Third Person POV
Dark. Twisted. Maleficent.
Euriale screeched into the night, her voice a broken blade dragging across cold stone, echoing through the dying garden behind the Bloodhound Pack's decrepit stronghold. Her once-majestic wings—scaled obsidian, carved by centuries of wrath—now hung in tatters, the membranes seared to blackened lace.
"Cursed be all demons in Hell!" she spat, her voice laced with embers. "Damn the witches! Damn their rituals and weak bloodlines! And damn that wretched spawn of my Queen!"
She meant Francine.
And she meant every word.
The fire-wielding dark alpha—a wicked pup of a shifter with a death wish—had landed a clean blow during the fight, catching Euriale mid-flight and igniting her wings like parchment soaked in oil. She'd escaped only by slamming her
