The great castle stood high above the clouds, a towering testament to the power of the creators. It was a place of mystery, often referred to as the "Castle in the Sky" by those who could only dream of setting foot within its hallowed halls. It was a realm apart from the mortal world, a place reserved solely for the gods and goddesses, who came and went as they pleased. Only when the summons for a meeting was issued did they enter its gates, and the air within always seemed to hum with the weight of decisions being made, of destinies shifting.

Today, there was such a meeting.

She stood alone at the center of the vast chamber, her body motionless, her head bowed in quiet reverence as she waited to be noticed. The space around her was dimly lit, the shadows stretching long and ominous against the ancient stone walls. The creators sat in a circle, their voices low, barely above a murmur, as they conversed amongst themselves. Their words floated around her, indifferent, as if she were nothing more than a mere speck of dust beneath their notice. She held her breath, a fragile thing, her patience worn thin by the passing moments.

Her heart thudded in her chest, the weight of her presence growing heavier with every second. She was aware of their eyes flicking toward her, but none spoke. The gods, arrogant and unyielding, seemed content to ignore her. Still, she did not move. There was no need. She would wait.

And then, at last, a voice broke through the haze of silence—a voice so soft, so serene, it could almost be mistaken for a whisper of wind through the trees.

"You have come today for something important, I presume?"

It was Mitera. The Mother of All. The one who had shaped the world with her own hands, whose power radiated like sunlight, whose beauty could burn a soul if one stared too long.

The woman before her raised her head slowly, locking eyes with Mitera. There, in the depths of those piercing blue orbs, she saw something that mirrored her own gaze—something that made her heart flutter with a strange, painful familiarity.

"Yes, I have, Mother," she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

Mitera was not her mother in the literal sense, but she had created her. She had crafted her from the heart of a wolf and the spirit of a human, binding the ancient magic of the Grand Witch into her very soul. Mitera had whispered the word "Awaken," and thus, she had been born—alive, with purpose, with power.

Her breath hitched as she turned her gaze to the other side of the room, where a gruff, almost guttural voice suddenly interrupted the tension.

"Get on with it, then," the voice barked, sharp and commanding. It was Father. The one who had been at Mitera's side since the beginning. His presence was a dark counterbalance to Mitera's light—a force of nature all on his own. But to her, he was never truly *father*.

She swallowed hard, the words suddenly catching in her throat.

"My people," she began, her voice wavering as the enormity of the moment set in, "are not living the lives I have dreamt for them. They do not follow the rules I set, nor do they worship with the devotion they once had."

Her gaze dropped to the floor, her heart heavy with the weight of her words. This was the first time she had ever been the center of attention in a meeting like this, and the pressure to be perfect was unbearable. Whispers echoed around her, like the rustling of dry leaves in a storm. She could feel their eyes on her, judgmental, expectant. They dared not speak too loudly, knowing the consequences if they did. Mitera was not known for her patience with such disruptions.

"And what do you intend to do?" Mitera's voice cut through the murmurs, sharp but kind, as if testing her.

The room fell into a stunned silence. The others were listening now, leaning forward with interest.

"I do not wish to punish them," she replied, her voice growing stronger with each word, "but I want them to understand. I want them to know the reason behind the rules. They have forgotten, and I need them to remember."

Mitera's head tilted slightly, a smile playing at the corners of her lips—a smile so pure, so deceptively gentle. "Do you wish to send them a war? Or a plague?" she asked, her tone light, almost teasing.

She hesitated. To refuse Mitera's offer would be foolish; to accept it would be even worse. Mitera's gifts were like double-edged swords—seemingly helpful, yet capable of cutting both ways.

"I… I only wish to show them," she whispered, "that I mean no harm. I want them to learn, not to suffer."

Mitera's expression hardened for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she turned toward a dark-haired man seated at the far end of the room. His presence was imposing, as always.

"Dracula," Mitera called, her voice echoing with the weight of ages. He looked up, his eyes unreadable. "When was the last war against the werewolves?"

"Three centuries ago," Dracula replied, his voice devoid of emotion, as cold and distant as the winter moon.

Mitera turned back to face her, her gaze intense. "Then war will be set upon your people. If they cannot learn through gentler means, then I am sorry." She locked eyes with her. "This is my final decision. You may discuss amongst yourselves."

Without another word, Mitera stood, Father following her like a shadow. Together, they left the room, vanishing into the corridors of the castle, prepared to sleep for another century before their influence would be needed again.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the tension in the room exploded.

Dracula, his anger barely contained, hissed through his teeth. "What have you done?" His voice was a low snarl, filled with venom.

She remained still, her posture unyielding as his presence loomed before her like a storm. She would not shrink in fear, not to a blood-sucker like him.

"I believe you understand that war was never my intent," she said, her voice calm, almost soothing. "I came to ask for other means."

Dracula's eyes blazed with fury. "My people do not need war! They are growing, they are uniting, they are ruling! And now look at what you've caused!"

With a speed that was nearly impossible to follow, Dracula moved toward her, his feet barely touching the ground, his body coiling with lethal grace. She stood her ground, refusing to flinch. He was in front of her now, towering over her, his fangs gleaming in the dim light.

"We all know Luna did not want this war," Meera, the goddess of the fairies, intervened, her voice a high, melodic chime. She flapped her massive wings, drawing attention to herself. "Why are you so angered by her request? It was Mitera's decision."

Dracula's gaze snapped to Meera, and he snarled, his teeth bared like a wild animal. "Now that you've started this, be prepared for the bloodiest war your people have ever known. Ancient blood magic, blood warriors—prepare for it all," he spat, his voice thick with loathing. Then, in the blink of an eye, he disappeared into the shadows.

The room fell silent once again. The goddess of the moon—Luna—felt her stomach tighten with dread. The vampires were an ancient race, older than even her children, and with their power came a dangerous disunity. If Dracula sought to strike, there would be no end to the devastation.

She could not let that happen. Not to her people. Not to the world.

She searched within herself, feeling the ebb and flow of her waning strength. Her followers had stopped worshipping her with the fervor they once had, and it showed. She was weak—weak enough to know that the power to create a warrior from scratch was beyond her now.

But there was one thing she could still do.

With a heavy heart, Luna turned to Meera and offered a tight smile. "I have no choice," she murmured, before turning and walking briskly out of the great hall.

She flew to the moon, to her sacred home, where she could think, plan, and prepare. She looked out over the world below, her gaze sharp. There were ten large, active packs spread across five countries—a paltry number, given the threats they faced.

*Ten alphas.*

Names—seven names—flashed through her mind. Alphas of the strongest packs, all bitter rivals, all with their own agendas. They had to be united.

*To defeat Dracula, they had to be united.*

But to unite them, she knew she would have to become one of them. She would have to infiltrate their ranks, to fight alongside them as one of their own.

Luna's hand tightened into a fist. This was the only way. And if it meant risking her own life—her very existence—so be it.

The countdown had already begun.