Crimson Whispers

The moon hung low, a blood-red eye peering through the thinning mist like a silent omen.

Selene Duskbane stood at the edge of the ruins, her velvet cloak fluttering in the cold night breeze. The scent of earth, stone, and something darker—something primal—saturated the air. From atop the crumbling archway, she watched the shadows below ripple through the blackened trees, her sharpened gaze scanning for movement that wasn't hers.

A hunting party was returning from the eastern woods. Their voices, low and cruel, echoed off the tombstones and ruins that dotted the Hollow Vale. She turned away, unwilling to watch the carnage brought home again. Bloodlust no longer stirred her the way it once had.

She didn't belong here anymore.

"Still brooding in the dark?" came a voice from behind.

Selene didn't need to turn to know who it was. Dalia's steps were feather-light, but her presence always glowed with a warmth rare in their cold, cursed kind.

"I'm thinking," Selene replied, her tone quiet. "About how much longer I can pretend this is the only life we have."

Dalia sighed, stepping beside her. "You know if anyone else heard you say that, they'd call for a tribunal."

"Let them," Selene said, teeth clenched. "Let them see what I am. Maybe then I can finally stop pretending."

Dalia rested a hand on Selene's shoulder, voice softer now. "You're more than what they made you. More than what they trained you to be. But if you're going to change your path… you'll have to be smart about it. Careful."

Selene didn't respond. Her eyes caught movement in the woods far below—the shape of something large slipping between the trees. Not vampire. Not human.

Something else.

A wolf.

She narrowed her gaze.

"What is it?" Dalia asked, following her line of sight.

"Nothing," Selene said, turning away from the ledge. "Just a shadow."

But it wasn't nothing. She'd seen enough to know the difference.

A werewolf, this deep into vampire territory? Suicidal—or bold. Either way, it wasn't random.

Later that night, in the echoing silence of her private chamber, Selene ran her fingers along the edge of an ancient blade mounted above her hearth. The silver was etched with runes long since faded—symbols of power, authority, and blood-soaked heritage.

Her fingers paused.

She remembered Simon's hands on that very blade, once. A gift he'd made for her, back when his affection had been intoxicating instead of suffocating.

Back before he became possessive, cruel, and dangerous.

She shoved the memory away. He had no claim on her anymore. No matter how many times he whispered lies into the ears of the council. No matter how often he tried to twist her future to match his bitterness.

A knock rattled the chamber door.

Selene frowned. "Who is it?"

"It's Lucien." Her brother's voice was rough and guarded.

She opened the door to find him scowling, arms crossed over his chest. His tall frame was a mirror of their father's—stern, commanding, and war-forged. But his eyes… those eyes had always betrayed the softness he refused to show.

"What is it?" she asked.

"There's been movement on the eastern border. Our sentries picked up a scent. Not human."

She stilled. "A werewolf?"

He nodded, grimly. "Not just one. There's talk of a scout. Possibly more."

Selene's heart beat faster, though not in fear.

Lucien's jaw clenched. "If they're planning something, we need to know. And we need to strike first."

"No," Selene said quickly.

Lucien's eyes narrowed. "No? Since when do you—"

"Striking first means war. Again," she said. "We've had too much war."

"You sound like one of them", he said

The words landed like a slap.

"I sound like someone tired of blood," she snapped. "Tired of burying reasons behind tradition."

Lucien's expression shifted—anger mingling with confusion, hurt, and a flicker of something else. "You're changing, Selene. I don't like it."

She looked him in the eye. "You don't have to like it. Just don't stand in my way."

Lucien said nothing for a long moment. Then, with a growl low in his throat, he turned and left.

When the door shut behind him, Selene leaned against it, her heart thundering in her chest.

Something was coming. She could feel it in her bones.

And somehow… She wasn't afraid.

She was ready, even if it meant dancing with the enemy, even if it meant seeking out the shadow in the woods.

The woods were always alive at night. Even when the vampires pretended otherwise.

Selene slipped from the stronghold hours before curfew, her movements fluid, silent. She avoided the patrol routes, her hood drawn low, footsteps barely brushing the moss-covered stones. Her pulse thrummed louder than her steps—part instinct, part rebellion. And part expectation.

She didn't know what she was looking for. Only that she had to find it.

Somewhere beyond the Vale

The wolf's form shrank back into that of a man.

Ronan Greyhart stood on the edge of the ancient tree line, the cold air brushing against his bare chest, his breath curling like mist around his face. Shifting always left a hum in his bones—part ache, part clarity.

His dark hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat from the run. And though the forest was still, his mind wasn't.

He could feel it. Something unnatural.

Not hostile. Not prey.

Just… wrong enough to feel right.

"What are you doing out here?" came a voice from behind.

Riven stepped out from the shadow of the trees, fully clothed and fully scowling. Loyal to the end, but never shy about voicing his concern.

Ronan didn't answer right away. His eyes scanned the horizon, just beyond the Vale. The vampire territory shimmered like a mirage, ancient and cursed, but alluring in a way he hated to admit.

"Scouting," he finally said.

"Scouting," Riven echoed flatly. "Near vampire lands. Alone. At night."

Ronan arched an eyebrow. "Do you want to hold my hand next time?"

Riven didn't laugh. "I want you to stop tempting death. You know what they'd do if they caught you."

"They wouldn't catch me."

"You sound more and more like one of them every time we talk."

That made Ronan pause.

He didn't want to be like them.

But he also didn't want to be like this—trapped in a cycle of hatred passed down from ghosts long buried. His father, the elders, the pack council… They still barked about old battles and blood debts as if it gave them purpose. But all Ronan saw in those stories was a future with no light.

And lately, light felt like something worth chasing.

"I'll be back before the moon drops," he said, his voice quiet. "You don't need to follow."

"I always follow," Riven muttered.

Midnight, at the edge of the forest

Selene's breath caught as she reached the forest's edge.

The trees were thicker here, tangled with vines that curled like fingers. The Vale had always been a boundary—a graveyard of ancient war—and yet… something pulled her toward it tonight. Not danger.

Something deeper.

Then she saw him.

Only a flicker. A shape moving between shadows.

Too tall for a vampire. Too fluid for humans. Her pulse jumped.

She slipped behind the gnarled base of a tree, silently watching as the figure approached the clearing.

A man. Shirtless. Wild.

His eyes scanned the darkness like he knew something was there.

She didn't move.

Neither did he.

And in that breathless silence, their worlds began to tilt.