Zeal's eyes popped out as his sight was glued on this little angel, just about sixteen years, walking among the men.
She stepped into the room like moonlight slipping through velvet curtains; quiet, graceful, and impossibly radiant.
Her eyes were the kind of blue that made oceans jealous. They were gentle, wide, and innocent, yet deep enough to drown in. They held no malice, only curiosity, but something beneath their softness whispered danger.
Her lips were red, not lipstick red, but blood-on-snow red. The kind that poets write about and men lose sleep over.
Her hair spilled down her back in waves of chuckle-black silk, so dark it seemed to drink the light to amplify it's beauty. It swayed with each step, like it had its own rhythm, its own secrets.
Her skin was pale white, not sickly, but ethereal flawless, untouched, like she'd been sculpted from moonstone and kissed by frost. Not a blemish. Not a pore. Zeal was pretty sure even the gods would file a complaint over this.
She wore a long, baggy pink shirt that hung off one shoulder, exposing just enough skin to make Zeal's brain short-circuit. Beneath it, a pair of short shorts peeked out—barely.
The shirt had clearly won the battle for dominance.
It was casual. It was innocent.
It was lethal.
In her hands, she held a steaming cup of coffee, cradled like a sacred offering. And as she walked toward the bed, the scent of roasted warmth filled the air, mixing with roses and sugar.
Each step was gentle, deliberate, like a predator who didn't need to rush.
She sat beside Zeal with the elegance of a queen and the softness of a lullaby.
The mattress dipped slightly beneath her, and Zeal's heart did the same.
He blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then bled from the nose.
"Oh no," he screamed in his head, "I'm in love." He thought while giving out a stupid face.
She turned to him, tilting her head slightly, her voice a melody wrapped in silk.
"You're finally awake." She spoke again, her voice only sending Zeal more to the other side of the lust table.
Zeal couldn't speak, he just nodded, or tried to as his brain was still rebooting.
"Your nose." The girl muttered while reached over to Zeal and try to touch his chin. But Zeal ducked back as he backed away from the girl.
"Young miss, you'll only worsen it." He muttered while cornering to the far end of the bed.
She tilted her head, just slightly, as if listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
"Is that so," she whispered, brushing a strand of ink-dark hair behind her ear.
The motion was effortless—graceful—but it struck Zeal like a spell cast in slow motion.
She knew, of course she knew the effect she had on him, and she wielded it like a blade wrapped in silk.
Her smile bloomed, soft, innocent, lethal.
It wasn't flirtation. It was revelation.
Then her lips parted, and the words fell like moonlight on still water.
"You're mine. My mate after all."
Time fractured.
Zeal's breath caught in his throat as the world narrowed to her eyes, her voice, her presence.
It wasn't desire. It was gravity.
It was the pull of stars collapsing into each other.
He felt it in his bones, in the marrow, in the spaces between thoughts.
Every part of him leaned toward her, like he'd been waiting lifetimes to hear those words.
Even Irine had never made him feel this. Not this ache. Not this surrender.
This was something older than love.
Older than choice.
It was like fate written in blood and bound by moonlight.
But then—
A crack in the spell.
A whisper of fear.
Zeal blinked, heart hammering, voice barely a breath.
"Wait… your mate? You're a werewolf." Zeal screamed while jumping off the bed.
The words hung in the air like ash after fire.
And for the first time, the warmth between them trembled.
Although vampires, werewolves, and witches shared the same academy, they did not share in peace. Peace is just a mask covering their faces as each race plots against the other.
How could they forget about the old wounds, feuds passed down in the history of time. Lives lost in those brutal battles.
Many lost brothers, other sisters, parents or someone closer to them. So how could they possibly let this go?
They walked the same halls, but not side by side.
They studied the same texts, but not with the same truths.
They were bound by rules, not by trust, after all, each race believes to be stronger and superior to the other in their own ways.
Vampires moved like shadows dipped in silk, elegant, calculating, eternal.
They were the aristocrats of the night, born of blood and bound by legacy.
Their strength was not in brute force, but in seduction, in strategy, in the quiet art of control.
