8.1: Vladimir's Lost Love
The moon hung low over the Drakovich estate, casting elongated shadows over the gothic spires. Inside the grand halls, the air was thick with the scent of burning embers and ancient parchment. Vladimir stood before the towering stained-glass windows of his study, his crimson gaze lost in the shifting darkness beyond.
The past was clawing at him again. It always did when the nights grew long and silent.
A soft knock at the door broke his trance.
"Enter," he murmured.
Alistair stepped inside, his dark robes rustling. "You've been distant since the ritual. Is the bond affecting you?"
Vladimir didn't respond immediately. Instead, he traced a gloved finger over the surface of his desk, where a delicate silver locket rested-a relic from a time long buried.
"Her presence is... unexpected," he admitted, his voice softer than usual.
"You mean Lyra?" Alistair arched a brow.
Vladimir clenched his jaw. "No. Someone else."
Alistair frowned but remained silent. He knew better than to push when Viadimir's thoughts drifted into the past.
Vladimir slowly picked up the locket, its cold surface whispering memories of a time when his heart had still been capable of warmth. With a quiet click, it opened, revealing a small, aged portrait of a woman with deep-set green eyes and dark auburn curls.
Elysia.
A name he hadn't spoken in centuries.
Centuries Ago – The Fall of Elysia
The night had smelled of roses and blood.
Elysia had stood before him, her emerald eyes brimming with defiance. "You must not do this, Vladimir. If you choose vengeance over love, you will never find peace."
The war between vampires and werewolves had been at its peak then, the rivers running red with the blood of both clans. Vladimir had lost everything-his family, his people-slaughtered at the hands of the Howling Moon warriors.
But Elysia had been different. She had been his light, a human woman untouched by the war, who had seen beyond his darkness and into the man he once was.
She had been the only thing anchoring him to his own fading humanity.
"You cannot ask me to forgive them," he had told her, his voice trembling. "Not after what they've done."
"I am not asking you to forgive," she had whispered. "I am asking you to let go."
But he hadn't.
Instead, he had unleashed his wrath upon the werewolves, beginning the blood feud that would carry across generations. And in the chaos, as the flames consumed the city, Elysia had been caught in the crossfire.
She had died in his arms, whispering his name as her breath faded into the night.
Vladimir had never been the same since.
Present Day – Drakovich Estate
Alistair watched as Vladimir snapped the locket shut, the pain in his expression momentary but unmistakable.
"You still mourn her," Alistair observed.
Vladimir exhaled. "The dead never truly leave us, Alistair. They linger in the corners of our memories, whispering in the silence."
A pause. Then, Alistair hesitated before speaking. "And Lyra? She reminds you of Elysia, doesn't she?"
Vladimir stiffened. He had tried to ignore it, but the similarities were undeniable. The fire in Lyra's eyes, her relentless defiance, the way she made him question his every decision-it was all too familiar.
And it terrified him.
"She is not Elysia," Vladimir said firmly. "And I will not make the same mistake."
Alistair studied him carefully. "And yet, you've already bound yourself to her."
Vladimir turned away, his expression unreadable. "The bond was necessary."
Alistair smirked. "Perhaps. But what happens when necessity turns into something more?"
Vladimir did not answer.
Instead, he gazed out the window once more, his mind trapped between the past and the present, haunted by the ghost of a love he had lost... and the dangerous possibility of another.
8.2: Lyra's Family Secrets
The dense forest stretched endlessly before Lyra, the towering trees whispering secrets through the wind. Moonlight poured through the canopy, casting silver streaks across the path she walked. Her heart pounded against her ribs-not from fear, but from the weight of the truth she sought.
For years, she had questioned the whispers about her lineage. She had ignored the hushed conversations when elders spoke in riddles around her, and she had buried the uneasy feeling in her gut whenever her father, Magnus, the Howling Moon Alpha, grew tense at the mere mention of her mother.
But tonight, she would uncover what had been hidden from her for far too long.
