Diana The air up here smells even worse. Coppery. Acrid. Like dried blood and burned flesh. We don’t make it five steps before the first door on our right draws my attention. It’s ajar. And I hear it. A low, broken snarling. Wet. Raw. Dom tries to pass it without pause, but my eyes are drawn in spite of myself. I glance through the gap and see it. A werewolf. Or what’s left of one. He’s chained to the far wall, wrists and ankles shackled with thick iron, his body halfway shifted—stuck between forms. His limbs are warped, twisted, as if someone tried to break him apart and put him back together wrong. His fur is matted with blood, patches missing where the flesh beneath is raw and bleeding. He writhes, snarling through bared teeth, but the sound is broken—delirious. His eyes are wild, unfocused– glazed with agony. Magical runes are etched into the stone around him, glowing faintly red. Experimentation or torture. I don’t know much about magic to recognise what
DianaGothic arches frame each doorway. The ceilings soar above us, covered in intricate carvings and silvered vines. Every corner drips with wealth and opulent taste.It would be easy to forget where I am.If not for the smell and the equally disturbing aura.We pass a massive piece hung in the hallway—a textured wall sculpture in a large circular frame. It’s pale, raised, carefully molded. At first glance, I think it’s clay.Then Dom’s voice slips into my mind through the bond.“It’s not clay. It’s skin.”My stomach lurches.“What?”“The canvas,” he says grimly. “It’s made from human skin.”I jerk back a step and nearly lose my balance. Cold air slides down my spine.I look again at the other pieces as we pass them, and see them with new eyes.A statue at the end of the corridor—what I thought were animal bones, stacked elegantly in the form of a rearing beast. But now, I see the curve of a pelvis used as a stand. A small one. Humanoid.I want to throw up.But I swallow it down.Dom
Diana Dom suddenly breaks into a run. No warning—just motion. I don’t hesitate. I bolt after him, boots thudding softly over moss and root. The others follow without a word, slipping into formation like shadows. I’m grateful for all those drills now—the grueling hours he made me train in conditions just like this. Steep hills. Mud. Obstacle runs through dead forest trails with no wolf form allowed. I move with ease. With purpose. I duck under twisted branches, leap over thick fallen trunks, kick off uneven rocks and surge up short slopes without a second thought. We’re not taking any kind of path. There are none here. Which means Dom is forging one himself—cutting straight through the thickest part of the forest. Every now and then, we scale narrow trees, moving across high branches to avoid clusters of rotten, spiked vines coating the ground. The trees here seem to lean inward, their twisted forms groaning softly under our weight, but never snapping. It’s dangerous. Fast. Pre
Diana Dom leans forward without another word and presses a hard, burning kiss to the center of my forehead. It says everything he doesn’t voice: I know this is hard. I don’t want to do this either. But we have to. Then, without missing a beat, he straightens and turns to the others. “Move out.” There’s a final nod to Eleanor and Emerald—who’s still seated beside her, watching silently. And then we turn. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad for all those hours of training where Dom made me scale cliff walls, ledges, stone crags—as a human. I remember grumbling through that inhuman training, wandering when I would even ever need it. And now—here I am. Cloaked in Eleanor’s magic, crouched at the edge of a 4000-foot vertical drop, with nothing but stone and fog stretching into forever below. Dom is first. He moves over the edge like a shadow, his body a line of silent, fluid strength. No ropes. No tech. Just muscle, instinct, and control. He disappears into the
Diana We land less than an hour later. In another hour, we’re standing at the edge of a massive cliff- the Vala Mire. The trees are dense around us—tall, ancient things. But they’re not what grab my attention. What I find myself fixated on is the fog that rises from the chasm below, thick and unmoving. I can’t see the bottom. No one can. And yet Eleanor believes the dark witches live down there? It doesn’t look like a place people live. It looks like a place people go to die. “How are we sneaking in?” I murmur, my voice low. “It’s broad daylight.” Eleanor steps beside me, her voice calm. “Dark witches are more active at night.” I blink at her, surprised. “Is that because of… their nature?” She shakes her head slowly. “No. It’s because most of their magic—rituals, curses, sacrifices—are stronger at night. Everything they do is darker. Bloodier. Hidden. They’ve become nocturnal not because of who they are, but because of what they do.” I nod, that eerie feeling
Diana By morning, they find eight more. Eight hidden tunnels, dug deep beneath the woods and foothills surrounding different packs. The report hits our desk before breakfast. I sit in the study with Dom and Eleanor, scrolling through the images sent by the scouts. The tunnels are narrow but wide enough for wolves to move through in small units. Reinforced with magic. Dark. Empty. Brodik’s voice crackles through the line. “They’re abandoned,” he says. “Every one of them. There are signs they’ve been occupied recently—blankets, storage, residual magic. But they’re empty now.” “Cleared out,” Dom says, voice low. “Yes, Alpha. Every trace scrubbed clean.” A cold sensation crawls up my spine. They were right there. Right under our feet. Planning. Organizing. Waiting. And now they’re gone. Which means whatever they were using these tunnels for… they’re done with it. They’ve moved on to the next phase. Dom doesn’t say anything for a long time. He just stands by the window, arms