When fate and worlds collide

06| When Worlds Collide

Sound reached Daegon before memory did—the steady rush of a river, the whisper of leaves shifting overhead. Ordinary, natural, harmless sounds.

So why did his gut twist as if something had gone catastrophically wrong?

He groaned and cracked his eyes open, squinting against sunlight filtering through a dense canopy above. He didn’t move at first. Stillness had kept him alive more times than brute force, and he cataloged everything instead—the angle of the light, the damp earth beneath his back, the unfamiliar blend of vegetation thick in the air. Most of it was harmless. One scent wasn’t.

Wolfsbane.

Daegon’s nose wrinkled in immediate distaste, a low warning ripple moving through his chest. He didn’t remember scenting the poisonous plant on their way to the Blue moon pack. Which meant they were no longer outside the destroyed mansion, and whoever this place belonged to, it wasn’t neutral ground. He waited for the rest to come crashing in—the screams, the manic cackle of the Dark Aura, the snarling ferals and red-eyed vampires circling for blood. Nothing came. Only wind through branches. Water over stone.

Too quiet.

After several long seconds, he pushed himself into a seated position, noting he was alone, and examining his surroundings. The world felt… muted. As though someone had reached inside reality itself and turned the vibrancy down a notch. Colours were flatter. The air heavier. Even his senses—sharp as they were—felt dulled at the edges.

He opened the pack link, his presence rolling outward in a controlled surge. Relief followed swiftly when Trixa answered—bruised, weakened, but alive. Moments later, she emerged from the trees in her wolf form, covered in dark ichor, head lowered, movements cautious. Pain radiated from her neck where the Dark Aura had touched her, the echo of it still clinging like a poison that refused to finish its work.

“Are you alright, Trixa?” he asked aloud, his voice calm despite the storm tightening behind his ribs. She padded closer and lowered herself at his feet, a soft whine escaping her throat. Through the link, he felt others stirring—pack members converging, drawn by his presence, answering his call.

“That witch did something to me,” Trixa admitted, frustration threaded with fear. “I can reach my power, but it won’t settle. It feels… unstable.” She lifted her head, sniffing the air, ears flattening. “Why does this forest feel wrong?” Daegon’s gaze swept the treeline, his jaw tightening as the final piece clicked into place.

“There are no birds.” The words landed like a blade. Trixa stilled, the truth of it sinking in all at once. No calls. No wings. No life beyond what stood with them now. Daegon rose to his feet slowly, power coiling beneath his skin, controlled and ready. Whatever this place was—it was not their normal lands. And it was not safe.

“I won’t lie,” Trixa began quietly, her voice rough through the link. “I didn’t expect to wake up. When she started chanting—when that ancient language poured out of her—I thought it was Ragnarök. The end of days.” Daegon nodded once. The word carried weight, even now.

“I believed I had failed,” he admitted evenly. “When I opened my eyes, I thought—briefly—that whatever she attempted had simply misfired.” He folded his arms across his broad chest, gaze sweeping the forest again. “But this place is wrong. Everything is… out of balance.”

“Glad it’s not just me,” Trixa muttered. A rustle broke the stillness to their left. Daegon’s head snapped toward it instantly, every muscle coiling. Treyton emerged from the trees in wolf form, flanked by three deltas. Two remained human, bloodied and grim, hands pressed to hastily bound wounds. All four dipped their heads in a respectful bow.

“We took down five corrupted rogues on the way here,” Treyton reported. Daegon exchanged a look with Trixa—brief, sharp, and deeply unsettling. Corrupted rogues, here. That alone narrowed the list of possibilities in ways he didn’t like.

“We need shelter. Clothes. Food, Located the closest pack and request a meeting with their Alpha.” Daegon instructed, already shifting into command. “Wherever the Witch has sent us, we’re too far from our territory to reach home in a day—especially injured.” He reached inward, drawing on his Aura to get a sense of their surroundings.

Resistance met him. Not pain, or absence. Resistance—thick and dragging, like trying to pull power through wet earth. His frown deepened as his wolf surged up slowly, only to have his powers recoil faster than it should have, unsettled and irritable beneath his skin.

Interesting. And dangerous. He locked the sensation away for later. There would be time to dissect it—once his pack was safe.

“Move,” he ordered calmly, already stepping into the brush. “Spread out. Find any survivors, edible game, and defensible shelter.” The forest swallowed them as they advanced, Daegon at the front, senses sharp despite the wrongness pressing in from all sides.

They found most of the pack scattered through the surrounding woodland. A few were injured—cuts, burns, the lingering taint of corrupted magic—but nothing their accelerated healing wouldn’t mend with time. After putting down several more corrupted rogues prowling the perimeter, the land finally opened up to reveal a large farmhouse crouched at the edge of a field gone wild.

Daegon and Treyton swept the property first, noting the heavy scent of humans. The place had been abandoned recently. Doors ajar. Tracks half-erased by rain. And on the front porch, a dark, sticky stain that told a far more final story than possible flight. Inside, the pack moved with quiet efficiency, stripping through wardrobes and cupboards for anything wearable. No one voiced the obvious—that the humans who had lived here might come back. If the corrupted rogues were anything to judge by, the odds were slim at best.

Trixa stood before a tall mirror, scowling at her reflection as she tugged at the stiff fabric of a borrowed plaid shirt. “These clothes are strange,” she muttered. “And they feel horrible against my skin.” A low growl rumbled from Daegon’s chest as he fastened the buttons of his own shirt. His patience was thin, stretched raw by too many unknowns and too much blood.

“These humans lived humbly,” he replied coolly. “And if they are dead, this is the only thing they can offer us now.” Trixa fell silent at once. Her embarrassment and shame rippled faintly through the link. “We’ll remain here for a few days,” Daegon continued, rolling up his sleeves with sharp, practiced movements. “We recover. Locate the rest of our pack. And if the owners return, we will compensate them.”

“And…if they don’t?” Trixa asked softly. Daegon didn’t answer.

The truth sat heavy in his chest, cold and unyielding. The likelihood was high. And despite logic, despite war and survival, guilt pressed at him all the same.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Trixa reassured gently through the link, catching the edge of what he hadn’t meant to share. Daegon’s jaw tightened, clamping down on his thoughts and emotions. Another growl escaped him—this one stripped of words—before he turned sharply and strode from the room, already cataloging defenses, escape routes, and the growing sense that whatever Nerezza had done… it was only just beginning.

He found Treyton waiting in the kitchen with two of the deltas—Blayde and Finn. The moment Daegon stepped inside, the room snapped to order. The deltas straightened to full attention, shoulders back, while his beta bowed his head briefly in respect. Daegon didn’t waste time.

“What did you find?” His voice was low, controlled—cut from the same steel that held his pack together when the world fractured beneath their feet.

Treyton nodded once. “From the clothing and items in this house alone, it’s clear something isn’t right.” Daegon lifted an eyebrow. An understatement. Blayde stepped forward and turned back toward the counter.

“When we scouted the surrounding land, we found animals that don’t match anything from our territory—or any neighboring one.” He reached down and heaved something heavy onto the table. It hit the wood with a dull thud. At first glance, it resembled a badger. At second, it was unmistakably wrong. Large patches of hairless, scarred pink skin marred its body. Its hind legs were elongated, almost rabbit-like, and where its eyes should have been there were only shallow, malformed cavities—as though nature had abandoned the effort halfway through.