Direwolf Novelas e Histórias

said the Direwolf as it paced and readied itself to launch at the unwilling. Scott shouted, “You know all about me, what about you?” Let me introduce myself, I am Draxus, Direwolf and general to the queen of the werewolves, and now you must die!” Draxus dove at an angle that never touched Ellie but still pushed her backward. he targeted her because she was the smallest, and Cerebus would be trouble in a fight, although he never did run away from one. Werewolves flowed with the dive, their bodies closing gaps, compressing the group.

A fur cloak, black as midnight, hung from one shoulder. Duke Cyprian Hale. The Wolf of the North. Rumors followed him like flies. They said he drank the blood of his enemies. They said he was cursed. They said he had slaughtered a hundred men in the border wars. In her past life, Vespera had feared him. Everyone did. Now, looking at his broad shoulders and the jagged scar running down his cheek, she saw something else. She saw the only man in the empire Lysander was afraid of.

This was the Alpha as he'd been centuries ago, before cities and corporations and treaties. And beside him stood Dante. The heir wore matching robes, his expression carved from ice. When his eyes met mine, there was nothing in them but cold contempt. No fear, no nervousness, nothing human at all. I wondered if he'd always been like this, or if pack politics had carved away everything soft. "Kira Volkov," Dominic's voice echoed in the stone chamber. "Step forward." My legs moved on their own, carrying me to the platform. Up close, I could see the liquid in the bowl was blood—fresh, still steaming slightly in the cold air. Wolf blood, judging by the way it made my own pulse quicken.

“A woman who has chosen hiding rather than family, you came to play the good guy?” “No.” I tilted my head. “I came to warn you.” His wolf bristled. “About what?” “You’re playing a cold game,” I whispered, stopping his wolf with a flick of my finger. “And you’re losing. You are just failing to see it.” The silence that followed was thick, suffocating even for them. Lorenzo’s voice dropped, dangerous. “To who?” “Xavier Blackthorn.” I locked eyes with him. “And Valerie. The Luna you’re underestimating more than anyone. The weak pawn that you think you can play.”

The air in the slave inn reeked with the stench of unwashed bodies, sweat and sour ale, a fetid haze that clung to the low-beamed ceiling like a curse. Alpha Lycan Winter Drayonne, the iron-hearted ruler of Dravonia, sat at a scarred oaken table near the flickering hearth, his massive frame draped in a cloak of midnight wolf fur, the skin of his latest kill, only three months old. His Beta, August Saffron, sat opposite, his lean form relaxed but alert, one hand resting near the hilt of his dagger as he surveyed the room with a wolf’s cunning.

I heard Lilith gasp in disbelief, snapping at me. “Dravena! Stop, you’re really pushing it—” Thud. He knelt. Lilith let out a shaky breath. I watched as Dervic, one of the strongest, most feared wolves in the world, sank to his knees before me, the wolf whispered about in secret, the one whose very name sent chills through everyone. “Have you heard about Alpha Dervic? He’s dangerous. Alpha Claude doesn’t even let him out—he’s a psycho.”

Behind him, ten warriors stand like statues, their uniforms neat, their expressions unreadable. Beside him, Alpha Dorian Vex emerges, adjusting the cuffs of his black leather coat. Unlike Elias, Dorian carries an aura of cool confidence rather than brute force. His high cheekbones and sharp, calculating eyes make him appear almost regal. His jet black hair is slicked back, a single silver streak cutting through one side. He wears a fitted black combat suit with a silver wolf emblem stitched over his heart. His ten warriors follow him closely, their matching dark attire giving them a ghostly presence.

The weight of leadership pressed heavily upon him, the future Alpha of the **Thornheart Pack** with the responsibility of ensuring their safety. Darius was not just a figurehead; he was a formidable force. His reputation preceded him—tales of his strength echoed through the valleys, often recounted around campfires by the flickering glow of flames. He had trained relentlessly, honing his skills through years of combat and sparring matches. His dark hair fell in unruly waves, framing a face marked by determination, while his piercing green eyes held a fierceness that commanded respect. Many envied him, some feared him, but few truly understood the weight of his burdens.

King Hadrian came, frowning deeply at Darius, motioning to the person to start the court where his punishment shall be decided. “Name?” They asked Darius. His head was hanging low. Failing to look up, curling his hands in a fist as I kept glaring at him with my watery eyes. “Darius Alfonso.” His cold tone came out. “Status?” They asked him again strictly. “Alpha of the Scarlet Moon pack.” “Crime?” “Cold blood murder of Jax, head of the hunters.” I growled to find this look of emotionless on his face, having no regret of staining his hand in Jax’s blood.

A somewhat weak and thin silhouette fell straight from the tree, scattering dust on the ground. "Ah!" Olivia yelped in Alexander's arms, covering her small mouth in fear. "Daddy, that person fell. Go save him quickly!" Blood Sickle was an intermediate-stage Lord of War, the King of Assassins who terrified the underworld. Even if he was seriously injured, he would not need anyone to save him.