The Blood-moon Ascension

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10:45 PM

The ancient clock on Deimon's chamber wall ticked toward midnight, each second echoing like a death knell. Everything was in position. Below, the entire Crescent clan marched through snow-laden paths toward Ascension Hills, their breaths forming ghostly plumes in the cold air. The procession moved in eerie silence, thousands of footsteps crunching through ice and snow.

Above, the Blood-Moon claimed its throne at the center of the sky, bathing the world in crimson light that made the snow look like spilled blood. Distant howls pierced the darkness—primal calls that made the air vibrate with raw power, sending shivers down the spines of even the most seasoned warriors.

This was no celebration. This was ancient ceremony, carried out in shadows and silence. No drums, no music. Just power, tradition, and transformation.

Deimon exhaled as the clan women applied sacred markings to his bare chest—ash mixed with wolfsbane extract, forming symbols older than memory. The paste burned, seeping into his skin like liquid fire. He should have felt triumphant, this was his destiny. Instead, his mind churned with dark thoughts.

Anna's escape haunted him. What if the hunting party had failed? After his proclamation before Selene, failure would make him look weak, foolish. All talk and no action .

A knock sounded at the rear door.

Deimon rose, moving past the startled women. When he opened the door, Timon Wolfhart stood there—the legendary Huntsman and Alpha of the Nomadic pack. Behind him, his crew carried something wrapped in bloodstained canvas. Deimon's heart lurched.

Wolfhart's weathered face was grim.

"Lord Ashworth, my team tracked the scent you provided. It led to the ridges, then... something strange happened."

"Strange how?"

Deimon's voice was sharp.

"The scent changed, sire. At the ridge, we found traces of another pack—a scent so powerful it overwhelmed everything else. Foreign, ancient. Nothing I've encountered in thirty years of hunting."

Wolfhart paused. "And we found this body at Wolf's Peak, hanging from a tree at the cliffs."

They peeled back the canvas. The lifeless face stared at nothing, neck bruised purple, eyes frozen wide.

"Aurora,"

Deimon breathed. Anna's handmaid. What happened to her? Did she take her own life?

"She's been dead for hours, sire. But here's what troubles me—the scent at the scene doesn't match hers. Or the girl's. Someone else was there."

Deimon's mind raced.

"Are you certain you searched tho

roughly, Huntsman?"

"Affirmative, sire. My hounds never fail. But whoever crossed that ridge masked their trail with power I've never seen. They wanted us to lose the scent. And they succeeded."

"What about Anna?"

Wolfhart's expression darkened.

"Gone. Vanished at the ridge where the foreign scent appeared. Either she's dead, taken, or..." He trailed off.

"Or what?"

"Or someone helped her disappear. Someone with considerable power."

Before Deimon could respond, Jabari burst through the door.

"Master Ashworth! The big families—their heads are here to see you. Now."

Deimon's jaw clenched. This was worse than he'd imagined. A foreign pack on Crescent territory. Aurora dead under suspicious circumstances. Anna gone without a trace. And he had to walk into his ascension ceremony pretending everything was under control.

"Lord Huntsman, not a word of this to anyone. We'll investigate after the ceremony." Wolfhart bowed and departed with his crew .

     Deimon turned to Jabari. " Conceal Aurora's body.No one can know about this yet."

"Yes, sir."

As they left, Deimon stared at Aurora's pale face. Suicide? Murder? And who was the mysterious pack that had invaded his territory on the most important night of his life?

He had no answers. Only questions that would have to wait.

Deimon returned to finish the ritual markings, his mind calculating possibilities, enemies, threats. Tonight, he would become a recognized Alpha. Tomorrow, he would hunt for the truth.

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11:55 PM

Ascension Hills was magnificent and terrifying in equal measure. Ancient stone formations jutted from the earth like the bones of sleeping giants, their surfaces covered in glowing runes that pulsed with each beat of the Blood-Moon's light.

Snow-covered slopes gleamed crimson under the Blood-Moon, packed with werewolves from across the globe—every pack under Crescent rule. Wolves from the Russian Steppes stood beside those from the African plains, Arctic hunters mingled with desert dwellers, all united under the crimson sky. The perimeter bristled with sentinels and hunters, their eyes glowing in the darkness, weapons at the ready. At the base, thousands of werewolves stood in traditional attire—furs, leathers, and ceremonial robes adorned with symbols of their respective clans. Their collective breath creating mist that hung like spirits in the freezing air, swirling and dancing in the moonlight.

At the center of the Lunar Altar stood High Priestess Selene, bathed in moonlight. In her hands, a ceremonial dagger caught the crimson rays. Even she, ancient and powerful, fought visibly against the urge to transform.

Time crawled. The ground fell silent, waiting.

11:59 PM.

     Deimon hadn't appeared. The higher-ups shifted restlessly. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Was the Alpha a no-show?

Then the temperature plummeted.

Deimon emerged from the shadows, flanked by the Alphas of the three great families. His figure was magnificent—muscular, bare-chested, ritual symbols gleaming on his skin.

Each step toward the altar was deliberate, powerful. His eyes found Selene's. The ancient priestess looked like a weathered goddess beneath the crimson moon.

Silence crashed down.

Deimon knelt. Selene began the ancient rites, her voice speaking words in a language older than human civilization. Deimon's breathing grew heavy, vapor escaping his mouth. Aurora's dead face flashed through his mind. The mysterious foreign scent, Anna's disappearance.

No. He forced it away. He'd deal with that later. Right now, he needed to claim his birthright.

