Mirror Cracks

Seraphine flinched and tried to look away, but it felt like the impact of those eyes on her had been renewed ten-fold, and now she couldn’t look away.

The guards formed a perimeter, crossbows aimed and drawn, but they didn’t fire. Not yet.

High Commander Vex Marron stepped forward. Councilman Derrick flanked him, decked out in guild armor, reeking of cowardice and political survival.

“Alaric Vaelthorn,” Vex Marron said, “you enter Guild territory under truce law.”

“I come to speak. Not to fight.”

“Then speak quickly.”

Alaric ignored him. His eyes stayed on her.

“You’re the one they call Duskbane.”

Seraphine’s voice was calm. “You’re the one they call the wolf prince.”

The air tensed, and several guards raised their bows higher.

Alaric didn’t move.

“You killed her.”

“She deserved to die.”

“She came to call a truce.”

“She wiped out a village.”

Alaric stepped closer. “You killed a royal.”

Seraphine shrugged and flicked her nails, “No different from the other beasts I’ve killed.”

His voice dropped. “She was my sister.”

“And she’s dead,” Seraphine said flatly. “Just like every other beast I’ve hunted.”

The words sliced.

Alaric saw red. Literally. The torchlight blurred. His hand twitched toward his dagger.

His entire being demanded her blood in retribution. His wolf wanted something else. 

He’d deal with that later.

Alaric turned to the high commander, “Deliver the one called Duskbane to our gates by nightfall or prepare for war.”

“We already have an answer, wolf prince.” Vex Marron boomed over the murmurings of his men.

“War then,” Alaric stared from the high commander to the female hunter, letting his fangs drop in a feral grin.

Seraphine said nothing, but the slight tilt of her lips spoke volumes.

Alaric twisted away, and the bolt slammed into the tree beside him with a thunk.

A second arrow followed. Then a third.

“Ambush!” someone screamed.

Figures emerged from the treeline. They were hybrids, half-shifted, foam-mouthed, wielding crude blades and alchemical claws.

The guards scrambled into position.

Seraphine didn’t hesitate. She spun, dagger flashing, cutting down one hybrid with precision.

Alaric drew his dagger and moved without thinking.

Side by side, they fought.

He blocked a hybrid’s jaws with his forearm and drove his blade through its skull.

She kicked another into a wall and slit its throat before it could retaliate.

Their movements were terrifyingly in sync.

Another wolf lunged for her blind side.

Alaric reached it first.

He crushed its windpipe with one hand and snapped its neck with the other.

Seraphine turned just in time to see the body fall.

Their eyes met again.

A heartbeat passed.

She whispered, “Why?”

“Your life is mine to take.”

The last hybrid had bolted into the trees. The camp was bloody and silent. The hunters lay on the ground, some dead, some in enough pain to wish they were dead. The high commander and the councilman were nowhere to be seen. Seraphine turned to the wolf prince, face flushed, breath shallow.

“You made a mistake, saving me from the Hybrid.”

“You won’t be alive much longer, Duskbane,” Alaric vowed, barging into her personal space as though drawn to her presence.

Suddenly, she drove her dagger upward.

Alaric caught her wrist mid-thrust. Their faces mere inches apart.

“Humans,” he growled, eyes glowing as the sickening cracking of bones echoed in the camp, and the dagger fell from her hand, “Not an ounce of honour in your kind.”

Seraphine gritted her teeth to keep the whimpers from spilling out as she yanked her wrist free.

“Honour doesn’t rid the world of your kind,” she hissed, then turned and walked away.

Alaric stared after her. His jaw clenched. His eyes glowing a firece red light.

Soon. He vowed to her back.

                                                                                 ,,,

Seraphine stood over a wash basin inside her temporary quarters, staring at her reflection in the cracked bronze mirror. Her braid had unraveled during the fight, streaks of blood painted her neck and collarbone, and her eyes, gods, her eyes looked like they belonged to someone else.

Dorian barged in without knocking. His face was pale, drawn tight with disbelief.

“You fought with the wolf prince.”

Seraphine didn’t look up. “I killed beside him. That’s different.”

“Don’t play that game, Sera.” He stepped closer, voice low and angry. “You stood with Alaric Vaelthorn. The crown prince of the Purebloods. The wolf whose bloodline once gutted this continent from coast to coast. You stood with him. Protected him.”

“I did what I had to do under the circumstances.”

“No, you hesitated.” He grabbed her arm. “The hunters have been talking. You could’ve stabbed him. You could’ve ended this war before it started.”

"Where were you, Vale? Why didn't you help?" Seraphine accused instead.

Dorian looked away, a tight expression on his face, "Commander Vex ordered no reinforcements, now answer the question."

Seraphine yanked her arm free. “I didn’t hesitate. I calculated. You know how those things move. Those weren’t Pack wolves. They were hybrids. Mutants.”

Dorian blinked.

“I saw the runes on their throats,”

He shook his head. “Those practices were outlawed after the Dark War.”

“Well, they’re back.”

The words tasted like ash, but she had to say it.

“And their kind keep popping up. It seems someone decided to bring back the old ways,” she continued.

Dorian’s face went still. “But why would anyone do this?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

                                                                ,,,

The Guild’s Inner Circle reeked of sweaty council bodies, the air stale with anxiety and fear.

Seraphine entered to find the leaders of the guild council seated around a large rectangular obsidian table. Vex Marron sat at the head, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Derrick stood with arms crossed, glaring at Seraphine like she’d kicked his dog.

“You survived,” Vex said with a faint smirk.

“I almost didn’t,” Seraphine answered.

“Did the Alpha attempt to kill you?”

“No.”

“Did you attempt to kill him?”

“I tried.” Was the stiff reply.

Derrick scoffed. “Then what, pray tell, do you call standing shoulder-to-shoulder with our enemy in combat?”

Seraphine met his gaze. “Tactical adaptation.”

Vex raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

She stepped forward and laid down the sigil-marked patch of skin she’d carved from one of the hybrids’ throats. It sizzled faintly against the table.

“Evidence of the Hybrid existence.”

Derrick flinched. “Those markings—”

“Are alchemical,” Seraphine finished. “Someone wants to start a war between wolves and humans and they don’t care who burns first.”

Vex leaned back slowly. “You believe there’s a third party.”

“I know it.”

Derrick snorted. “How convenient. Accuse an unseen enemy and ignore the one breathing down our necks.”

Vex waved a hand. “Enough, Derrick. Seraphine, what do you propose?”

“Let me track the source of these hybrids.”

“And the war?”

She paused.

“Yes, do tell us how you propose to win the war with the werewolves and  the war hybrids, at the same time?” Derrick sneered at her.

Seraphine remained silent, her brows furrowed deeply.

That earned a lot of whispers around the room.

Vex merely smiled, "You’re dismissed Commander Duskbane."