Novels by Author mae

It was raining heavily. It fell like a hailstorm on the convoy of black SUVs moving in silence through the Apennine foothills. Five vehicles. Twenty-seven soldiers. Three objectives. Capture. Extract. Eliminate. Serena sat at the head of tge convoy.She was silent, focused, she seemed like a shadowed fury beneath a bulletproof vest and matte-black gloves. They were headed for Castello Lupo, an abandoned fortress once used by the Romanos before their purge. According to intercepted comms, it was now Aureliano’s command post and ground zero for the rising resistance. Serena didn’t flinch as the mountain road twisted beneath the tires. She had no room for fear. Not anymore.The road was rough and bumpy but it didn't seem to bother her at all. She'd stared death in the eyes, and she was done blinking. --- In the passenger seat, Mara adjusted her headset, scanning the terrain. “We’ve got thermal movement. Twenty-plus heat signatures ahead. Perimeter guards, probably snipers on the

The warning came just before dawn.A single flare fired from the watchtower.Crimson against the lavender sky.It wasn’t a call for help.It was a call to arms.Serena was already dressed when Mara burst through the west hall doors.“Movement on the ridge. Fifteen to twenty men. Armed. Black Sons.”Matteo swore, already buckling his shoulder holster.“How close?”“Close enough to smell the blood they plan to spill.”Serena tightened her gloves. “Then let’s show them what a legacy smells like.”They moved fast.No time for second-guessing. No time for fear.The estate's interior guards mobilized in seconds—rifles slung, armor thrown over cotton. Every man knew what was at stake.The Valentino name.The De Luca stronghold.And her.---By the time Serena reached the outer wall, the first wave had already descended.Black masks. Submachine guns. Tactical vests marked with a Roman numeral: II.She didn’t wait for orders.She climbed the southwest turret, picked off two intruders with dead

The villa smelled of gunpowder and roses.A strange combination of death and beauty. But perhaps fitting, Serena thought, as she stood alone in the grand southern wing of the estate, the silence wrapping around her like a funeral veil.It had been three days since the incident.Three days since she had ended Victor Romano’s life with her own blood-stained hands.Three days since she’d looked into the eyes of the man who claimed to be her father—who had held her mother in chains like a trophy—and watched the truth split her in half.Since then, she hadn’t slept.Not because she couldn’t.Because she didn’t want to.Sleep was for the safe. She was no longer safe.Victor Romano was gone.But his war had only just begun.---The courtyard garden—once filled with sun and serenity—now stood drenched in shadow and silence. The stone paths were slick with morning dew, and the roses she had once admired were trimmed back with brutal efficiency, their thorns sharper than ever.Serena stood whe

The clock read 3:07 a.m. Serena Vale stood alone in front of the mirror, lacing her boots with trembling hands. Dressed in matte black from throat to heel, she looked nothing like the pampered bride the council once underestimated. She was lean. Silent. Sharp. And for the first time, completely untethered. The message had said come alone. And she would. Because if the photo was real—if her mother was still alive—then no trap, no ambush, no army would stop her from getting her back. Matteo was still asleep. She left no note. Only a single dagger on his bedside table. It had been her father’s. If she didn’t return, he’d know what it meant. --- She took the Ducati. Fast. Silent. Deadly. The coordinates led her to the outskirts of Taranto, near the crumbling ruins of an old watchtower once used by the Black Dagger syndicate,a place Matteo had told her to never go near. A place that now glowed in the dark with low lights and the pulse of movement. Serena ditched the bike tw

Rome. A city older than kingdoms, carved into the bones of empires and cemented with the blood of the ambitious. It was fitting, Serena thought, that this was where the underground council had gathered. Not in Naples, where power was paraded in designer suits and whispered bribes. Not in Geneva, where the snow was still tinged red from the last attempted coup, the blood of the innocent and guilty lay on its grounds. No, Rome made sense. Power, after all, was never truly given. It was taken. The summit took place in a shuttered monastery on the outskirts of the City. A structure older than the families it now hosted, with thick stone walls that once housed monks and martyrs. The chapel had long been deconsecrated, but it still held a ghostly aura, almost like the echoes of old prayers were still clinging to its arches, fighting to be remembered. Inside the main chamber, time had been arrested. The long wooden table at the center was carved from oak darkened by centuries, s

The morning sun poured through the villa like molten gold, touching marble and stone with the warmth of peace. But Serena Vale knew better.There was no peace here.There was only strategy.Only war waiting to unfold. She made her way to the rose garden, trying to gather her thoughts. She sat alone on the edge of the rose garden, dressed in white linen, hair braided loosely down her back. She looked every bit the helpless bride, lost in thought, soft around the edges. But inside, her mind moved like a blade.Enzo was going to try something soon.She could feel itShe’d heard him through the vents. Heard him say it out loud."I’ll deliver her myself."Now, she just had to let him think she was ready to be taken.She needed to get to the bottom of this.Fast.---It started with a whisper.“Lady Serena?”She turned at the sound of Pietro’s voice. He stood near the gate, a bouquet of morning roses in hand. His cheeks tinged with red as she smiled at him.“I thought you might want the

