When fate and worlds collide

04| Mistakes

The pack snapped into formation without hesitation. The Dark Aura slammed her hands toward the ground. Black smoke erupted outward, rolling across the clearing and enveloping the broken bodies of the Blue Moon pack.

“Stay back!” Daegon barked, power lacing his command. Through the pack link, he issued another order—urgent and sharp—to the wolves stationed along the borders. Move. Now. Reinforcements were coming whether he wanted them or not Horror rooted him in place as the smoke seeped into flesh. It poured through open mouths and empty eyes, sinking beneath pallid skin. Sickening cracks split the air as bodies warped—bones twisting, skin tearing on those who had died in human form.

A chilling howl went up. Not living. Not dead. It carried through the fog-choked trees, cold and wrong, raising every hackle in the clearing. The Dark Aura laughed, long and indulgent, her voice layered now—no longer hers alone.

“Now,” she intoned, “you will know what it feels like to be hunted. To be annihilated. To be driven to the edge of extinction.”

A foul scent hit Daegon’s nose—decay mixed with corrupted magic. Trixa stepped back, hackles bristling, her fear bleeding through the bond.

‘Something isn’t right, Daegon.’ Her voice trembled. Trixa did not tremble. If she was afraid—They were already standing on the brink of something far worse than death.

‘We must get the stone away from her. It’s the only way to bring her down.’ Daegon’s command rang through the pack link, cold and absolute. The dead began to rise. Charred bodies dragged themselves from the scorched earth, joints cracking as they stood. Their eyes were drowned in blood-red, saliva stringing from bared teeth. Fur hung long and wiry, leached of colour into a sickly grey.

“They look like rogues,” Treyton said grimly as he came to Daegon’s side, nostrils flaring. “But their scent—” He paused. “It’s sour. Rotten.”

“They are dead,” Daegon snapped. “And no longer kin. That witch desecrated our brethren and twisted them into monsters.” The ground shuddered beneath his paws as cold crept into the air. Above them, the witch’s laughter rang out again—sharp, delighted. More figures burst from the treeline opposite the clearing. Dozens of them. Red eyes locked onto Daegon’s pack as one, jaws snapping, the stench of decay rolling over him in a suffocating wave.

“Kill the abominations. Take the stone,” Daegon roared. “The witch is mine.” He launched forward. His jaws closed around the neck of the first creature with bone-crushing force. Vertebrae snapped—and foul liquid flooded his mouth. Daegon recoiled with a sharp yelp, gagging as he spat. The blood burned, acidic, searing his gums and tongue. Around him, similar cries erupted as the pack learned the same brutal lesson. “Their blood is corrosive,” Daegon barked, shaking the sting from his jaws. “She’s altered more than their bodies. Be careful—we don’t know the consequences.”

Acknowledgments flickered through the link as he dove back into the fray, tearing through the advancing horrors with ruthless precision.

“Daegon!” Trixa skidded to a halt beside him, eyes milked over as power churned beneath the surface. “We have to combine our powers. It’s the only way to rip the stone from her.” His answer was a low, dangerous growl. Power-merging was volatile. Unstable. Done incorrectly, it could wipe out everything within a hundred-mile radius. But the Dark Aura had the crystal. Her power now eclipsed theirs.

“I will be the anchor,” Daegon replied, voice ironclad. “If this fails, you get the pack out. I’ll use the instability to end her.” Fear rippled through Trixa so sharply it nearly staggered him. “That’s an order,” he added, lacing his voice with command. She stiffened—then nodded once, baring her teeth in furious compliance.

Without another word, Trixa launched herself at a feral rogue. Her claws ripped through grey flesh as though it were parchment, black blood spraying as muscle tore loose. She pinned the creature and snapped its neck in one brutal motion. Elite wolves closed in around them, forming a living barrier. Beyond them, Daegon felt the rest of his pack surging forward, answering his call with unyielding force.

