When we are one

Chapter 27 Grace

The underworld is nothing like the stories.

It’s darker. Wetter. More alive in the most wretched ways.

The air is thick—so heavy with dampness and rot it clings to the skin like filth you can’t wash off. Shadows move here, even when there’s no light. And the light… when it comes, it burns blue. Unnatural. Unforgiving.

Slaves shuffle along narrow paths of stone, bare feet calloused and bloodied. They wear only the ragged scraps of what could once be called clothes—potato sacks, really. Their wrists, ankles, and throats are bound in gleaming, rune-etched chains. Not made of steel. No, these are forged from magic itself. Ancient. Absolute. They don’t just restrain the body—they leash the soul.

These people were once powerful. Now they’re hollowed out.

And yet… they glow. Faintly. Dimly. As if whatever magic they once wielded hasn’t quite been extinguished.

“Misfits. Monsters. Exiles.”

That’s what they’re called up above.

But down here?

They’re survivors.

They belong.

This place—this broken, cursed realm—is a sanctuary for those who couldn’t fit into the perfect little boxes the surface demands. Wolves without packs. Witches without covens. Vampires, seers, hybrids… all thrown away. Forgotten.

And I belong here more than they ever knew.

I move through the caverns like I’ve walked them in dreams. The stone speaks to me. Whispers truths laced in venom. The underworld doesn’t lie—it simply reveals.

And what it reveals now… is her.

Anika.

The one they protect. The one they worship like she’s been blessed by the moon goddess herself.

But I know better.

She’s not a blessing.

She’s a weapon.

And if I can get close enough—

If I can twist the knife before they see it coming—

Then maybe I’ll finally earn my place. Not just in the underworld…

But on the throne of something far greater.

I continue the narrow trail that winds up the craggy hill, mud clinging to my boots like decay refusing to be shaken off. The house ahead looms—perched like a vulture atop its perch. Its spires twist unnaturally, reaching skyward like skeletal fingers clawing at the moonless sky.

It’s frightening. Twisted. Something in the air around it hums, vibrating with ancient malice.

But I’ve come too far to back down now.

They think Anika’s going to save this pack.

They think she’s divine. A blessing. A future Luna.

No.

She’s a threat. A glowing, golden lie wrapped in prophecy and misplaced worship.

And if I have to burn the world to tear that illusion apart, I will.

This pack will crumble under the weight of her secrets—and I’ll be the one left standing in the ashes.

I push open the heavy wooden door, its hinges screeching in protest like it’s been too long since it welcomed the living. Dust hangs in the air like fog, thick and clinging. The scent of iron, candle wax, and something sweetly rotting wraps around me.

Inside, the house is colder than the outside. Time doesn’t move here. Paint peels off the walls in long, curling strips. Every step echoes like a scream in a tomb. I know where I need to go.

The cellar.

The monster sleeps in the dark.

Elias.

An old vampire with a taste for chaos and secrets—and if the rumors are true, an ancient hunger for the divine. He’s a relic of another age, one the surface world pretends never existed. But he’s real. And he’s dangerous.

Perfect.

I glide through the hallways, my fingers trailing over broken picture frames and decaying wallpaper. It takes time, but I find it—an iron door at the end of the corridor, half hidden behind a dusty tapestry. The hairs on the back of my neck rise as I touch the handle.

The cellar hums like it’s breathing.

I descend slowly, each step colder than the last. At the bottom, the space is cavernous—stone walls, flickering torches, and shelves stacked with bottles of old blood, herbs, and bones. It’s a grave dressed as a wine cellar.

And then I feel him.

“You reek of jealousy.”

The voice slithers from the shadows like smoke, wrapping around my throat.

Elias.

He steps out from behind a pillar, skin pale as bone, eyes as red as coals. His smile is both a threat and a promise.

“Come to offer me something, pretty little wolf?” he purrs.

I smile, slow and sharp.

“I came with a name,” I whisper. “Anika. Divine-blooded. Silver wolf. Moon goddess’s child.”

His eyes widen. His fangs flash. A hiss escapes him, and the air tightens.

“She bleeds power, Elias. And she sleeps under the roof of a pack that’s forgotten how fragile their gods really are.”

He circles me like a predator, intrigued. Hungry.

“You want her gone,” he says. Not a question. A fact.

“No,” I whisper. “I want her broken. Then I want her gone.”

He laughs—deep, rich, and terrible. “Then, little wolf… we may have use for each other.”