The auction hall stank like old blood, sweat, and fear that had been fermented for decades. The air shimmered with smoke, torchlight trembling against gilded cages stacked like coffins on a stage too grand for suffering. Whimpers and metallic rattles echoed, a grotesque chorus of despair, yet Dahlia Moon stood as still as stone. Her collar burned her throat, wrists bound in iron that gnawed through her skin. Every heartbeat screamed surrender, but she refused. Her spine was a declaration: she would not give them the luxury of her tears. Behind the curtains, she saw others led to the block—boys with hollow eyes, women stripped of dignity, some defiant, some broken already. She would not break, she swore it.
The hall was heavy with heat and smoke, every breath clogged with incense that reeked of blood-oaths and old iron. Chains rattled in rhythm with the auctioneer's voice, his words curling like a noose around each trembling figure on stage. They were livestock in fine gowns, displayed under cruel chandeliers that blazed too brightly. The crowd—wolves, witches, and warlords—watched with eyes that gleamed like predators at feast.
Dahlia stood among them, bound wrists throbbing, heartbeat a war drum in her ears. Each number the auctioneer called hammered nails into her chest. She told herself she wouldn't cry, but her body betrayed her with every shallow breath.
The warlock auctioneer's voice rolled over the crowd, slick with ritualized menace. "Lot Forty-Seven. Omega female. Unmarked. Cursed bloodline. Who dares stake claim on the last shadow in mortal flesh? Opening bid: ten thousand credits." A hush spilled over the chamber. For a moment, silence cut sharper than the chains. Then came whispers, a ripple of unease. She felt it—something in her name, something she herself didn't understand, twisted through the air like unseen roots. Men leaned forward. Witches hissed. Fingers shot upward, paddles clicking and snapping. Faces twisted with hunger — not for her soul, only her body, her womb, her obedience. Dahlia's pulse throbbed, each number a nail in a coffin she refused to see. She did not flinch. She would not be broken here, not under their eyes. A warlord raised his hand, but the room froze before his bid could land.From the darkness of the hall
The room shifted. Velvet curtains swept aside with a precision that silenced the room, and he entered. Damon Thorne Valemont. The Alpha Tyrant. The air seemed to recoil before him. Men lowered their eyes, women froze in mid-breath. Every rumor, every whispered horror about him, swirled into the space between them. The Ruthless Alpha's presence cleaved through the crowd, his stride a storm contained in flesh. Tall, merciless, black-suited, silver scar cutting across his left eye. Not lust. Not greed. Something sharper. Dahlia felt her pulse betray her. Her knees threatened mutiny. every line of him carved in hunger and command. His eyes burned with a storm's edge, silver flaring like lightning caught in ice. One look at him, and the warlord who had raised his hand lowered it, paling as if death itself had touched his shoulder. Damon moved like predation incarnate.
He didn't bid. He spoke once, clipped, final: "One million." The room staggered, the auctioneer's stammering voice hollow against Damon's absolute certainty. Paddles fell, gasps surged, but none dared challenge him. With a single word, he had taken her life from the auctioneer's stage and drawn it into his possession. Chains fell from her wrists, the collar searing deeper, as guards shoved her forward, and before she could stumble, a hand — hot, commanding, immovable — gripped hers. Not rough, but absolute, as if her bones themselves yielded, Dahlia's breath fled her. She had heard whispers of this man—the Wolf who broke kingdoms, the Alpha whose enemies were never buried whole. Yet nothing prepared her for his gaze. It wasn't just hunger. It was possession. She wanted to spit, to fight, but her body betrayed her with a tremor she couldn't hide.
Damon draped his coat over her shoulders. Cedar, dominance, danger. He leaned close, whispering against the curve of her ear: "Rule one, little moon. Never lower your eyes from me again." The words were silk wrapped in razorwire. Dahlia shivered, not from fear alone, but something deeper, primal. She did not speak, could not. Her throat burned, yet the fire in her eyes refused surrender.
