The Purification

Deimon submerged himself in the Blood-Moon bath, an ancient family Jacuzzi reserved for cleansing before the crimson rituals. The water shimmered with crushed moonflowers and sacred oils, their scent thick and intoxicating. Steam rose in ghostly spirals, carrying with it the weight of centuries-old tradition. This wasn't merely a bath—it was a rite passed down through generations of Ashworth Alphas, each one purifying themselves before ascending to greater power.

Around him, young omega maidens moved like shadows, their hands skilled in the old ways of purification. They scrubbed every inch of his muscular frame with imported oils that cost more than most wolves earned in a year, washing away not just dirt, but the spiritual residue of treacherous mates and broken bonds. The ritual demanded complete cleansing—body, mind, and soul.

Their soft caresses worked methodically across his skin, and Deimon felt his mind drift into that space between consciousness and meditation. The ritual demanded purity, but tradition also allowed for... other cleansings. He spent the better part of the cold evening entangled with the maidens, their bodies warm against the winter chill seeping through the mansion walls. It was part ceremony, part indulgence, part necessity. The wolf needed to be satisfied, its hunger sated, before tomorrow's transition. His problems dissolved in steam and flesh and whispered moans, floating away like the incense smoke that filled the chamber as he made love to the maidens.

By the time he emerged, wrapped in a comforting , silk pajamas , Deimon felt renewed. Reborn, almost. He made his way to the Silverwood Terrace—the very spot where his grandfather, the legendary black Alpha Magnus Ashworth, once held court and made decisions that shaped the entire pack's destiny. The space overlooked the moonlit pool, all dark wood and leather, designed for powerful men to brood in comfort. Shadows played across the walls, cast by the pool's reflection, creating an atmosphere of quiet menace.

His PA, Zoey Paya, a nerdy omega who never went anywhere without her tablet, stood nearby scrolling through reports. She was efficient, discreet, and knew when to speak and when to remain silent—qualities that had kept her employed far longer than her predecessors.

"What an evening," 

Deimon mused, swirling expensive wine in his crystal glass. The vintage was older than most pack members, pulled from his grandfather's personal collection. "Makes you forget your problems entirely. A proper ritual bath, a good fuck, some aged wine. Everything the soul needs before a seamless transition, don't you think, Zoey?"

"Indeed, sir." 

Zoey's fingers never stopped moving across her screen, processing emails and contract amendments even at this late hour.

Deimon lit a cigarette, the ember glowing like a small moon. He exhaled slowly, smoke curling toward the vaulted ceiling where ancient pack symbols had been carved into the woodwork. 

"How's the Zenith deal progressing? Any pushback from their board?"

"Smoothly, sir. They've accepted your terms on the equity split. Their legal team reviewed the contracts twice and found them... acceptable."

 There was a hint of amusement in Zoey's tone. Everyone knew Ashworth contracts favored Ashworths.

"And the numbers?" 

He took another drag, eyes half-closed in satisfaction.

"Thirty percent. Approximately three hundred million in projected returns over the next fiscal quarter. Conservative estimate, could reach four hundred if their new product line performs as anticipated."

A dark smile crossed Deimon's face.

"Generous of them. Though they had little choice, really. Everyone needs the Ashworth endorsement eventually. Our bloodline opens doors that money alone cannot. Our reputation, our connections, our influence across both wolf and human markets—it's irreplaceable."

"Their CEO contacted us this afternoon," 

Zoey continued, still typing. "They're requesting to move the signing forward. They're eager to finalize before their quarterly earnings announcement. Apparently, investors are getting anxious."

"They'll have to wait." 

Deimon's voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "Unless they've found another pack with our market influence, which I sincerely doubt. I have the grandest ceremony of my life tomorrow. The ascension ritual only happens once in a lifetime. Not even a contract with world leaders would pull me away from this. Send them a polite message. Tell Sanders I'll be in touch next week. Patience is a virtue they'll need to learn if they want to do business with Ashworths."

"Of course, sir." 

Zoey made a note, her stylus moving rapidly. "What about your appointment with Selene? It's in forty-five minutes."

