The war had raged for decades—wolves against vampires, claws against fangs. At first, the wolves held the advantage. They fought in unyielding packs, iron discipline and raw strength carrying them through battle after battle. For every vampire nest burned to ash, another territory was reclaimed. For a while, it seemed the wolves might actually win.

Until the vampires unveiled their secret weapon.

A hybrid.

Half wolf, half vampire—something that should never have existed. Its very blood was a weapon, burning through wolves like acid fire. Vampires learned to dip their blades in hybrid blood, and the wolves’ triumph shattered. Warriors who had never fallen in battle collapsed writhing in the mud, their veins blackening as their strength bled out of them.

The war turned.

But wolves are not creatures that yield easily. They fought on. Claws against fangs, fire against shadow. Forests burned. Castles crumbled. Corpses paved the land until even the crows refused to fly overhead. And at last, with both sides broken, the leaders bent beneath exhaustion and struck a treaty.

It was peace. In name only.

The wolves demanded security, and security meant one thing: extinction. Every hybrid must die. Their blood, too dangerous. Their existence, too threatening. No exceptions.

And so the hunts began.

Children were dragged from mothers’ arms. Entire bloodlines wiped from the earth in the name of safety. Screams and fire marked the end of an entire people.

But one child was spared.

Her mother, bloodied and exhausted from labor, fled into the forest with her newborn clutched tight. Behind her came the baying of wolves, the stink of iron and smoke. She knew the end waited for her. But not for her daughter. Never for her daughter.

Through the night she ran, until her lungs shredded and her body threatened to collapse. At last she reached the door of a witch—an old friend, one bound to her by love and oath.

The baby was thrust into the witch’s arms. A single command tore itself from the mother’s throat.

“Hide her. Protect her with your life. Swear it.”

The witch’s tears stained the child’s face as she whispered the vow. Then the mother turned, bared her teeth, and hurled herself back toward the sound of the hunt. Her last stand was made of fury and blood, claws flashing against steel until silence swallowed her whole.

The wolves never knew the child had slipped their grasp.

The witch cloaked the girl in shadow, weaving spells that disguised her scent, wrapping her in safety as tightly as swaddling cloth. She grew not as an abomination, but as a daughter, raised alongside the witch’s own child—Kaelen. They were sisters, laughing beneath the stars, whispering secrets beneath candlelight, dreaming of futures neither could hold.

But time is merciless.

The witch grew old. Her magic thinned, her hands shook, and when death finally claimed her, the protective veil tore open. The girl’s true nature bled into the world once more. Kaelen tried—gods, she tried—to rebuild the spell, but her power was not her mother’s. Shadows slipped through her fingers. Wolves began to stir.

So the girl ran.

She ran until her legs bled, until her throat burned, until hiding became her only heartbeat. Always watching. Always waiting. Always fighting when cornered, leaving trails of blood and bodies behind her. But no one escapes forever.

They caught her in the mountains, chains biting her wrists, her defiance dragging down a dozen before she fell. Dragged toward death, condemned to the blade.

The last hybrid.

Me.

Nyra

They say a condemned prisoner is supposed to be solemn on her way to the block. I, apparently, missed that memo.

The chains on my wrists rattled as two guards dragged me across the courtyard, their boots crunching on wet stone. The dawn mist clung to everything—my hair, their armor, the gallows waiting for me in the middle of the square. A nice touch. Very dramatic. The Alpha’s castle certainly knew how to stage a spectacle.

“You know,” I said sweetly, leaning toward the guard on my left, “you’re walking me an awful lot closer to the blade than you are to the healer. I’d take offense if I thought you were clever enough to plan it.”

He scowled. Good.

“Oh, don’t look so sour,” I added, flashing him a smile sharp enough to cut. “You’ll get your moment of glory when you tell your pups how you once dragged the big, bad hybrid to her death. Embellish it a little—say I begged. They’ll eat it up.”

The other one tightened his grip on my arm like I might suddenly sprout wings and fly. As if wings were my problem. If they’d had any sense, they’d have kept more distance. I’d already slit the throat of his cousin last night when I tried slipping out. Three dead before they finally got the drop on me. Their fault for underestimating me.

“I’d keep that hand steady,” I muttered as he jerked me forward. “Would be a shame if your last memory was me cutting it off.”

“Shut your mouth, witch,” he spat.

“Hybrid,” I corrected brightly. “Get it right. Don’t worry—you’ll be dead long before I’m finished.”

His grip faltered just enough to make me smile. A flicker stirred at the edges of my vision—inky tendrils of shadow curling like smoke across the stone beneath me. The guards didn’t notice. But the crowd did. Gasps rippled through the peasants gathered to watch the show. Children clutched their mothers. A drunkard blessed himself. Lovely. I hadn’t even tried yet.

They shoved me up the steps toward the execution block. The axe gleamed dully in the morning light. The executioner stood waiting, hood pulled low, breathing heavy as if he were already exhausted. I gave him a look over. One tooth missing, eyes watery, shoulders hunched.

This was it? This was the big finale?

I should’ve been afraid. Anyone else would’ve been trembling, weeping, maybe begging. Me? I was more annoyed that my final audience was such a boring collection of slack-jawed onlookers.

“You could at least oil the blade,” I called to the executioner, raising my voice so the crowd could hear. “Wouldn’t want it to get stuck halfway. Imagine the embarrassment. I’d never live it down.”

Nervous laughter rippled through the crowd.

The guards forced me to my knees, pressing my face toward the block. The wood smelled of blood and rot. Perfect. Just the décor a girl dreams of when meeting her end.

The officiator—some gray-haired advisor with a voice like a dying goat—stepped forward and unrolled a scroll. “By decree of Alpha Lucien Dreadmoor,” he began, “you stand condemned for trespass, for murder of castle guards, for witchcraft, and for being an abomination born of forbidden blood—”

I yawned. Loudly.

“—and are hereby sentenced—”

“Sentenced to boredom,” I muttered. “Gods, you people could make a thunderstorm sound tedious. Skip to the part where someone interesting shows up.”

The officiator flushed crimson. The crowd tittered. The guards jerked me back against the block. Shadows curled around my wrists, slipping into the cracks of the wood, restless like snakes waiting for my word.

The executioner lifted his axe.

The crowd held its breath.

And then—

“Enough.”

The voice was ice. Hard, deep, carrying across the courtyard without effort.

Everything stilled.

From the steps of the keep, he descended. Lucien Dreadmoor, Alpha of the Blackfang Pack. His presence cut sharper than any blade. Black cloak brushing the stones, boots echoing with measured weight, eyes like winter storms fixed on me. The crowd shrank back as though the air itself had grown colder.

I tilted my head. Finally. The star of the show had arrived.

Lucien didn’t look at the officiator, or the crowd, or even the axe. His gaze pinned me where I knelt, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

“Unshackle her.”

The guards stiffened. “M-My lord, she—”

“Did I stutter?”

The shadows at my wrists stirred like they heard him. Even I felt a twinge of chill at the way he said it—calm, unshaken, utterly in command.

The executioner lowered his axe. Chains fell away from my wrists. My blood sang with freedom, even as guards scrambled back like I might bite.

I flexed my hands, smirk tugging my lips. “About time. I was worried you’d let them bore me to death before you got here.”

The crowd gasped again—because Lucien Dreadmoor, the Alpha no one dared question, stepped closer. Close enough that the shadows rising off my skin coiled toward him like smoke searching for fire.

His gaze never wavered. He studied me as though trying to unravel the secrets of my blood right there on the block.

At last, he spoke, voice soft but lethal:

“This one dies when I say so. Not before.”