The old ruin stood before her, crumbling and ancient, swallowed by time and ivy. It had once been a stronghold of her people, long abandoned after the wars with the vampires. The moment she stepped into its remains, the air thickened, pressing against her skin like unseen hands.
She wasn't alone.
"Looking for something, pup?"
A familiar voice slithered from the darkness, sending a chill down her spine.
Emerging from the shadows was Garrick, one of the elder wolves of the clan. His eyes gleamed like molten gold, filled with both wisdom and something more sinister.
"You followed me," Lyra said, her voice even but laced with tension.
"I had to," he replied, stepping closer. "Curiosity can be dangerous, especially when it leads to forbidden truths."
Lyra clenched her fists. "Enough with the riddles, Garrick. What do you know about my mother?"
The old wolf tilted his head, considering her for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he gestured toward the ruins. "Come. If you wish to learn the truth, you must be willing to face it."
Hesitant but determined, Lyra followed him deeper into the abandoned stronghold. The walls were etched with ancient carvings, depicting battles between vampires and werewolves, their fates entwined in an endless struggle. But among the war scenes, there was something else-a mural, unlike the others.
A woman, cloaked in darkness, standing between the two warring species. A bridge between fangs and claws.
Lyra felt her breath hitch as she stepped closer. The woman's face was eerily familiar.
"This is her, isn't it?" she whispered.
Garrick exhaled. "Yes. Your mother, Seraphine."
Lyra's pulse quickened. "Why have I never been told about her?"
Garrick's expression darkened. "Because your father wanted to protect you-from the truth and from those who would see you as an abomination."
Lyra turned to him sharply. "Abomination?"
"Your mother was no ordinary wolf, Lyra." Garrick's voice was low. "She carried the blood of both vampire and werewolf within her veins."
The words struck like a thunderclap.
Lyra staggered back, her thoughts reeling. "That's impossible."
Garrick shook his head. "And yet, here you stand, proof of her legacy."
"No," Lyra growled. "My father would never-"
"Magnus loved your mother more than life itself," Garrick interrupted. "But the clan never accepted her. They saw her as a betrayal of our kind, a corruption of the bloodline. She was meant to unite us, but instead, her existence became a threat."
Lyra's breath was shallow. The weight of his words sank deep, unraveling everything she thought she knew.
"Then... what happened to her?" she whispered, dreading the answer.
Garrick's gaze darkened. "She was hunted. Killed by those who feared what she represented. Your father tried to save her, but even an Alpha's power was not enough against the will of the clan."
Lyra felt rage burn through her veins. "And he let them do it?"
"He had no choice," Garrick murmured. "The only thing he could do was protect you-keep you hidden from the truth until the time was right."
Lyra turned back to the mural, her fists clenched. The woman-her mother-had been more than just a mate to the Alpha. She had been a symbol of something greater. And they had destroyed her for it.
Her blood boiled.
The Howling Moon had taken her mother from her.
And now, they expected her loyalty?
Garrick placed a hand on her shoulder. "What will you do with this knowledge, Lyra?"
She inhaled sharply, steadying herself. The pain and anger simmered beneath her skin, but she would not let them consume her.
Instead, she met Garrick's gaze with newfound resolve.
"I will find out the rest of the truth myself," she declared. "And I will make them answer for what they did."
The shadows whispered around her, and for the first time, Lyra felt like she was finally waking up.
8.3: The Haunting Memory
The wind howled through the ruins, carrying the scent of damp earth and old blood. Lyra's mind swirled with the revelation that had shattered her world-her mother, Seraphine, had been a union of vampire and werewolf, a bridge between two warring clans, and for that, she had been slain.
But how?
The truth burned within Lyra like a wildfire, consuming her every thought. She turned to Garrick, her golden eyes fierce. "Tell me how she died."
Garrick's expression hardened. "Some memories should be left buried, pup."
"I don't have that luxury," she snapped. "If I don't understand what happened, how can I ever change what's coming?"