Smoke still lingered in Lyra’s lungs, even days after the return from the sea. Not the acrid stench of battle, but the cloying, electric residue of ancient magic,it was a scent that clung to her hair and skin no matter how many times she bathed. It had followed them back to the Accord like a shadow that didn’t know when to leave.The Council chambers were quieter than usual.There were no arguments amongst the council members.No raised voices. Just the unease that hung between the leaders like an unspoken pact. Kaelen stood behind her, arms folded, gaze fixed on the massive stained-glass window at the back of the hall. It depicted the first moonrise after the Great rising—a historical myth more symbolic than true. And yet, something about it felt... prophetic now.“They’re afraid,” Lyra said softly.“They should be,” Kaelen replied, his voice low. “The second Gate was sealed. But sealing it wasn’t the same as destroying it. They know that.”Lyra turned toward the Council, where Eld

It wasn’t the smooth silver mirror described in stories, nor the playful tides painted on childhood murals. It was vast and hungry, its waves were blackened by storm-winds and haunted with the breath of ghosts. They reached the coastline in three days, riding under the banner of the Accord, but even that sacred emblem did little to calm the villagers that greeted them.“Stay off the eastern shoals,” a toothless old woman warned as they secured the boats. “That sea remembers the old ones. It remembers who bled into it.”Kaelen thanked her politely and moved on.Lyra paused longer, staring into the foam-crusted surf. The wind tangled her cloak, sent her hair whipping around her shoulders like strands of moonlight caught in a gale. Behind her, Iris stood quietly, her gaze locked not on the horizon, but on the seabirds flying inland as if they were fleeing something they couldn't name.“Is this where the second seal is?” Lyra asked the girl softly.Iris didn’t look at her. “It’s undernea

The Gate was sealed. The Sovereign was gone.But Lyra couldn’t sleep.She sat by the dying embers of the Accord’s victory fires, her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The scent of ash and blood still clung to the air. Even with the sky quiet and the land no longer weeping shadow, something inside her refused to settle.Not fear. Not even sorrow.Restlessness.Kaelen had fallen asleep not far from her, curled around the small Seer child, whose name they still didn’t know. The girl had wandered into the Gate’s chaos barefoot, fearless and then simply stayed, curling beside Kaelen after the battle as though she’d belonged there all along.Lyra watched them now, trying to understand what the child was. Who she was.Because the girl didn’t speak. She only watched. With eyes too ancient for her face.And now, even the stars felt like they watched through her.A soft voice stirred the air.“You should rest, too.”Lyra turned.Elder Ysara stood at the edge of the firelight, her shad

The moment the Gate fully opened, the world bled.Reality twisted. The valley howled. Darkness didn’t pour from the tear—it poured into it, like a mouth inhaling, ready to consume. Lyra stood at the center of a vortex of wind, magic, and bone, her silver-flamed hands stretched wide, anchoring the protective stakes the Vowbound had carved into the ground.“Hold the circle!” she shouted over the chaos.Veera’s voice came from somewhere behind her, breathless. “One of the wards just snapped! We’re exposed on the west flank!”Kaelen snarled, his wolf tearing through a pair of Hollowed beasts slithering on limbs far too long to be natural. Blood sprayed the earth. His eyes glinted silver beneath the full moon.“Lyra!” he shouted. “They’re breaching faster than we can kill them!”“I know,” she ground out, voice ragged. “But we’re not trying to stop them—we’re trying to draw him out.”As if summoned, the Sovereign’s laughter cut through the storm like glass across skin.“You think I’ll fight

The Gate pulsed.Not with life but with memory.Each beat was a cry from the dead, echoing through the frost-choked air as if the earth itself mourned what had once been buried and now begged to rise. Lyra stood at the edge of the valley, wind whipping her cloak around her legs, eyes locked on the iron-bone monolith that stood crooked in the center of the desecrated grave field.She couldn’t look away.Because it was looking back.The air was heavy with old magic that was older than the Hollowed, older even than the Rift. This was ancestral. Primeval. A kind of quiet madness stitched into soil and sky.Kaelen stood beside her, hand resting near the hilt of his blade. “It’s... watching.”Lyra nodded, her voice thin. “It remembers me.”“You’ve never been here before.”“I don’t have to be,” she whispered. “I was born from what it holds.”Behind them, Veera and the scouts had set perimeter wards. Halden crouched near the treeline, muttering tracking incantations, while the child—the Seer

The snow began to fall again when they left the ruins of the Archives.Not the kind that signaled storm or danger. It was soft,haunting, almost beautiful but Lyra couldn’t feel it the way she once might have. The cold didn’t bite her. The wind didn’t chill. Ever since the vision, ever since the truth had settled in her bones, she felt half fire, half shadow. As though she no longer belonged entirely to the world that had birthed her.Kaelen rode beside her in silence, eyes alert to every crunch of snow beneath hooves. Behind them, Veera and Halden whispered between themselves. The two scouts, trailing at the rear, remained tense—uneasy ever since the vision at the archives had triggered a magical surge that split the ground like a wound.They didn’t ask questions.But Lyra could feel it.They feared her now.“South pass up ahead,” Kaelen murmured. “Two days’ ride to the Accord’s northern post.”She didn’t respond.He looked at her sideways. “You’ve barely spoken.”Lyra turned toward t