Romans & histoires The Crow Eric Draven

We are a throat waiting to close. Draven Holt makes sure I see him. He stands atop a ridge of snow, broad-shouldered, dark hair bound with a leather cord, eyes like coals banked deep. Red paint slashes his cheekbones. He’s younger than Varek, hungrier, the kind of man who thinks rage alone can make him king. He lifts his arms like a priest.

Now they watched, calculating, weighing me and my child as though we were the embodiment of the unrest from the quarry. I had no intention of hiding. Retreating had never protected me before, and it would not protect Erya now. Still, I felt the pull of caution, the instinct that whispered about the consequences of being visible in the wrong place at the wrong time. A figure detached itself from the crowd, moving with measured steps that drew attention despite the attempt at subtlety. It was Draven. He stopped several paces away, leaning slightly against a post. He did not smile, though the calm in his stance communicated certainty, a reminder that he had already seen outcomes I could not yet

The air pulsed with anticipation, thick and restless. The elders arrived first, cloaked in furs, their presence heavy with ritual authority. Then came the Beta, her father, his jaw tight, his eyes avoiding hers. She tried to catch his gaze, tried to read some sliver of softness there—but he turned from her as though she were already lost. And then Draven came. The crowd parted at his approach, silence falling like snow. He was bare to the waist again, his skin streaked with scars, his muscles cut from battle. His wolf prowled beneath the surface, so near that his eyes burned gold, his steps heavy with suppressed ferality.

I smiled as I took in the beauty of the room… But then my smile slowly faded. Because I saw him— Draven. He was in ivory linen pants that were paired with a white long sleeve shirt that was crisp and clean, his shoes were brown, and his hair was well laid. He had a drink in one of his hands and the other was in his pocket as I watched him talk. Draven looked ethereal as for the first time in a while, I felt like I did when we were young. What if Elaris was right?

“There was something in his eyes, Draven. That wasn’t the Garrick we knew. The Garrick who slaughtered rebels without blinking wouldn’t hesitate. This one hesitated. He protected her.” Draven rose from his seat, setting his goblet aside with a gentle clink. His voice dropped low. “Do you think he’s not who he says he is?” “I’m saying,” Varek growled, “that we brought a serpent into our nest.” Draven walked slowly toward the tall window, looking out over the walls of Bloodthorn. The wind stirred the heavy drapes beside him. “I had my doubts,” he muttered. “But the markings... the eyes... the voice... it all felt like Garrick.”

Draven was furious, his anger simmering as he stared at Alaric, but he held his tongue, refusing to question him. Just when they thought they had seen everything, Elder Frey came down from a sleek black SUV. He approached Alpha Draven with a sneer, clearly relishing the upper hand, fully aware of their predicament. "Hell Alpha Dra…" Elder Frey began, but before he could finish his statement, Draven gave him a powerful blow, sending Elder Frey sprawling to the ground. Elder Frey coughed and spat out blood, struggling to regain his composure. Draven knew from the beginning that he wasn’t to be trusted, but he never knew he would join forces with Alpha Dorian of all people. And before Draven co

Dark King". This girl is really interesting along with this orange-guy." They suddenly stand up from their seat when the screen showing Mizu team blackened, "Wait, why is the camera from their team suddenly turned off?" the man monitoring them perplexity shouted. In the room where Mizu was, where all of them were already asleep, a young lad in a silky white hair and black stylish mask covered his handsome face, wearing a thick dark cloak with a logo of a terrifying dragon, a crest of the East House was walking in a very light and untraceable step, and stops, looking tenderly at Mizu in the cage.

Quick to spot the points that most people would miss. Kate, 37 years old. Dressed in an oversized black hoodie and navy blue ripped jeans. Her specialty lies in technology. A white-hat hacker with impressive hacking skills. Stefan, 39 years old. Dressed in a casual white t-shirt and a sky blue shirt on top and black jeans. Also, has a unique watch on his right wrist. He is Mr. Anderson's old disciple who has cracked many important and difficult cases with him. And last but not least Mr. Gray, the same age as Mr. Anderson, 44 years old. Dressed in a black suit. He always wears formal attire. His biggest rival and friend. He and Mr. Anderson were rivals since his first day here.

An earsplitting crack ripped through the air as a spiderweb of fractures exploded outward from the point of impact, rapidly spreading across the entire surface until—without warning—the whole barrier simply imploded in on itself. In that same moment, Eric was vaulting through the new opening—his eyes blazing with an intensity that made my blood run cold, all higher reasoning clearly overridden by pure animalistic violence. “Don’t you touch her!” he snarled, headed straight for Adrian. All at once, time seemed to stop. Eric’s fist, aimed directly for Adrian’s jaw, looked like a loaded gun in my face. His fangs were dropped, foam dripping from one corner of his mouth, and he looked…

One operative lunged at Elias from behind, taking advantage of the moment his rifle hand was occupied. Draven was there before the man could close the distance, driving a blade up under the jaw and out through the top of the skull with the clean, certain motion of someone who had done this too many times in too many wars to be anything but efficient about it. The body convulsed, blood pouring from the mouth in thick rivulets, before Draven kicked it aside and stepped back into the smoke as if he'd never been there at all. "Don't die on me, human," he called over the noise, voice laced with that familiar cocky edge and a broad, rolling Zephyrian accent that made every word sound heavier, more