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The Werewolf Of Paris Fantasy

A Werewolf's Unexpected Mate

[Trigger Warning: This dark fantasy romance contains mature themes.] --- SYNOPSIS: •A WORLD BUILT ON LIES• Long ago, humans lived unaware of the supernatural beings hidden among them—werewolves with their primal instincts, witches whispering spells in the dark, and elves with their ancient, watchful eyes. For centuries, they coexisted in fragile silence. Then, everything shattered. Near the shadow-drenced woods of the Shadow pack kingdom, human traveler stumbled upon a gruesome scene: an old woman’s lifeless body, her skin ashen, her wounds gaping like accusations. A few paces away lay a dead werewolf, its throat ripped open, its muzzle still flecked with blood. The truth was undeniable—monsters walked among them. Fear ignited war. Humans, armed with fire and steel, hunted the supernatural races. Witches and elves were dragged into the slaughter, their homes burned, their people butchered. The bloodshed raged until King Alfred V of the Amethyst Kingdom stood before the four Werewolf Kings—Silverhowl, Crimsonheart, Shadow, and Wildfire—and offered a deal drenched in poison. A sacrifice for peace. Every twenty years, each human family would surrender a daughter to the werewolves. And in return, the future Alpha Kings must wed a human—or the war would reignite. The werewolves agreed. The witches and elves retreated, their hatred festering like an open wound. The world remained fractured, its peace a fragile lie. --- •THE PROPHECY OF FIRE• In the hidden Blaze Tribe, where crimson eyes burned like embers, the seer Prophetia foresaw annihilation. "Our people will fall," she rasped, her voice trembling. "But from the ashes, a girl will rise—the one who will bring true peace… and the one they will slaughter for it." The tribe made a desperate pact. They would cast a spell—a curse of forgotten memory—erasing their existence from the world’s mind. Their souls would be the price, but their legacy would live on in Ovelia, the child of prophecy. The night the Blaze Tribe fell, Ovelia’s parents hid her in the whispering forest, their hands shaking as they sealed a goddess—Firera—inside her infant body. Then, they turned to face their doom. --- •FATE’S CRUEL WHISPER• Ace Draven—half-werewolf, half-witch prince of Silverhowl—had never believed in destiny. Until he found a crying infant in the forest. His wolf, Fenrir, howled in recognition. A crimson thread shimmered between them—mates. But Firera, watching from within Ovelia’s soul, snarled. "She’s a child. This is too soon." With a flick of her wrist and spell, she tore the memory from Ace’s mind, leaving only an empty ache in his chest. --- •TWENTY YEARS LATER: A SACRIFICE IGNITES• Ovelia has spent her life as a slave, raised by the cruel mayor of Timberline Village—a man who would gladly sacrifice her to spare his own daughter. The night of the sacrifice, the air reeks of damp earth and iron. Torches flicker as the werewolves emerge from the shadows. And then—Ace Draven steps forward. Their eyes meet. Fenrir *howls*. Ace’s claws unsheathe, his breath ragged. "You…" He doesn’t understand why his wolf is clawing at his ribs, why his pulse hammers at the sight of this stranger. But the bond between them burns hotter than vengeance. Ovelia doesn’t know him. He doesn’t recognize her. And yet, their souls scream in unison.
FantasiaLia09 · 127.9K Views

The Server's Chronicle: A Fantasy Of Faith

Senior Server Felix stood at the front of the church, his voice steady and solemn as he greeted the congregation. “Our help is in the name of the Lord,” he intoned. “Who made Heaven and Earth,” the people responded in unison, their voices matching his reverent tone. “Today, we initiate new members into this divine and holy Order,” Felix continued. “Today, we welcome new brethren into the bosom of our Lord Jesus Christ.” At the back of the church, Louis sat on one of the few single chairs, his posture slightly slouched as his focus remained on a sheet of music in his hands. The title read, "Brightest and Best – Key of A-flat." 'Why didn’t Gramps give me an F or G? A-flat is so difficult, and I only have three days to finish it,' he grumbled silently, his brow furrowing in frustration. But he dared not voice his complaints. He could already imagine his grandfather assigning him even more difficult pieces—F-sharps and endless A-flats—as punishment. From the front of the church, a serene voice called out, “Harry! Step forward!” Louis glanced up, momentarily pulled from his inner musings. His eyes landed on a girl stepping forward from the pews. She had black hair neatly styled in a bun and striking green eyes that seemed to shine with warmth and composure. Dressed in a modest brown dress and black sandals, with a rosary resting gracefully around her neck, she exuded a calm, dignified presence. Her tanned skin and graceful demeanor only added to the aura of reverence surrounding her, befitting an Altar server. 'Sigh,' Louis thought as he brushed a hand through his white hair, his blue eyes softening with a mix of admiration and envy. 'I wonder what it’s like to be an Altar server. They all seem so pure and divine… and powerful.' Just as he returned his attention to his music, a calm, gentlemanly voice spoke beside him. “You could also be an Altar server, if you’re interested.” “Huh?” Louis blurted out, snapping his head to the side. But no one was there. “What in the name of Jesus is going on here?” he muttered, glancing nervously around. “At least you know my name,” the voice replied again, seemingly amused. “What?” Louis whispered, his heart beginning to race. "I'm certain you will be a good server," the voice said, calm yet enigmatic. Louis narrowed his eyes, still searching for its source. "Who are you?" "I have many personalities. I have many names," the voice replied with an air of mystery. "It’s your choice which one you accept." "You’re not making any sense," Louis muttered, growing more unsettled. "Blessed are those who have not seen but believed…" Before Louis could respond, his vision blurred, and the world around him seemed to melt away. He jolted awake, gasping for air. His hands clutched the crumpled sheet of music, its corners bent from his restless grip. His head teetered precariously over the edge of his bed, a faint ache in his neck reminding him of the awkward position he’d been in. "Holy Mother of Jesus!" he exclaimed as he lost his balance, tumbling off the bed in a heap of blankets and scattered papers.
JuniKelv_ · 31.9K Views
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