Outside, rain pelted the cobblestones. A black limousine waited, crest of wolf and thorn gleaming. Damon guided her in as though her defiance weighed nothing. The collar's magic screamed against her skin; a spike of pain shot through her spine. Two fingers pressed to the runes. Pain cut off. Cold, buzzing energy crawled beneath her flesh. The collar cracked, splintered, clattering to the floor. Silver threads pulsed in her blood — a whisper of something ancient awakening.
Damon's eyes narrowed, pupils flaring like molten metal. "What are you?" he murmured, voice a verdict. Dahlia's lips curved in defiance. "Your worst investment." His lips twitched — not in warmth, but intrigue. He did not answer with softness, only with the kind of smirk that promised storms, the kind that left her pulse betraying her even as her mind screamed restraint.
The limo climbed uphill roads, Valemont Estate looming — black spires clawing the clouds, wards pulsing violet. Inside, the mansion was a labyrinth of silence. Corridors stretched too far, walls etched with runes she didn't understand. Portraits of long-dead Valemonts stared from gilded frames, their eyes following her like watchful spirits. Each flicker of candlelight twisted shadows into shapes that seemed almost alive. Servants bowed low, never daring to meet her gaze. Dahlia realized: she had not been purchased by a man. She had been claimed by a legend carved into the marrow of fear itself. Damon led her through shadowed halls to the inner path, his steps silent but absolute, as though the house itself parted for him. The mansion's towers rose like watchful sentinels, their windows aflame with cold fire. Behind them, forests knelt under the weight of storm and shadow.
The night air smelled of wet earth and decay, a storm rolling overhead. She forced her legs to move, the rain-slick path a mirror for the stars she couldn't see. Every instinct screamed caution. Every sense tingled with unease. In her chamber, Damon dismissed the guards and cornered her against the wall. His arm braced beside her head. She could not move. Could not breathe. Her chest heaved in betrayal, her lips trembling. He noticed, a smirk sharp enough to cut. "Your body betrays you, little moon. But your soul…" he leaned close, gaze scorching, "…that, I intend to break." And then he stepped back, leaving her burning in silence.
Alone, Dahlia pressed a hand to her chest, hating the thundering within. "He may own my body," she swore, "but he will never own my soul." In the hall beyond, Damon's Beta whispered, "Was it wise to buy her?" Damon's stormlit eyes glimmered. "She is the last an ancient bloodline. Spoken about in prophecies and warnings. She is not ordinary. She doesn't know it yet… but she will. And when she does, she will belong to me."
The words clung to Dahlia long after the hall fell silent. Even when Damon's hand closed like a shackle around her arm, dragging her from the auction's rotting grandeur, she still felt the weight of that prophecy wrapping tighter than chains. The world outside shifted with cruel precision—as if the very night itself had been waiting for her departure.
A black velvet box now rested on the bed, tied with silver ribbon. Inside lay a collar—not iron, but polished moonsteel etched with a lunar crest, a Nullstone. A note beneath it read: You are not a prisoner. You are the storm. Signed simply: D. Dahlia's hands trembled. She let the collar fall and retreated to the window. Thunder rolled across Valemont Hill.
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Dahlia sat on the bed's edge, trembling hands pressed to her knees. She closed her eyes, trying to summon the calm she'd clung to since the auction. But the house breathed around her. Whispers slid through the fire.
Her pulse quickened. She rose and moved to the window. Beyond, the storm clawed at the trees, but in the lightning's glare, she saw movement—shapes in the rain, figures circling the estate. Damon—burst through the door, storm in his eyes, his hand reaching for her—while the walls burned alive with prophecy she could not yet understand.
The Valemont gates loomed like the maw of a beast, iron teeth crowned in violet wards that thrummed against Dahlia's chest. Damon led her through shadowed halls to the SUV parked just outside the garage, his steps silent but absolute, as though the house itself parted for him. Outside, the night air smelled of wet earth and decay, a storm rolling overhead. She forced her legs to move, the rain-slick path a mirror for the stars she couldn't see. Every instinct screamed caution. Every sense tingled with unease.