He stepped toward Trixa and opened the channel to his Aura. Her power answered instantly. Brilliant white and molten gold spiraled from her form, weaving through the air before coiling around Daegon’s legs. It climbed his body, sinking into his chest like fire and lightning. His senses detonated. Colour sharpened. Sound fractured. The world expanded until it felt impossibly vast. His breath tore from his lungs as every scent crashed over him at once—blood, decay, ash, scorched wood, damp earth, running water. He seized the combined power and dragged it forward, the air around him screaming as magic bent under its weight.

Daegon opened his eyes and moved. He crossed the ground in a blur. Behind him, Trixa cried out in startled disbelief before racing after her King, the pack following in his wake. The witch’s smirk vanished, her face twisting as she sensed the surge bearing down on her. With a snarl, she hurled tendrils of dark magic toward them—smoke and shadow lashing out, desperate to bind and consume.

Daegon didn’t slow. If she wanted a war of power— He would end it.

The pack surged through the feral rogues, the ripping of flesh and snapping bones grating against Daegon’s heightened ears. The Dark Aura screamed profanities, her entire focus fixed on him, her smirk widening with every step he took. He vaulted onto the shattered balcony of the manor, claws scraping the stone as tiles cracked beneath his paws. Another leap carried him to the next broken ledge—then a howl of pain split the air.

Daegon spun, instincts flaring, to see Trixa sprawled on the ground. A feral rogue had snagged her back leg, pinning her under its weight. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, feeling her Aura dim under the strain. Then, with a surge of defiance, her power flared brighter than ever.

‘GO!’ she screamed into his mind. Her force slammed into him like a tidal wave, shoving him forward. The Lycan King had no choice but to obey. He leapt onto the roof, tiles splintering beneath him. His golden eyes locked onto the Dark Aura—and his blood ran cold.

She held a crystal in one hand, pulsing with unnatural light. The memory of the Blue Moon Pack’s report hit him—the cave where the crystals grew, the theft of two stones—and now she had one again, baiting him. The smile curling across her blood-stained face confirmed it: she wanted him to fall into her trap. Rage burned through him, hot and blinding. How had he been so blind?

His claws skidded on slick blood. His gaze fell to the mangled body beside him—it was Alpha Sean’s mate, her mouth frozen in a silent scream, eyes wide and lifeless. Every ounce of Daegon’s fury surged, exactly as she intended. Ancient words spilled from her lips, the second crystal shrouded in black tendrils that shot outward, wrapping around him with crushing force. A roar of pain tore from Daegon’s throat before he could rein it in. Trixa froze, eyes widening at the scene. She barked an urgent command into the pack link, and the Elite surged forward, intent on reaching their Alpha.

“Your anger has always been your downfall, mutt,” the Dark Aura hissed, her voice layered with countless others, echoing unnaturally. “Once you and your pack are dead, the rest will fall. Finally… we will claim what is rightfully ours.” Daegon strained against the tendrils, dark spots creeping into his vision as the pressure intensified. The witch pulled him closer, canines elongating, her eyes wild with anticipation. Then, a brilliant orb of pure power slammed into her, forcing her backward and breaking her hold on both the crystals and Daegon. She shrieked, a sound that scraped across his nerves as he hit the roof, body on fire with pain.

Trixa’s voice pierced his mind, trembling and fierce, calling his name. He drew strength from her fear, letting it sharpen his focus. His bones cracked and realigned, flesh knitting as his Lycan form surged back to full power. He pushed himself upright, every muscle coiled and ready, the fire in his body now a weapon. Daegon’s golden eyes narrowed. This fight was far from over—and he would not be bested.

Shaking off the lingering shock, the Lycan King scanned the ruins for the witch. The place where she should have fallen was empty.

Daegon’s growl rolled low and dangerous through his chest, hackles lifting as his power surged back into place. He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, searching for her scent—and froze. Must and mildew. Rotting stone. Old decay. Recognition brushed the edge of his mind, sharp but elusive. He knew that smell. Had known it once. Before he could place it, dark clouds slid overhead, swallowing the light and casting the battlefield in ashen grey. The air thickened, heavy and wrong.

Unease coiled in his gut. Then came the yelps.