A long silence stretched between them before Garrick let out a slow exhale. "Very well. But the past is a cruel thing, Lyra. It will haunt you, whether you wish it to or not."
He reached into the folds of his cloak and retrieved a small glass vial. The liquid inside shimmered under the moonlight, dark and silver, like mercury infused with shadow.
"A memory elixir," he murmured. "Distilled from the blood of those who have seen too much."
Lyra hesitated. She had heard whispers of such magic-potent, dangerous, capable of unlocking the past in ways no mere story could.
"What will it do?"
Garrick's golden eyes flickered. "It will show you what she saw in her final moments. But beware-once you step into the past, there is no turning away."
Lyra took the vial, her fingers trembling. The moment she uncorked it, a thick mist coiled out, wrapping around her like ghostly fingers. A chilling sensation seeped into her bones, and then-
Darkness.
The world around her shifted, and suddenly, she was no longer standing in the ruins.
She was running.
The scent of blood filled her nostrils, and the air burned with the sharp tang of fear. She could feel the weight of a body in her arms-someone injured, barely breathing. Her vision blurred, but she caught glimpses of silver-haired figures moving through the trees, torches in their hands, their snarls echoing in the night.
"Run, Seraphine," a voice rasped. "Please... save the child."
Her heart clenched. She wasn't herself any more-she was her mother, living through the memory.
Seraphine stumbled, her strength waning. The body in her arms-the dying man-was a vampire, his crimson eyes dim with fading life.
Vladimir Drakovich.
Lyra's mind reeled. Vladimir? No-this was long ago. He looks the same, but younger. And-
Then she understood. This wasn't her Vladimir.
It was his father.
The ancient vampire lord gasped, his body riddled with silver wounds. "You... have to... go..."
"No," Seraphine whispered, her voice trembling. "I won't leave you."
A piercing howl tore through the air. The Howling Moon Clan had found them.
Seraphine turned, shielding Viadimir's father with her own body as shadows emerged from the trees. Wolves, their eyes glowing with cold fury, surrounded them. And at their center stood a man Lyra recognized all too well.
Magnus.
Her father.
But he was younger, his face not yet marked by time. His expression was carved from stone, his hands bloodstained.
"Step away from him, Seraphine," he commanded.
Her mother's breath came in ragged gasps. "I won't let you kill him."
"This is not your battle," Magnus growled. "You were meant to be our salvation, not our betrayer."
Seraphine trembled, her grip tightening around Viadimir's father. "I am not a betrayer-I am proof that peace is possible."
Magnus's eyes darkened. "Peace is a fool's dream."
Lyra wanted to scream, to fight, but she was trapped in the memory, forced to watch as her father gave the order.
A dozen silver arrows rained down.
Seraphine cried out as they pierced her flesh. Vladimir's father choked, his body convulsing as the silver ate through his undead veins.
Magnus stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he knelt before Seraphine's broken form. "You should have never loved him."
Her mother coughed, blood staining her lips, but she still smiled. "Love... is not something you can command, Magnus."
She lifted a trembling hand, resting it on her stomach. A protective gesture.
That's when Lyra understood.
Seraphine had been pregnant.
With her.
A roar of fury erupted from the vampire lord's throat. Even as death crept upon him, Viadimir's father lunged at Magnus.
The fight was brief. A flash of fangs, the gleam of a silver dagger-then silence.
Both Seraphine and the vampire lord lay still.
The air was thick with the scent of their mingled blood.
Lyra's vision blurred as the mist began to pull her back, dragging her out of the past.
She gasped, collapsing to her knees in the ruins. The vial had shattered in her hand, the liquid gone.
Her entire body trembled.
She had seen it. Lived it.
Her father had killed her mother.
Not to save the clan.
Not to end a war.
But because Seraphine had dared to love a vampire.
Tears streamed down Lyra's face, but they were not just of sorrow.
They were of rage.
A war had begun the night her mother died.
And now, she would be the one to finish it.