The black carriage rolled through the barren stretch of no-man's land, its wheels slicing through the silence like a blade. Inside, Lyra Vexen, Princess of the Crimson Court, adjusted the high collar of her ceremonial cloak, hiding the pulse at her throat.
The air reeked of rot and betrayal.
This mission was supposed to be diplomatic — a symbolic gesture of goodwill. A vampire emissary entering the neutral Wastes to propose the beginnings of peace between bloodlines. But Lyra could feel it. Something was wrong.
Across from her, two Crimson Knights sat in stiff silence, their crimson armor dull with desert dust. Their minds were too quiet. Too careful.
They weren't just guarding her.
They were watching her.
She turned toward the sliver of tinted window, eyes scanning the dark ridge beyond the cracked hills. The moon was only half-full, but it still bled silver across the jagged horizon.
Werewolf territory.
If they caught scent of her here — unprotected, unarmed — it wouldn't matter who she was. They'd tear her apart.
---
Lyra Vexen didn't fear wolves.
She feared the lies behind the peace her mother promised.
The Council had changed overnight. First came the whisper of treaties. Then the promise of diplomatic missions. But no one ever returned from those missions.
No one… but Lyra was different. Born with pureblood lineage on both sides of her family, she was a symbol. Untouched by scandal. Groomed for court. Shielded from war.
Now thrown into the belly of it.
---
"I don't like this silence," she said, breaking it herself. "There should've been a scout post before the border. Something's missing."
The knight across from her didn't meet her eyes.
"Protocol's changed," he muttered. "New routes. Less obvious movement."
"Did the Queen authorize this?"
Another beat of silence.
The second knight shifted. "We follow orders, Your Highness. Not politics."
There it was again — that strange, careful neutrality. Like they were obeying someone else entirely.
Lyra narrowed her gaze. She'd spent her life reading court expressions, dissecting lies like books. These knights were hiding something.
She slid her gloved hand down toward the dagger strapped to her thigh, veiled beneath layers of velvet.
---
Ten minutes later, the world exploded.
The carriage rocked violently, flinging her sideways. A shriek of metal shattered the night. Then — impact. The roof ripped away, torn like paper.
She landed on her back in the dirt.
Vision blurred. Ears ringing.
Figures moved in shadows. Tall. Fast. Inhuman.
Wolves.
One of the guards screamed. A wet sound. Then silence.
Another shape lunged at her, snarling, claws glinting—
Lyra moved on instinct. Her dagger found flesh, sliced tendon. The beast yelped and fell back. She scrambled to her feet.
Blood soaked the ground. Not hers. Not yet.
Her breath came ragged as she spun, eyes adjusting to the blur of violence. The other knight — gone. Torn in half.
A werewolf charged her.
She raised her blade again—
Then another figure blurred between them. Faster than the others. Bigger. Smarter.
The attacker halted mid-lunge. Growled. And then backed off, as if commanded.
The newcomer turned toward her. Not snarling. Not attacking.
Watching.
He stood tall, muscle coiled beneath torn leather and furs. His eyes — silver, almost glowing — locked onto hers with something sharp and dangerous.
Not hate. Not pity. Curiosity.
---
"Don't run," the werewolf said.
His voice was deep. Controlled. Strangely calm, like he didn't belong among the chaos around them.
Lyra held her blade tighter. "Why?"
"Because if you run," he said, "I'll have to chase you. And you're already bleeding."
She blinked. Looked down.
There — a thin cut along her hip. She hadn't even felt it. Just a scratch. But her blood was already soaking into the ground.
The wolf stepped forward. His nostrils flared.
"Vampire," he said softly. "But not like the others."
"You shouldn't be able to talk like that." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Not in your shifted form."
He smiled grimly. "I'm not fully shifted."
Then — without warning — he dropped to his knees beside her.
"Stay still."
Before she could move, he reached for her wound.
She struck with her blade.
He caught her wrist mid-air.
One hand. Effortless.
His strength was inhuman, even by werewolf standards.
"I'm not your enemy," he said. "Not yet."
Then — he did something unthinkable.
He brought her bleeding hip to his mouth — and licked the wound.
Not sensually. Not cruelly. Ritually.
Her body locked in place as something ancient stirred beneath her skin. A spark, then a burn, then a pull — deep and magnetic — yanked through her bones.
Her heart thudded out of sync. Her fangs pierced her lip on instinct.
"What did you just do?" she whispered.
The wolf pulled back, eyes wide — as if he, too, felt something shift inside.
Then came the glow.
A sigil blazed to life across her collarbone, searing hot. Her skin burned — but not from fire.
From magic.
From blood.
---
They were bonded.
An ancient blood pact. Older than kingdoms. Forbidden between species.
Once formed, it could not be undone.
The wolf stumbled back, clutching his chest. "No… That wasn't supposed to happen."
"What did you do to me!?" Lyra screamed, half in rage, half in panic.
He looked at her, dazed. "I saved your life."
She lunged at him — and the sigil pulsed again, freezing her mid-motion. Her body locked. Her mind did not.
The bond controlled them both now.
Linked heart to heart. Blood to blood.
Enemy to enemy.
---
"My name is Torin Vale," he said.
"Alpha of the Silverfang Pack."
Then he did something no wolf had ever done before a vampire royal.
He bowed.
"Forgive me," he said.
And from behind them — footsteps.
Dozens of them.
Werewolves. Claws drawn. Teeth bared.
And one of them growled—
> "That's her. The vampire princess. Kill her — and the Alpha."