The SUV interior smelled of leather, smoke, and a faint tang of cedar from Damon's coat. He did not sit near her, yet the weight of his presence pressed against her like armor. Not a word passed for minutes; only the faint hum of the road, the storm, and her heartbeat betrayed the silence. She studied him in shadow: his eyes, silver and molten, half-hidden beneath lashes, scanning everything and nothing. Her pulse throbbed, unbidden, answering something ancient in him, something she could not name.
"Why me?" she finally demanded, voice trembling between defiance and curiosity. Damon turned slowly. The silver in his gaze caught hers, heat cutting through bone. His face moved closer, lips nearly brushing hers. She thought, dared, to lean in — certain this time he would take what he teased before. But he smirked instead, leaning back with deliberate dismissal. "You'll do. For now." Rage and shame flared, coiling with a heat she could not extinguish. Her knees threatened mutiny. Her chest betrayed her again.
The forest greeted them with twisted shapes and whispering leaves. Damon's wolves fell into formation, their bodies moving like shadows, ears twitching, claws silent against the sodden earth. Dahlia's stomach tightened with each crack of a branch, each rustle. The trees seemed too tall, their roots snaking like fingers beneath the moss. Even the moonlight felt wrong, broken into shards that trembled across their path. She wanted to speak, to demand answers, but fear clenched her throat.
Then the attack came.
Wolves, rogue and savage, tore from the underbrush, teeth glinting, fur slick with blackened rain. They howled Damon's name, primal vengeance etched in every snarl. Shadows condensed along the forest floor, shapes writhing, smoke rising like lungs exhaling night. Hollow Order scouts emerged, their daggers catching stray moonlight, targeting Dahlia, muttering in tongues older than memory: "The Shadowblood key must not awaken." Forest Shadows Stir: black smoke-things devouring moonlight. Damon battles savagely; Dahlia dodges, terrified. cloaked and silent, she froze. Every instinct screamed to run, yet she could not.
Damon moved like a storm incarnate. Steel flashed, his voice a raw command that split the chaos. Wolves and collided with him, their attacks precise, brutal, yet he dispatched them with lethal elegance. Dahlia ducked beneath swiping claws, barely evading a scout's dagger that nicked her side. Pain bloomed, hot and sharp, mingling with fear. The forest seemed to breathe around her, alive with the echo of her pulse, of something waiting.
The world blurred into fire and steel. Wolves tore through shadows, snarls splitting the night, and Damon's command faltered under the sheer weight of the shadow-cloaked fiends onslaught. I could hear him—his voice ragged, forcing control, but his pack staggered, blood painting the earth. I barely had time to breathe before one of them broke through. A scout, lean and quick, eyes lit with hollow fury. I felt the blade cut across my side, a sudden bloom of pain, and the ground swallowed me. Damon roared my name, but he was locked in combat, hemmed in by beasts snapping at his throat.
My heartbeat slowed, like someone pulling me under water. For a moment, I wasn't here anymore. The noise vanished. I stood in a realm between worlds, where the air shimmered like broken glass. A shadow waited there. Tall, cloaked from head to toe, faceless yet heavy with an ancient gravity that made my bones shiver. His voice wrapped around me, deeper than thunder, older than memory.
You are the last Moonblood.
The words echoed, searing into my skin.
The blood of the First Flamebearer. Warden of Ash and Dawn... last heir of the Forgotten Line.
I didn't understand. I couldn't. The shadow raised a hand, and my chest burned like something buried inside me had been waiting for this moment, clawing to be freed.
Then the real world slammed back.
Damon's voice, raw and frantic. His blade flashing as he carved through enemies to reach me. But the scout bent over me again, dagger lifted for my throat.
