Chapter 7

‘Why won’t they just stop bugging me!’

“You?” Nyxar’s voice cuts through his mind, laced with irritation. “Aren’t I part of this?”

Draven ignores him.

The council chambers feel rather suffocating tonight. Well—more than usual. All they’ve done for the past hour is circle around the same issue.

A mate.

An heir.

Prying into his life like they have the right to.

A frustrated sigh leaves his lips.

“Bu-but?” Orion stammers, his fingers fiddling with a pale purple handkerchief.

Theron leans back, tapping his finger rhythmically against the armrest. “I believe Alpha Draven should choose at his own pace….Or let destiny take its course.”

“I second that,” Vaal adds, voice thinning with impatience. “This has already—“ BAM!

A loud bang splits the air, interrupting him.

“THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS!”

Zyros surges to his feet, veins bulging at his neck, a large one at the top of his forehead pulsing like it could take on a life of its own. His palm an ugly red from the force of hitting the table.

“I will not sit here like an imbecile and watch you gamble away our survival! He must secure the line of hierarchy. For fuck’s sake! He is the—“

“Enough.” Comes Draven’s calm cool voice.

The room falls silent. The atmosphere dips instantly.

“Alpha Zyros,” he says, his voice low, deliberate and edged with a firm warning. “You are not here to dictate my life’s decisions. And I suggest you watch that disrespectful tone, Alpha.”

The title drips with mockery.

Zyros sinks back into his seat, jaw tight. Clear displeasure etched onto his face. But he bites his tongue.

Something shifts in the air.

Draven’s nose twitches.

A faint scent twinges the air with its presence.

‘Right,’ his eyes narrow slightly. ‘One of the Primordial’s wolves.’

“They’re always up to something,” Nyxar mutters, the earlier irritation shifting into alertness.

The scent lingers.

“Do you think they’re just passing through, or is it—“ Nyxar goes silent.

‘Nyx?’

Draven probes. ‘What now, I can feel your—‘ Pausing, he feels it too. ‘Something isn’t adding up.’

Draven stiffens, his posture going rigid as his instincts abruptly rouse. Whatever is out there beckons him. It pulls at him with invisible ropes, like there's a tight knot connected to it around his very soul.

“Now,” Ravik drones on, oblivious, “we should move onto more pressing….”

Draven’s chair screeches loudly against the tiled floor as he stands unexpectedly.

Every head turns to him.

“I believe that will be all for today.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

“You can’t just-“ Theron begins.

“If you wish to continue, be my guest.” Draven cuts in smoothly, already moving. “I have urgent business to attend to.”

He doesn’t wait.

The doors close softly behind him with a dull click.

The night air kisses his bronze skin and softly ruffles his dark curls. The scent hits him stronger now.

“There’s someone else.” Nyxar figures.

‘You’re right…... It’s not just the wolf.’ Draven agrees.

“Mhmmm” Nyxar mutters.

‘There’s something about this other person I don’t understand.’ Draven’s thoughts whisper.

‘It’s as if they’re not a wolf. But not entirely human either.’

Nyxar goes eerily quiet.

Too quiet.

‘Nyx?’

“It’s strange,” Nyxar hesitates. “It’s like I’m drawn to it…. But not fully there.”

‘So am I. But more like….. mild curiosity.’ Draven murmurs inwardly.

Nyxar huffs.

The wind shifts.

And then, it hits. Draven freezes. His pulse spikes, heart beating once, twice and then—He moves forward. Every step is slow and deliberate like he's trying to let the night enjoy its slumber as he stalks about.

Just as his eyes adjust to the moonlight, a figure moves in the dark. Tall and broad.

The man steps closer, revealing himself. “Alpha,” he says a bit too quickly. “I’m just passing through.”

Draven observes him. “You’re one of the Primordial’s wolves.”

“Of course.” The man answers.

“Anyone with you?” Draven probes, his icy gaze pinning him on spot.

He hesitates, his eyes darting about. “…Just a prisoner.”

The situation shifts as suspicion grows within Draven. “May I be acquainted with this-”

“Alpha.” The interruption is sharp this time. Defensive. “This is a special prisoner. I have strict orders not to reveal their identity. The Primordial himself will do that.”

Silence settles between them. Thick and uncomfortable. Finally, “very well then.” Draven responds. “Safe travels.”

Relief flickers across the man’s otherwise emotionless face. His shoulders sag just a tiny bit. “Thank you.” He turns, his massive frame moving fast as he takes large strides to where his *prisoner* is.

Draven watches him.

“That’s not suspicious at all,” Nyxar says sarcastically.

Draven doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets the shift take place. Muscles tear and rebuild as fur sprouts and bones snap into place.

Nyxar's massive form emerges, just as his name suggests, night-born Alpha.

He stands tall and proud, his black obsidian coat shimmers in the moonlight.

Moving into the shadows, he blends impeccably with the darkness.

He follows at a distance. The scent gets closer with each step.

He watches the man stop nearby, crouching, he picks up a body.

An unconscious female.

The second she leaves the earth, the scent envelops Nyxar’s senses. Hitting him hard and overriding all other scents.

He recoils.

“What?” Draven drawls. “Is. That!”

The girl’s head rolls back slightly, her face barely illuminated beneath the dim light. And yet, even in her passed-out state, something about her still pulls at Nyxar and Draven.

Not gently. Not softly. But like a command carved into their very soul.

“This… this isn’t right,” Nyxar growls. “This shouldn’t exist.”

And yet, the pull doesn’t falter. It only tightens deeper. More pronounced.

But

Something about it just feels wrong. Like there’s a barrier of sorts.

Nyxar’s claws sink into the earth.

A thought, unwanted, uninvited and unwelcome forces its way through him.

He stiffens.

Rejects it instantly.

But it lingers.

The man adjusts the girl in his arms and begins to walk again.

Pausing, he transforms, positions the girl better and then, breaks into a sprint, disappearing into the darkness.

Draven watches silently, inner turmoil about the new discovery gnawing at his very instincts.

He shifts back.

“That scent…. There’s something about it that feels almost… familiar.” Draven mutters.

“Almost like it’s….” Nyxar starts.

“NO!”

Draven doesn’t let him finish.

He has never forgotten that prophecy. But he knew it was an impossibility.