Deimon crushed his cigarette in the crystal ashtray, grinding it with more force than necessary.

     "Almost forgot about the priestess. She's a pesky one , particular about punctuality, isn't she? And the Higher Circle doesn't tolerate delays. They'd sooner cancel the entire ceremony than start late. Make preparations for the repare the ritual room, Zoey."

He stood, stretching like the predator he was, joints popping after the long bath. Tomorrow, everything would change. Tomorrow, he would transcend his current form and become something greater, something closer to the ancient Alphas of legend. The thought sent electricity through his veins, making his wolf stir with anticipation.

Zoey followed him into the shadowed halls of Silverwood Manor, her tablet glowing in the darkness . Their footsteps echoed off marble floors that had witnessed generations of Ashworth triumphs and tragedies.

---

The temperature dropped viciously as midnight approached, as if nature itself sensed the turmoil brewing within the pack. While the neighboring North City had been buried in snow for weeks, the South had remained strangely mild, defying seasonal expectations. Until tonight. Now winter arrived with vengeance, turning the Silverwood dungeons into a frozen hell. Metal shackles grew ice-cold, burning against skin. Stone floors hardened like permafrost, leaching every degree of warmth from the air.

Anna hung from her  silver chains, her lips moving in barely audible whispers. Ancient prayers her mother had taught her, words in the old tongue, pleading with the Lunar goddess for protection and mercy. She knew it was probably futile. The goddess had abandoned her the moment Deimon's seed took root in her womb, or perhaps even before that, when she'd dared to love an Ashworth. But old habits died hard, especially when death felt imminent and prayer was all you had left.

She worried less for herself now and more for the small life growing inside her. A flutter of movement reminded her constantly of what was at stake. She'd stopped eating days ago, her appetite destroyed by fear and despair. Stopped drinking water, even when her throat screamed for moisture. What was the point of prolonging the inevitable? If she was to die, it would be tonight or tomorrow at the ceremony. A public execution, probably. A warning to other mates who might dare to stray, or worse, who might conceive children that threatened the pure bloodline.

She cursed the Ashworth name with what little strength remained. Cursed the pack that had welcomed her with false smiles. Cursed herself for ever believing in love, for thinking she could be the exception to the rule.

Memories flickered through her fading consciousness like a dying film reel. The first date under autumn stars. The proposal by the lake. His smile before it turned cold, before she became a liability instead of a treasure. She'd been so happy once, so naively, foolishly happy. The thought made her laugh, a broken sound that echoed off dungeon walls and came back to her like mockery. She was definitely losing her mind, sanity slipping away one frozen hour at a time.

Then the door opened.

Anna's heart lurched violently. Was this it? Had they come early to finish her? She sniffed the air desperately, trying to catch a scent through her exhaustion and the overwhelming smell of mildew and despair. But it was Deimon, nor  the usual guards with their casual cruelty. Someone familiar, a calm scent .

Aurora descended the stone stairs carefully, carrying a food tray . The young omega handmaid's eyes glistened with tears, but beneath them burned something Anna recognized—defiance. Rebellion. The kind of courage that could get a wolf killed in the Ashworth pack.

Aurora knelt before her mistress, setting down the tray with trembling hands. Then she did something that could absolutely get her executed. She embraced Anna tightly, pulling her close despite the silver chains, and in that embrace, pressed something cold and metal into Anna's palm. A key.

Speaking in Anna's native tongue, a language the guards wouldn't understand even if they were eavesdropping, Aurora whispered urgently against her ear, 

"Go, Luna. He's not just exiling you. He plans worse. For the child. He can't allow it to live. The bloodline cannot be challenged, especially not now, not before his ascension. You have to run. Tonight."

The words hit Anna like a physical blow, stealing what little breath she had left. Of course. Why hadn't she seen it? Deimon wouldn't simply cast her out to live in shame elsewhere. He would erase every trace of this perceived betrayal, this biological threat to his ascension. Her child—their child—was living evidence of impurity, of weakness, of compromised bloodlines. It had to be eliminated before the ceremony. Before witnesses who might question his worthiness.