They whispered through centuries, collecting secrets like wine, aging into wisdom.
Their beauty was ageless, their minds sharp as obsidian.
But beneath their charm lay hunger, always hunger with their eyes locked on the witches, who are the closest to human in essence..
Werewolves were the storm.
They didn't glide—they prowled.
Muscle and instinct wrapped in flesh, they were the academy's heartbeat and its howl.
They lived by the moon, fought by the pack, and loved with a loyalty that could shatter kingdoms.
Their strength was raw, untamed, and terrifyingly honest.
They didn't play games. They broke them.
But their rage was a double-edged blade—one they often couldn't sheath.
Witches on the other side were the architects of reality.
They didn't need fangs or claws, they had spells.
Their power was in the unseen, the whispered, the written.
They bent elements, summoned spirits, and carved fate with ink and fire.
They were scholars, seers, and sorcerers.
Their minds were labyrinths, their hearts guarded by wards.
But magic came at a price, and witches always paid in silence.
Three races.
Three empires of power.
Each believing they were the apex.
Each unwilling to kneel.
Conflicts sparked like flint on bone. Duels in the courtyard. Curses in the library. Blood spilled in the name of pride and yet, beneath the rivalry, beneath the centuries of disdain, there was something else.
A truth no one spoke aloud.
They needed each other.
Vampires had the vision.
Werewolves had the strength.
Witches had the knowledge.
Together, they could rewrite their world, The FirstWorld, their original world.
But together… was a myth.
And now, here she was.
A werewolf.
Claiming Zeal, a warlock, as her mate.
It was unheard of.
Zeal's breath trembled in his chest.
He looked at her, not just as a girl, not just as a goddess, but as a declaration of war.
"You're serious," he whispered after reading the girls expression.
But in response, her smile didn't falter.
"I'm fate," she said. "And fate doesn't ask permission."
____
Meanwhile, on the other side…
The morning spilled into the room like a golden syrup, slow and warm, casting soft beams across the wooden floor. Dust motes danced lazily in the light, swirling above a desk cluttered with books on magical theory, half-drawn maps, and a cracked leather journal.
A pair of boots lay discarded near the door, one upright, the other toppled like it had lost a fight. The walls bore posters of ancient beasts and battle formations, definitely a boy's room and yet, she stirred beneath the covers.
The sheets tangled around her legs like vines reluctant to let go.
A soft yawn escaped her lips, delicate and unbothered, as she stretched her arms above her head. Her fingers curled, her back arched, and the sunlight caught her hair—long, golden, and wild, like spun honey kissed by fire. It tumbled around her shoulders in waves, glowing against the pale silk of her skin.
Her eyes blinked open, slow and heavy with sleep. They were black, not dull, not empty, but deep, like obsidian polished to mirror the stars. They held secrets. They held storms.
She turned her head to the side, and her breath hitched.
There, beside her, lay a boy—bare-chested, seventeen at most, his body carved like it had been sculpted by gods with a flair for perfection.
His jawline was sharp enough to cut silence, his face so achingly beautiful it could make angels weep. Blond curls spilled across the pillow, thick and unruly, catching the light like threads of gold.
His chest rose and fell in rhythm, muscles rippling beneath skin that looked like it had never known weakness. His abs were defined, effortless, like they belonged to someone who didn't train for them, they simply happened.
She looked away.
Her eyes closed, lashes brushing her cheeks like whispers, and she inhaled slowly, trying to summon it—her strength. That ancient pulse that buried power.
The air shifted.
A gust of cold wind burst into the room, rattling the windowpanes and sending papers fluttering off the desk. The light dimmed for a heartbeat, as if the sun itself paused to watch and at that moment, a groggy voice broke the silence.
"Irine, I'm trying to sleep."
She flinched slightly, the name anchoring her like a spell.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice soft, threaded with disappointment. "I was just trying to feel my strength but..." She turned her gaze away. "Why am I still the same."
It was still the same. Dormant. Silent.
'Didn't they say dual cultivating with an Alpha would make one grow in strength tremendously?' She thought while turning back and look at the sleeping Derek.