The grand hall of the witch enclave was silent, save for the faint hiss of candle flames and the occasional creak of old wood. Damian strode in, boots clicking against the stone floor, eyes dark, controlled—but radiating fury like a storm ready to break.
The witches crouched in the shadows, their whispered incantations halted the moment he entered. They had no choice—he had dismantled their power, bound them to his will, and now they trembled under his gaze. Damian's grip on them wasn't just authority—it was domination.
He didn't look around. He went straight for the inner chamber, the room of the Seer. Eyes that had witnessed centuries of witchcraft, of bloodlines rising and falling, glimmered in the dim light.
"Seer," Damian's voice cut through the stillness like a blade. "Tell me. Who killed her?"
The Seer lifted her chin, the shadows dancing across her wrinkled face. A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips.
"I prophesied this day, Alpha," she said, voice dripping with venom. "I warned you what happens when our kind is betrayed."
Damian's jaw flexed.
The Seer leaned forward, eyes glowing like dying embers.
"Your Luna… your precious Cordelia… she betrayed her own people. Did you truly think she would survive long after betraying the witches? After handing our powers to you like a foolish child?" She gave a cold, humorless chuckle. "No, Alpha. She was never meant to live long enough to enjoy your throne."
Damian's rage flared—his aura pulsing so hard the nearest candles flickered violently.
"And remember the prophecy I gave you?" she continued, laughter rising. "A new Queen will rise. A Luna—half wolf, half witch. One powerful enough to tame even your wicked, bloodthirsty heart. A girl you cannot kill. Cannot resist. Cannot escape."
She threw her head back and burst into a shrill, wild cackle.
Damian's fist slammed onto the wooden table so hard the entire pedestal shook, candles toppling sideways.
"I didn't come here for your madness," he snarled, voice so sharp the guards outside the chamber stiffened. "I want a name. I want the one who killed my wife."
The Seer kept laughing.
Damian's voice dropped, low and deadly.
"Use your ability… or one of your daughters dies before sunrise."
The chamber fell into an instant, suffocating silence.
The Seer's laughter died on her tongue.
Her eyes widened. Arrogance vanished as fear slithered down her spine.
Her lips pressed together.
Her shoulders stiffened.
She bowed her head.
Damian leaned back slowly, satisfied with her silence, the cold look in his eyes burning into her.
"Good," he murmured.
He nodded toward the glowing witch orb on the pedestal, its swirling mist awaiting her touch.
"You know exactly what to do," he said, voice like ice. "Show me."
The Seer swallowed hard, stepped forward, and placed her trembling hands on the orb. Her eyes fluttered shut as she began chanting, low and ancient—an eerie hum that coiled through the room like smoke.
The orb reacted immediately—light pulsed from its core, illuminating the chamber in ghostly colors.
Damien's gaze locked on the crystal. The scene unfolded:
A snow-laden forest. A massive wolf lunging at Zephran. Arrows firing. Claws tearing. Blood staining the snow. And then… the wolf collapsing, transforming into a human. A woman. Pregnant. Dead. His wife, Cordelia.
Rage ignited in his chest, sharp and cold. Every detail, every movement, every mistake burned in his mind. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms, the room trembling under the weight of his fury.
The orb pulsed again. Another image emerged. A girl. Blonde hair cascading down her back. Stormy grey eyes. Soraya.
And beside her—the man who had killed his wife. Zephran. Holding her close, pressing a soft, protective kiss to her forehead. Her small form pressed into his chest as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
Damien's chest seized. A spike of heat, confusion, and something else… something he shouldn't feel for a girl he didn't even know, shot through him.
"She's important to him," he whispered, voice tight, teeth clenched. "I'll use her."
He took a step back, cold and calculating. The girls in the room shivered under his gaze, but Damien didn't see them. His eyes were on the girl in the orb.
He would claim her.
Make her his.
Marry her.
Punish her. Every single day.
Not because he wanted her…
But because through her, Zephran would feel the same pain Damien felt in losing the woman he loved most.
The witches had no words, no protest. They had seen the look in his eyes before: deadly, obsessive, merciless.
Damien turned to leave, cloak sweeping the floor behind him. "Prepare everything," he commanded over his shoulder. "She will belong to me. And through her… he will suffer."
Outside, snow fell silently, blanketing the world in peace. But inside Damien, a storm raged—anger, obsession, and a twisted sense of purpose that would change everything.
And somewhere far away, in Winterfall, Soraya's storm-grey eyes flickered—completely unaware that a dark fate had already marked her as the centerpiece of a revenge she never caused, a prophecy she didn't choose, and a man she could never truly escape.