The war camp slept uneasily.
Tents stretched across the frozen plains like dark scars against the snow, fire pits glowing low and restless as if even the flames feared what was coming. Wolves prowled the perimeter, hackles raised, yellow eyes scanning the treeline where the Black Woods loomed like a waiting mouth.
Dawn would bring blood.
But the night…
The night brought truth.
A small, uneasy circle had formed: Alpha Damien and his fiercest generals on one side, and the gaunt, ancient leader of the Rogue Vampires, flanked by his blood-hungry lieutenants, on the other.
"You seek an audience, old one," Damien's voice rumbled, sharp and cold as the silver on his armor. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade. "Speak your demands and be quick. Emberfell has no time for games."
The Vampire King, a creature with eyes like chips of obsidian and skin like aged parchment, merely smiled—a thin, cruel line that revealed elongated fangs. "Demands? Alpha King, we simply seek what is ours. What you hold in your gilded cage. The Breath of the Old World."
Damien's brow furrowed. "The Breath of the Old World? What cryptic nonsense is this? Speak plainly. Do you want land? Gold? Slaves? Name your price, and we shall discuss it."
The Vampire King chuckled, a dry, rustling sound like dead leaves skittering across stone.
"You speak of trinkets, Alpha King. We speak of power. We feel it, a resonance humming within your very palace walls. A Key. The key to our future, the key to our return to glory." His gaze flickered for a brief, unsettling moment, as if sensing something beyond the physical realm. "Give us the Key. Or this land will run red with the blood of your wolves."
Damien's wolf snarled, raw and furious, beneath his ribs. "There is no 'Key' here but the will of Emberfell. You want a fight, Vampire? You shall have it. We will meet you at sunrise."
He turned, the heavy cloak of black wolf fur swirling around him, dismissing the ancient creature with a cold, unforgiving glare. He had no idea what the vampires were talking about. A key? A breath? It made no sense. He knew only that they would not retreat, and war was inevitable.
That night, in the war camp, the air felt thick and suffocating inside Damien's command tent.
He tried to focus on the battle plans spread across his rough wooden table, but a strange unease gnawed at him. His muscles ached with a fatigue that had nothing to do with the day's ride.
Suddenly, a searing heat flared at his throat. He gasped, dropping the parchment he was holding, his hand flying to his neck.
It felt as if a band of white-hot iron had clamped around him, tightening, pulling, suffocating him.
He clawed at his skin, expecting to find metal, but there was nothing there—only the phantom sensation of being dragged, choked, humbled.
What… in the Mother's name… he wheezed, his heart hammering a frantic, confused rhythm against his ribs.
Then came the first strike.
A line of pure fire erupted across his shoulder blades. Damien roared, falling from his chair and hitting the rough wool rug. It felt as if a silver-tipped lash had just shredded his skin. His back arched violently, his muscles seizing, as if a physical blow had sent him spasming.
Crack! Another strike, precisely where the first had landed.
Damien cried out, a guttural sound torn from deep within his chest. He writhed on the ground, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold night air.
He heard a woman's shrill, mocking laughter, a sound that twisted something primal in his gut, a sound he knew but couldn't place.
His wolf was going insane, thrashing behind his ribs, an enraged, desperate beast. It snarled, not at the vampires outside, but at this invisible torture. This pain didn't belong to him. He was the Alpha King, his body a fortress. Why was he being broken by an enemy he couldn't see, couldn't fight?
Crack! A third lash, striking his already shredded back.
Damien lay there, trembling, weak and feverish, the phantom wounds burning through his very soul. He was supposed to lead his pack into battle at dawn, to be their unyielding shield.
But he was bleeding from wounds that weren't his, from agony that didn't belong to him. And he had no idea why.
A moment later, the tent flap pushed open.
His beta stepped inside, after hearing screams. He froze, his eyes widening in pure horror at the sight before him.
"Alpha!"
He searched the corner of the room. There was no threat.
So how was the alpha being shredded by nothing?