Selene danced beneath the Blood-Moon like something otherworldly, a wooden plate balanced in her hands. Finally, she presented it. Inside: blood from the four founding families mixed with shadow water—a binding ritual.

He drank. It tasted like rust , earth and ancient power.

"I, Selene Vance!,"

the High Priestess proclaimed, her voice thundering, "High Priestess of the Crescent, hereby ascend you, Deimon Ashworth the Fifth. Rise, glorious Alpha!"

The words unlocked something primal.

Deimon rose, and the howl that tore from his throat was louder than thunder, shaking the very ground beneath the altar. His body erupted in transformation—bones cracking and reshaping with sounds like breaking timber, muscles expanding and rippling beneath skin that sprouted thick white fur. His face elongated into a powerful muzzle, teeth becoming fangs that gleamed in the moonlight. Where a man had stood, now towered a massive white wolf standing nine feet tall, eyes blazing like furnaces with an inner fire, fur gleaming like moonlight on fresh snow.

He was larger than any Alpha in living memory, his presence radiating such raw power that the air itself seemed to bend around him. A terror made flesh. A god among wolves. The first white wolf in his bloodline, a sign of unprecedented power.

The energy rippled outward like a shockwave.

Every werewolf felt it—an irresistible pull. They transformed en masse, utilizing the crimson moon's power. Selene let the urge take over, and shifted into a Demon-wolf of legend. Thousands howled in unison, their voices creating a savage symphony that echoed across mountains.

The ceremony descended into controlled chaos. Werewolves scattered in a feral ritual—hunting, fighting, claiming. The Blood-Moon amplified everything.

Then came the mating ball.

The newly ascended Alpha would be offered multiple females. Selene had volunteered her daughter to honor the new Alpha.

Deimon, towering as a white Alpha, felt the mating frenzy overtake him. Every instinct screamed—dominate, claim, breed.

She-wolves approached through the crimson-lit snow, their eyes gleaming with desire and submission. Deimon took them with savage intensity beneath the blood-red sky. The first one submitted immediately, baring her throat in the ancient gesture of surrender. He mounted her with brutal force, his powerful body driving into hers as she cried out in pleasure and pain. The scent of her arousal mixed with snow and blood, intoxicating him further. He claimed her completely, teeth at her neck marking her as his, claws digging into the frozen ground for leverage as he thrust deeper, harder, until she screamed his name to the crimson moon above.

Then another approached, and another.

Bodies intertwined in the snow, steam rising from heated flesh as the temperature contrast between their burning skin and the frozen ground created clouds of vapor. The sex was primal, violent, beautiful—raw need and pure animal power. He dominated each one completely, their moans and howls mixing with the night wind.

Sweat and blood and the thick musk of sex filled the air. He moved between them with tireless energy, insatiable, driven by instinct older than civilization itself. Each thrust a claiming, each bite a brand, each cry of ecstasy feeding his frenzy.

The pleasure was overwhelming—waves of it crashing through him with each conquest, each submission. Their bodies writhing beneath him in the snow, leaving imprints of their passion in the white powder. Their screams of ecstasy fueling his endless hunger. He took them in every position imaginable, his wolf form powerful and relentless. Some begged for mercy. Others begged for more. He gave them both.

The night became a blur of sensation—the feel of soft skin beneath his claws, the taste of blood and sweat on his tongue, the sounds of pleasure echoing across the hills. He lost himself completely in the savage beauty of it, in the pure animalistic need that consumed him, until dawn began to break across the horizon and exhaustion finally claimed even his supernatural endurance.

When consciousness returned, Deimon lay naked in the snow, surrounded by sleeping she-wolves. He was fully realized now—an ordained Alpha of his clan, a recognized leader among the Crescent.

But even in his satisfaction, darkness lingered at the edge of his mind. Somewhere out there, Anna was gone, Aurora was dead. And a foreign pack had violated his territory.

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Deimon woke at his manor the next morning, exhausted but satisfied. The deed was done. Memories of the night rushed back—hazy images of ferocity and wild passion. He was relieved. Now he could sit before the council with his head held high as an ordained Alpha.

His phone rang. Zoey.

Deimon sighed and answered reluctantly.

"What is it, Zoey? I'm taking the day off. I just had the biggest day of my life."

"Sorry to disturb you sir. Congratulations on your ascension. But it's urgent. It's Sanders, requesting the procedure to sign the—"

"Put me through to Sanders. Now!" Deimon boomed.

Sanders came on the line. "Sanders, you realize what day it is?"

"Of course, sir,"

  Sanders replied "the day to officiate our accord. We don't have much time and—"

"Incorrect, Sanders. It's rest day for Ashworth. Since you're impatient, and having me on my heels, perhaps you'll have to—"

"Of course not, Mr. Ashworth! Sorry to rush you, sir. It's just our competitors are on our neck."

"Be guided, Sanders. Your competitors should be wary of your new partnership with Ashworth. I'm tapping out, i'll get back to you soon."

"Of course, Mr. Ashworth. I'll be expecting your response."

Deimon ended the call.

    "And Zoey, next time you call me about Zenith, I'll be on your neck. Clear?"

"Of course, sir. Sorry."

Deimon dropped onto the bed, trying to close his eyes for a nap. A knock came at the door.

"Unless you're bringing breakfast in bed, get away!"

Deimon boomed.

"Master Ashworth, it's me. It's a matter of urgency,"

Jabari replied from behind the door.

"Jabari, for the love of God. What now?"

"It's about yesterday's discovery. Aurora's body and... the investigation."

Deimon sat up, suddenly alert. "Come in."