrayal unfolded. During the sacred full-moon ritual, when the Werewolf King and his son fell into their ancestral sleep, the pack leaders struck. Silent and merciless. Blades met flesh, and the royal bloodline was severed, quite literally, from their throne.

Their heads rolled. Their legacy ended.

Or so they thought.

-

Prologue

"Pack your bags. You’re leaving."

Giselle froze, her heart pounding in her chest. "What? Why? What’s going on?"

"They found out about you."

Her breath hitched. "That’s impossible!"

"There’s no time," Alaric said sharply. He grabbed a large shawl from the bed and began piling her few belongings into it.

"No!" Giselle rushed forward, gripping his arm. "I’m not leaving without you. We can run together!"

Alaric’s hands stilled for a moment. His gaze met hers, torn and conflicted, but then his expression hardened.

"You have to go," he said firmly.

"Not without you!" Giselle pleaded. "If we run together—"

"Giselle."

His voice struck her like a hammer. Alpha command rolled through the room with undeniable force. Her breath hitched, her limbs locking in place as the power rooted her where she stood.

"Don’t do this," she whispered, tears pooling in her eyes.

Alaric’s face softened, but his voice remained firm. "I’ll find you. I swear it. But right now, I need you safe. If they capture you… if they get their hands on the baby—"

The door burst open, and a maid rushed in, breathless. "The ritual is starting! The pack leaders are gathering by the fire."

Alaric’s gaze snapped to her. "Miriam, take this." He grabbed the shawl filled with Giselle’s belongings and thrust it into the maid’s arms.

Turning back to Giselle, he cupped her face in his hands. "I’ll find you," he promised. "I promise."

His lips pressed against hers in a kiss that held desperation, love, and a silent plea. Giselle’s tears spilled freely as her fingers clutched at him, refusing to let go.

"Go," Alaric whispered against her lips. "Please."

Miriam grabbed Giselle’s hand, tugging her away.

Tears blurred her vision as Miriam led her down the narrow passage, the shadows swallowing them. At the end of the path, a large cave loomed ahead, only for them to stop cold.

Lydia Voss stood waiting.

Relief flickered across Giselle’s face. "Lyd..." Her voice trailed off as wolves crept in beside Lydia, flanking on both sides.

"Lydia?" Giselle’s voice shook. "Please... you don’t have to do this."

"If you don’t want to hurt yourself or the baby, come with us," Lydia said coldly.

Miriam stepped forward, shielding Giselle. "How dare you stop the Luna? Stand aside!"

Lydia’s bitter laugh echoed through the cave. "Luna?" Her gaze shifted to Giselle. "After today, she won’t be one anymore."

Giselle’s breath hitched. "Why are you doing this? We’re friends! You—"

"Friends?" Lydia’s smile twisted cruelly. "I was never your friend."

"That’s not true!" Giselle’s voice broke. "You were there when I married Alaric. You saved me when I was in danger. You've stood by me since I became Luna."

"And you stole everything from me," Lydia spat. "I was supposed to be Luna. Me. But you walked in, some stranger, and claimed what should have been mine."

Giselle shook her head. "You’re wrong. I never took anything from you. Alpha Alaric is my mate. It’s my rightful place. What do you stand to gain by betraying your pack?"

Lydia chuckled darkly. "A lot."

She leaned in, her voice low and vicious. "I gave you away. You’re the king’s daughter. The traitor king’s spawn. The pack leaders have been hunting you for years. They promised me power in another pack if I turned you in. So I did."

Giselle staggered back, her stomach twisting. "You knew?"

"For months." Lydia’s voice dropped to a whisper. "You know what that means for the child you're carrying, don't you?"

Giselle’s hand instinctively cradled her belly. "Nothing happens to my baby."

Lydia’s face hardened. "The pack leaders said they’d burn you both if you didn’t surrender. So be smart. Come quietly."

Miriam stepped in front of Giselle. "Over my dead body."

Lydia’s smile sharpened. "That can be arranged."

Lydia’s nails elongated, her fingers shifting into sharp claws. Her half-shifted hand moved fast, too fast.

Miriam barely had time to react before Lydia slashed.

A sickening crack.

Miriam's body slammed against the cave wall, the force knocking her unconscious instantly.

She flicked her wrist. The wolves lunged.

Giselle’s power flared, wild and uncontrollable. She flung her hands outward, and a shockwave erupted from her core.

The wolves flew back, crashing against the cave walls. Dust rained from above.

Lydia stood untouched. She smirked and pulled a glowing crystal from her pocket.

"Don't fight this, dear friend," she said, her voice sickly sweet. "It won’t take long."

The crystal’s light flared, searing into Giselle’s skull.

She screamed as her power drained away, ripped from her veins. Darkness swallowed her vision.

The last thing she saw was Miriam’s broken body crumpled nearby and Lydia’s satisfied smile.

Then nothing.

---

The next time Giselle woke, she was on the cold ground, firelight flickering across her blurred vision. Shadows twisted around her, voices rising and falling in a haunting rhythm.

The Twelve Blood Witches.

Twelve mouths moved in unison, chanting. Twelve voices, yet one being. No eyes, no nose, just mouths. They had no ears, yet they heard. No eyes, yet they saw. No nose, yet they smelled the stench of death clinging to the air.

"Lux tenebris... Sanguinem sacrificium... Fortis luna, sanguis nostrum."

The words slithered like serpents, curling through the air.

Pain.

A sudden, unbearable tear inside her.

Giselle screamed. Her body arched off the ground, her stomach tightening like a steel vice. Agony ripped through her, each breath ragged and shallow.

"She’s in labor," one of the mouths declared.

The lead witch turned sharply, her twisted grin spreading across multiple mouths.

"No."

Across the fire, Alpha Alaric struggled against the pack leaders. His face was contorted in desperation, eyes wide with panic.

"Help her!" he roared. "She’s in pain. Help her!"

But they held him down. He couldn’t move. He could only watch.

A bloodcurdling scream tore from Giselle’s throat. Then another sound followed.

A baby’s cry.

The witches lifted the newborn high, his frail wail piercing the night.

"It’s a boy," one of them announced.

"Burn him! Burn him!" The pack leaders’ voices rose in cruel unison.

"NO!" Alaric thrashed violently. "Please! The boy has nothing to do with this!"

"Shut up, Alpha Alaric," one of the leaders snarled. "He’s a Wolf-Man. He cannot be allowed to live!"

The witch holding the child strode toward the fire, gripping him by the leg as if he were nothing more than a rag doll. The flames roared higher, crackling eagerly.

Giselle gasped, her body convulsing, lips trembling as she tried to speak, but no words came.

The witch’s grip tightened. Then she froze.

Something changed.

The baby’s cries grew louder, sharper.

The witch’s many mouths twisted in confusion. She yanked the child away from the fire, holding him up as if seeing him for the first time.

"The boy is just a man-curb," the witch declared. "He carries no trace of his mother."

Murmurs rippled through them.

"Impossible!" one of the pack leaders barked. "His mother is of the royal Wolf-Men bloodline!"

The witch’s mouths twisted into something resembling a smile, cold and sharp.

"I don’t dispute that!" Her voices overlapped, a chilling echo. "The boy has taken after his father, so he is no Wolf-Man."

The baby’s wails filled the space. His tiny body was marred, half his flesh scorched and blackened by the fire, yet he lived.

The witches turned back to Giselle. Their mouths curled into knowing smiles. They didn’t need to be told. 

They knew.

The witches turned to the pack leaders, pointing at Giselle’s lifeless body and said, "She’s dead."

A cold, final statement.

Alaric’s anguished scream filled the night.

"NO!"