Novel & Cerita Forsaken Characters Survivors

"The foundation continues without you. Victoria runs it. Torres helps. Lucas helps. Other people step up. You—you step back. You heal. You become thirteen. You—survive. Because surviving matters more than saving. Your life matters more than your mission. You matter more than—everything else. Do you understand? You matter most. To me. To Damien. To—everyone who really knows you. Not symbol. You. Real you. Broken you. Thirteen-year-old you who wants to die sometimes because pressure is unbearable. That you—that is who we protect. That is who we save. Starting now." She cried. Relief crying. Permission crying. Saved crying. "Can we really leave? Can we really—disappear?" "We can do anything. We

I hated it every second, as usual, but I reminded myself that the victims actually lived through it, and I'd be fine sitting in my high-backed chair in my air-conditioned office. The parents of these girls were killed with a knife to the throat, while they watched. Then they were yanked away by the hair, kicking and screaming in their frilly night dresses. Fucking terrible. “Do you think there’s more?” I shoon my head, even as I scanned the space. “No. They had no need for a whole troop, they weren't expecting anyone to find them.”

The figure’s eyes softened fractionally, just enough to give me hope. “Not safe here,” the figure said finally, low and commanding. “Come, Quickly.” I hesitated for only a moment. My legs were stiff, my body trembling from exhaustion, but I obeyed. Step by step, I followed, leaning on the stranger’s strength when my own failed me. Every movement was agony, every breath a reminder of how close I had come to losing everything. Yet somehow, through sheer will, and the mysterious timing of fate. I survived the night, carried toward the unknown sanctuary of the Shadow Fang territory.

Time passed in the blink of an eye. When Finnegan saw that I was being very uncooperative, not caring whether or not I got hurt in the tug of war and refusing to listen to orders, he told the bodyguards to step aside and spoke to me instead, saying, "I heard that you're surviving on stale bread from some bakery near your place." I lowered my head in shame. Although everyone knew that my family was bankrupt and that I, Winter Brooke, had fallen from grace, I still felt deeply ashamed and embarrassed when confronted by Finnegan, my longtime crush.

The infected weren’t the only threat anymore. That much had become clear over the past few weeks. It wasn’t just the shambling hordes of zombies that kept me awake at night, but the survivors—the desperate ones, the ones who had lost too much, the ones who saw others as nothing more than resources to take.

Then, out of the dark, a dozen figures emerged. They weren't Council Enforcers. They weren't wearing silver armor or carrying runes. They were dressed in rags, their hair long and matted, their skin covered in old scars and dirt. Some of them were half-shifted, their ears pointed or their teeth elongated. They looked like ghosts, thin and hungry, their eyes glowing with a feral, yellow light. "Who are they?" Rowan whispered, shrinking back toward a tree. "The Forsaken," Killian said, his sword clearing the scabbard with a sharp ring. He didn't lower his guard. "The outcasts. The ones the Council kicked out for being 'imperfect.' I thought they were all dead."

Techniques to ground the spirit, to sever the tendrils of dreamwalking before they could take hold. Many failed. Some collapsed under the strain, writhing as memories not their own bled into their minds. Others broke into weeping fits, voices cracking as buried grief surfaced. But those who survived—those who endured—rose stronger. Hardened. Marked not by scars, but by a kind of fierce, inner light. Marked Ones, they began to call themselves. Veyra watched them with a fierce pride even as her heart ached. They were not meant for this.

Now they’re hollowed out. And yet… they glow. Faintly. Dimly. As if whatever magic they once wielded hasn’t quite been extinguished. “Misfits. Monsters. Exiles.” That’s what they’re called up above. But down here? They’re survivors. They belong. This place—this broken, cursed realm—is a sanctuary for those who couldn’t fit into the perfect little boxes the surface demands. Wolves without packs. Witches without covens. Vampires, seers, hybrids… all thrown away. Forgotten.

“She won’t be missed. She is an Omega Patrick found abandoned in the forest. She never even turned. She is useless.” I looked back at Ian and nodded. “Bring her out and let one of the warriors take care of her,” I said. Ian looked at Jessica and tightened his jaw. He looked hesitant. What the fuck was that about? “Now, Ian,” Elijah ordered. Ian clenched his fists and walked back toward the dungeons. I looked around and smiled. Our warriors were almost done gathering the survivors. Each survivor was always offered a chance to join our pack. Those who refused were killed, those who didn’t were brought back to our pack and they were assigned suitable roles for them. I saw a handful of survivors

It was the first real thing we had made—not a digital trick, not a golden illusion, but a living piece of a new world. Around us, the ten thousand survivors stood in a silence so heavy it felt like it might crush the life out of that single sprout. They were the broken pieces of a dozen different lives. Some were Omegas who had lived their whole lives in the Southern estates, their necks still red and raw from the silver collars Rowan had shattered. Others were "Blank Slates"—people whose memories had been wiped so many times by the Aethel-Corp that they didn't even remember their own names. They looked at me. Then they looked at Rowan.