He struck—but before steel could kiss flesh, the pain in my side ignited, exploded outward, and I screamed as light tore from my skin. It was not gentle—it was violent, scorching, as if my blood had turned to fire. The earth split, throwing the scout back in pieces. Wolves reeled, their howls breaking. Damon staggered, shielding his face against the blaze. My back arched so violently Damon thought my spine would snap, I wanted to scream, but the voice that poured out of me wasn't my own. It was older, layered—song and whisper, spell and hymn, all at once. Each note cut through the battlefield like a blade of moonfire. My chest seared with unbearable heat, my pulse thrumming as if something vast and ancient was tearing its way out of me. Light burst out of my veins — not warm, not golden, but silver, searing, merciless. It ran through my skin like liquid lightning, tracing my bones until I seemed more starfire than flesh.
The air split open. The wolves froze mid-lunge, their forms convulsing as if unseen claws raked through their flesh from within. Ash hissed out of their mouths like black smoke from a furnace, turning fur to cinder. Fur split. Bones bent backward. Screams tore the air—half-animal, half-human—before the first body crumbled to blackened ash. A second wolf writhed, its jaws snapping until its skull cracked in a vision of burning light. One by one they fell, some shattering into soot, others left as hollow husks collapsing in on themselves. The ground drank their remains, veins of fire spidering outwards like the roots of a tree aflame. Bodies tore themselves apart, half-wolf, half-dust.
The shrieks of the cloaked wraiths twisted into silence, their bodies writhing as if my very scream had unstrung the marrow from their bones. For one breathless heartbeat, only the hiss of burning ash filled the night. Then — stillness. I rose from the ground, my hair fanned out as though the wind itself bowed. Behind me, vast and spectral, a shadow formed — ghostly wings unfurling behind me in silhouettes I couldn't command, eyes like fractured moons. The First Dragon. Its silhouette loomed, both guardian and executioner, its presence heavier than death itself. My body was trembling, undone, but the terror of it was matched by a surge of impossible beauty, a storm of violet fire, and starlight wrapping me in something that felt almost like divinity.
When I staggered forward, the wolves and the shadow-cloaked fiends that remained tried to flee—but the fire itself rose like claws, dragging them down into the soil. The floor pulsed. The ground itself seemed to breathe. Through it all, Damon stood frozen, he couldn't breathe. His sword was still dripping blood, but his eyes were locked on me—not with disdain or fury, but with something rawer, stripped bare. Awe. Horror. Hunger. He should have been terrified. Every instinct told him to run, to shield his eyes from the blasphemy of it. Yet he stood rooted, caught between dread and devotion. I was killing them — bodies bursting, bones liquefying into ash — but in my scream he heard music, in their disintegration he saw constellations. Horror and wonder blurred until he no longer knew which was which. For one heartbeat, the Alpha Tyrant looked less like a conqueror and more like a man beholding the one thing in all the realms he could not control.
I didn't stop it. I couldn't. The surge ripped through everything, a storm born from me. The ash fell silent. The last wolf died choking on smoke. When my voice finally broke, the dragon's shadow collapsed back into me, folding into my chest like smoke into flame. My heart thundered back to life with a power that wasn't mine, yet somehow had always been waiting inside me.
My body plummeted. Damon lunged, catching me before I hit the ground, the weight of his shadow swallowing the glow. I was trembling, skin burning with cold fire beneath his touch. I stood trembling amid the ruin, my palms glowing faintly, my skin etched with lines that pulsed like living veins of light. Every husk that fell left silence heavier than the last, as though the world itself held its breath.
And through that silence—his gaze.
Damon stood where the battle had broken, not charging, not striking, just watching. The Ruthless Alpha, feared by all, should have torn me down where I stood. Yet his eyes burned with something else—calculation. As if he'd seen this before, somewhere in the forgotten marrow of his blood, and now the shape of me confirmed a suspicion he hadn't dared name. And when the light finally dimmed, silence fell. The only question left was not how I had survived—but what I had just become.
The world smelled of charred earth, acrid smoke curling into the canopy, shadows pressed low against the ruined forest. Dahlia's chest heaved, each breath a blade of fire slicing through her ribs. The weight of what she had unleashed sat on her shoulders like molten stone. Wolves and Hollow Order scouts had vanished into ash, their cries echoing in her ears, leaving silence thick as a tomb. Damon held her upright, arms iron and impossibly strong, his breath steady even as his eyes blazed with a storm she could not read.