Something primal ignited in Anna's chest. A mother's fury, ancient and unstoppable, burning away fear and resignation like morning fog.

Aurora arranged the food with shaking hands, tears streaming down her young face. 

"Please eat something, mistress. At least for the baby. You need strength ."

Their eyes met—Luna and handmaid, bound by loyalty stronger than pack law. Anna's filled with desperate gratitude and love for this brave girl. Aurora couldn't bear the intensity of that gaze. She stood abruptly and fled up the stairs, sobbing openly now, her composure finally breaking.

Anna waited, counting heartbeats in the silence, listening for footsteps or voices. When the coast seemed clear, she examined what Aurora had given her with wonder. Not just any key—a Master Key, forged by the clan's inner circle using ancient metallurgy. Only the Scions possessed these, each one bonded to Ashworth blood. How had Aurora obtained something so valuable, so carefully guarded?

There was also a note, folded small, written in Angelic script and Anna's ancient language:

"Three clicks, two steps, right turn, dead down."

Anna frowned, her exhausted mind struggling to process. A riddle? Instructions? Then she read the second part:

"Ursa Minor,  rift's end, under the auroras. Where Earth meets sky. —Bug"

Her mind raced, neurons firing faster than they had in days. Ursa Minor—the northern constellation, the guiding star her people had followed for generations. Her birth pack lived beneath those stars. But the rifts lay far beyond their settlement, in the dangerous wilderness where few wolves dared venture. "Where earth meets sky..." 

That phrase tugged at memory.

Wait.

The cliff lands. The place where mountains met clouds, where her grandmother had taken her as a child. It was coordinates. An escape route. Someone had planned this carefully.

She looked up through the small barred window. No guards watching. The corridor beyond remained silent. The small window where moonlight pierced her cell remained clear, casting silver light across the dungeon floor like a blessing.

With trembling fingers, nearly numb from cold and silver poisoning, she raised the Master Key to her shackles and inserted it. Three sharp clicks echoed in the silence. The chains fell away, hitting stone with sounds like breaking bells.

Anna froze completely, listening with every sense. Nothing. No footsteps. No alarms. No shouts of discovery.

Her arms were weak, nearly useless from silver poisoning and starvation, the muscles atrophied from days of hanging. Standing proved almost impossible, her legs buckling twice before she managed to stay upright. She checked the note again, following the instructions precisely. Three paces forward. Two steps to the side. Right turn where the dungeon curved into shadow. Then she looked down.

There. Nearly invisible—a latch blending perfectly with the concrete floor, its outline only visible because she knew to look for it.

She pulled. Nothing. It wouldn't budge. It was sealed, probably with blood magic, requiring Ashworth strength to open. Her execution was scheduled for tomorrow's ceremony, a grand spectacle to demonstrate Deimon's ruthlessness before his ascension. No time for caution now. No time for weakness.

Fury flooded her system like liquid fire. Her wolf surged to the surface for the first time in weeks, lending supernatural strength to her atrophied muscles. She gripped the latch with both hands and pulled with everything she had—every ounce of rage, every drop of maternal instinct, every last reserve of strength. The seal groaned, resisted like something alive, then shattered with a sound like breaking bones.

Anna whipped around, heart hammering. Still no guards. They must have assumed a wolf bound in silver, starved and broken, couldn't possibly escape. Their arrogance would be her salvation.

Fools.

Without hesitation, she dropped into the hole. A secret tunnel, cold and dark and ancient, stretched beneath the dungeon. Her wolf vision pierced the blackness as she ran, clawing through tight spaces, her body operating purely on adrenaline and maternal instinct. The tunnel smelled old, unused, like it had been forgotten by everyone except whoever had sent Aurora.

She thought of Aurora as she scrambled forward, the sweet maiden who'd risked everything to defy her Alpha. Anna would repay that debt somehow, if she survived. She had to survive. For her child. For the girl who'd given her this chance.

But one question gnawed at her as she scrambled through the underground passage toward freedom, toward the rifts, toward where earth met sky:

Who the hell was Bug?