22

Romeo’s expression darkened. “Forgive me, Alpha,” he said, bowing his head, “if I come off as disrespectful. But I assumed the only reason we were keeping the human comfortable… was to prepare a worthy offering to Sorvane.” His voice sharpened on the demon’s name.

I remember hearing that voice... I remember how it said my name — Ravok — 300 years ago and how my body froze the instant the sound reached me. I remember noticing the last door at the end of the corridor and thinking how wrong it felt. 

No markings. No locks. No silver. No protective glyphs. 

I remember the way the air pressed against my chest when the voice spoke again. "You feel it. You came because you couldn’t stay away." And I remember realizing, with a chill in my gut, that it was right.

I remember my feet moving before I chose to walk. Each step toward that door made the corridor feel narrower, heavier, as if something alive was leaning into me, testing my resolve. 

My lungs burned. My heart was loud in my ears.

I remember the voice telling me humans had locked it away because it was too strong to control. I remember how intimate it sounded, as if it already knew the shape of my thoughts. And when it said "but you", I remember feeling seen in a way that made my skin crawl.

I remember hovering my fingers over the handle. I remember the cold of the metal biting into my palm. I remember thinking I should turn back... and not doing it.

I remember opening the door, expecting chains or a body, but there was nothing. Just mist hovering in the center of the room, swirling in a way that felt wrong. And then I remember the eyes opening. Red. 

I remember the moment the air slammed into my chest. I remember choking, my breath tearing out of me like it had turned to smoke. I remember collapsing to my knees, the stone wet and cold beneath me.

I remember screaming until my throat burned raw. I remember trying to claw at my own skin, desperate to tear it out, and realizing my arms no longer listened to me. 

And I remember the moment it stopped hurting. Not because it was over, but because something settled.

I remember the sensation of being filled. Of something vast and monstrous coiling deep inside my soul, threading itself through bone and marrow, fitting too perfectly. I remember the sick certainty that I had never been whole before.

I remember knowing its name the instant it claimed me.

Sorvane.

“Either way, the human is in the guest room. There’s water, fruit, and clean clothes. Tomorrow I’ll assign a nurse to take care of her."  Romeo said. "If there’s anything that can calm Sorvane, I’ll be the first to help.”

I nodded, pulling myself out of my thoughts about the Great War, especially the moment when I lost my body to the demon. I took a step toward him, but before a single word left my mouth, the door burst open.

A guard stumbled inside, breathless. “My king...” he panted, “The human... she’s gone.”

Romeo’s head snapped toward him. “Gone?”

“The guards found the balcony railing broken. She’s not in the east wing.”

I exhaled slowly, letting the towel fall from my shoulders.

Romeo did not say a word, but I felt his eyes on me. Waiting. “She could be anywhere by now... Should I mobilize the guards to search the forest?”

I turned toward the door. “No,” I said, already moving. “I’ll go after her myself.”

**

Dominic’s POV

The forest at Atheon’s border swallowed sound. The trees grew too close together, their trunks warped and scarred, roots tearing through the soil like exposed bones. The canopy blocked what little moonlight there was, leaving the ground slick with shadow and moisture. 

Each step sank slightly into decaying leaves, the earth soft and dark beneath my boots.

The air shifted the instant I crossed into it... cold, wet, heavy with the smell of moss and rot. Something bitter hung in it too, sharp enough to coat my tongue and sting the back of my throat with every breath. Branches creaked overhead, wood rubbing against wood like something shifting its weight.

No wolf tracks marked the ground. No birds called from the trees. Even insects were absent.

This was where territory ended.

This was where no pack hunted.

Stories said witches lived here — not hidden, not chased away — but left alone, because fear did a better job than borders ever could.

At the far end of the trees, the cave waited.

Its mouth was narrow, half-swallowed by roots and stone, breathing cold air into the forest like a living thing. 

Cold air pulsed from within, damp and sour, carrying the smell of wet earth and old smoke. Water dripped steadily somewhere inside, the sound slow and hollow, echoing as if the cave were deeper than it appeared. 

I stood there for a moment, listening — to the scrape of roots shifting against rock, to the faint hiss of air moving through unseen cracks — my skin tightening beneath my clothes. 

When I finally stepped inside, the chill bit immediately, seeping through my boots as they slid against slick stone, the walls close enough to brush my shoulders, the cave pressing in as if it were aware I had entered.

And... there was the Bruja.

Seated near a low fire, crushing leaves between her palms. The sound was soft but steady: green pulp, wet, methodical. Smoke curled lazily toward the cave ceiling, carrying the sharp, herbal sting of something medicinal.

“You’ve been looking for me for a long time,” she said without lifting her head. “Son of the Alpha.”

My jaw tightened. “I am no longer the Alpha’s son,” I replied, my voice echoing faintly off the stone. “I am the Alpha.”

She laughed.

Not loudly. Not mockingly. Just… knowingly.

“Your pack doesn’t seem to share that belief.” Her hands never stopped moving. “Tell me, why have you been circling my forest for so many days?”

Her hair was long and silvered, not with age but with a sheen like moonlight caught in ash, falling in loose strands over a dark cloak that seemed woven from shadow itself. 

Her skin bore the pale smoothness of stone worn by centuries of water, marked here and there with faint lines that looked less like wrinkles and more like runes half-forgotten. Her eyes were light — not white, not gray — but something in between, clear and unsettling, reflecting the flames. 

I took a step closer. The heat from the fire brushed my legs. “What kind of witchcraft are you performing?” I spat.

She finally looked up. Her eyes were pale, clouded with age and something deeper. Amused. “Tea,” she said lightly. “For the flu. Even the oldest witch still sneezes and gets a runny nose.”

I stopped where I was, keeping my distance. Power radiated from her without effort, without threat, the kind that did not need to prove itself. “Melany is alive,” I said. “Was it you who protected her?”

Silence.

She returned her gaze to the leaves, crushing them slower now, pressing until green stained her skin. The fire crackled. Somewhere deeper in the cave, water dripped.

Time stretched.

Then she spoke: “No.”

I frowned.

“It was the Moon Goddess who protected her.” The witch finally looked at me again, her mouth curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And gods,” she added softly, “do not protect without purpose.”

“Why would the Moon Goddess protect her?” I asked. “Is she special?”