"I…" her voice cracked, trembling on the cusp of sound. Her palms burned, veins aglow with the last embers of the Dragon's shadow. "I didn't mean—" She could not finish; the horror of her own power was suffocating. Her body was trembling, unsteady, untethered from the world she had known moments ago. Every instinct screamed flight, but her legs refused. Every thought screamed control, but her mind was fractured by fire and ash.
Damon's gaze did not waver. Silver, molten, dissecting. He scanned her as though she were both a threat and a puzzle piece he had finally claimed. "You are mine," he murmured, low, not quite a promise, not quite a warning. His fingers brushed her elbow, a feathered touch, yet every nerve it stroked screamed like fire. Dahlia's heart thundered traitorously, betraying her with a rhythm she could not command. Her mouth opened, words lost to the smoke-choked air.
The forest itself seemed to recoil. Trees leaned away from the residual fire, their twisted roots curling like fingers. Moonlight fractured through ash-laden clouds, spotlighting the ruins of what had once been a path, now a battlefield scorched and trembling. She saw the faces of the fallen, twisted in mid-scream, the Hollow Order's whispers now silent, dissolved. Her vision swam with spectral forms of shadowed dragons, wings folding into the remnants of silver light.
"I… I don't understand," she whispered, first-person voice sharp, alien, trembling. Who am I? What is this fire inside me? Her hands traced the glowing veins in her skin, awe and terror coiling together. Damon's presence was near, undeniable, grounding her even as it threatened to ignite her resolve. His eyes did not just see her; they weighed her, measured her, calculated her power in ways she could not begin to comprehend.
Finally, he spoke again, deliberate, cruelly calm: "The last Moonblood does not understand yet. But you will. And when you do… you will belong to me." There was no question in his words, only assertion. His lips brushed her temple, not a kiss, just enough heat to brand her memory. Dahlia shivered, torn between rebellion and the pull of something raw and dangerous. Rage and longing collided, making her breath hitch.
She tried to move, to step back, but her body was spent, trembling under the weight of her own power and the predatory calm that radiated from Damon. He caught her effortlessly, arms like steel traps, holding her upright as if she were both the storm and its prize. "Do you feel it?" he asked softly, almost tenderly, yet his tone carried a threat beneath it that made her knees weaken. "The fire, the shadow… it answers me as much as it answers you."
Dahlia's mind spun. Images of the First Dragon haunted her vision: wings unfurling, eyes like fractured moons, shadows curling into her own skin. She realized with horror and awe that the power coursing through her veins was older than the world, tied to bloodlines, prophecies, and war that predated human memory. She could not comprehend, yet it had already reshaped her, branded her as something impossible.
Silence fell. Only the hiss of cooling ash, the distant drip of rain, and the low murmur of Damon's wolves breaking their formation filled the void. He lowered his arms slightly, letting her feet brush the earth, yet remained uncomfortably close, his presence a cage she could not escape. Dahlia looked up, meeting his eyes, and in that instant understood the weight of being claimed—not by a man, but by a force she could neither resist nor predict.
She clenched her fists, whispering through ragged breaths, "I may be… whatever you say I am. But you will never own my soul." Damon's smirk was the only answer, predatory, teasing, promising torment and desire in equal measure. His voice, low and silk-edged, cut through the remnants of the smoke: "We'll see, little moon. We'll see."
Ash fell around them like cursed snow, the night holding its breath. The forest was still, broken, scarred by fire and shadow. Dahlia's pulse, racing and unfamiliar, carried the promise of destruction and awakening alike. And somewhere, beneath the dread and awe, she sensed the first threads of a war she had yet to understand—one where her own blood was the prize and the weapon.
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💥 What would you do if a power you couldn't control erupted through you in the middle of a battlefield — would you run, or embrace it?