The bloodline chronicles

It’s been twenty years since the attack on my pack. The night that shattered everything. The attack that left us broken, scattered, and mourning the thousands of wolves lost. Homes burned, families torn apart, and the once mighty Nightshade pack reduced to nothing but whispers and dust. A few hundred were captured, no one knows whether they still breathe, and a handful of us, the fortunate ones, managed to escape—displaced and scattered. We no longer know where the others are, and worse, we no longer know who we can trust. The Nightshade pack, once the ruling force among werewolves, is no more. We were royals—respected, feared, and worshipped for our blood and our gifts. Now, nothing remains but tales—stories no one dares to speak aloud. The council made sure of that. They had to erase every trace of us, for we were a threat to their rule. Rumors swirl like wildfire, whispers that the council was behind the s*******r of my pack. But no one dares to voice them aloud. Anyone who does is either silenced or imprisoned. We live like slaves, bowing to the council's reign, pretending to accept their power while we rot in the shadows. The council now controls all werewolves, their iron grip tightening after the fall of the Nightshade pack. Once protectors, the council has become our masters, and with the death of my kind, they sit comfortably at the top. The last of us are said to have been hunted down, our bloodline wiped from existence. Except for me. No one knows I’m still alive. No one except the hooded man who saved me that night. The man whose identity remains a mystery. He took me from the burning ruins of my pack, as my mother had begged him to. He brought me to a distant, isolated pack far from the council’s reach, and left me with one rule: never reveal who I am. Never let anyone see my blood. He disappeared the night after that, and since then, he has sent me letters every year on my birthday, words of wisdom and cryptic reminders of my purpose. I grew up in this new pack, surrounded by survivors of every kind of tragedy. We all sought refuge here, away from the council's reach, away from the persecution we’d faced. This pack was different—welcoming anyone who had nowhere else to go. It didn’t matter your age, race, or past—your former pack’s status didn’t matter here. We were a family built on survival and defiance. And for years, the council never knew we existed. We lived quietly, out of sight, hidden from the eyes of the world. But we all knew it wouldn’t last. One day, the council would find us. The moment we became a threat, they’d send their forces to destroy us. So we trained. Morning to evening. Our warriors—men and women alike—were ready. We weren’t bound by the council’s laws here. We fought together, side by side, no one left behind, no one weaker for being female. It’s what made us stronger. It’s what made us different. But we were always waiting. Waiting for the council to come. Waiting for the day our freedom would be stolen from us. I could feel it in my bones. The day was coming. Fifteen years after the attack, I tried to find my mother. I waited, hoped, and prayed every night that she was out there, somewhere, safe. But deep down, I knew. I knew she was gone. Still, a small part of me clung to the hope that she had escaped, that she was hiding somewhere, waiting for me to find her. I haven’t seen another Nightshade since the attack. No one else has ever come forward. If they survived, they would have grown up by now, and the only way to tell who we are would be by our blood, our markings, and the powers we carry—gifts from the Moon Goddess. I glanced down at my bandaged palm, the faint sting of the wound reminding me of how close I came to revealing myself. I had to be more careful. Fortunately, no one had seen the blood when the knife scraped my skin. In a pack like this, where trust runs deep, the risk of exposure is always there. No matter how much we’ve built, how much we’ve become a family, the fear remains. Fear of betrayal. Fear that one of us will sell us out to the council. We were a small pack, but we were growing. The council wouldn’t be blind to us forever. And when they found us, we had to be ready. I stood up from the cliffside where I’d been sitting, overlooking the Euphrates River that separated us from the council’s lands. It was my quiet place. A place to escape, to let my wolf run free without fear of being seen. I couldn’t shift in front of anyone—not with the markings on my left thigh so obvious. Every Nightshade had them, and mine were more than just a reminder of what we once were—they were a target, a symbol that I was the last of my kind. I remembered when I was a child, tracing my mother’s markings on her lower back, eager for the day I’d receive mine. When I turned sixteen, I finally shifted for the first time, and my markings appeared in the same place—on my left thigh. My gifts remained a mystery, though I knew they would come to me when the time was right. I’m Amarys Nightshade. Daughter of the Alpha of the fallen Nightshade pack. And this is my story.