Chapter Eight
984 Words
Radú Vuković was a name muttered with dread in dark corners. Where most alphas led with force or charisma, Radu led with fear—and he wore it like a crown.
Once a nobleman of striking charm and elegant presence, he had been the kind of man others admired from afar and envied up close. But that was centuries ago. Now, he looked like something wrenched from a nightmare. Time, violence, and the bitter sting of betrayal had carved their legacy into his face.
His black hair, long and tangled, hung like a veil around his ruined features. A deep s***h split the socket of his right eye—an old wound, never healed, left to fester as a warning. The eye was milky and dead, but it missed nothing. His remaining eye was sharp, cold, yellow like a predator’s—always watching. His beard, thick and patchy with grey, was crusted with dirt and dried blood. Hands that had once poured wine at royal banquets now ended in claws, always ready to strike. He moved like a man who trusted no one—not even his own shadow.
The cavern stank of wet fur, sweat, and blood. Flickering firelight danced across jagged stone walls, casting elongated shadows of the wolves that lurked in silence. Radu’s pack—wild, feral, and barely loyal—didn’t follow him out of admiration. They followed because disobedience meant death. Simple as that.
He sat on a throne of bones—literal bones, scavenged from his kills and arranged in a grotesque mockery of royal seating. The skulls of his enemies formed the backrest.
Footsteps approached. Cautious. Uneven.
A young wolf limped into view, one arm cradling his ribs, blood caked under his nose. Radu didn’t look at him at first. He didn’t need to.
“Well?” he asked, his voice gravelly, each word drawn out like the stretch before a strike.
“He’s still alive,” the wolf stammered. “The stray. Dmitri.”
Radu’s gaze finally slid to the messenger. “Of course he is,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “The little rat’s always been hard to kill.”
He stood—slow, deliberate. Bones cracked as he rolled his shoulders, every movement coiled with restrained violence.
“And you’re sure?”
The young wolf swallowed hard. “Yes, Alpha. He’s hiding somewhere in the south. Alone, but…” He hesitated.
“But what?”
“There’s… magic, sir. Witch magic. Around him.”
Radu’s eye narrowed. A low growl rumbled in his chest. “Witch.”
He spat the word like poison. His lip curled with contempt.
“I told you,” he snapped, voice rising. “Kill the witches first. They meddle. They infect. Let one live, and they rot your plans from the inside out.”
The young wolf bowed his head. “I’ll fix it.”
“No,” Radu said, stepping down from the throne. His boots echoed on the stone. “You’ve done enough.”
One hand shot out, fast as lightning. He snapped the boy’s neck with a casual twist. The body dropped like wet parchment.
Silence followed.
No one moved. No one breathed.
Radu turned back to the fire, unfazed. “Bring me the girl,” he said, quiet but deadly. “And bring me Dmitri. Alive, if you can. But don’t let him run again.”
⸻
Far from blood-soaked stone and bone-carved thrones, morning light filtered gently through the windows of a quiet cottage nestled deep in the woods. No screaming. No fire. Just the scent of fresh coffee, the soft rustle of leaves, and something else—something neither of them could explain.
Dmitri flexed his arm, distracted by a strange sensation tugging at the skin. Mid-conversation, his brow furrowed. He reached up and peeled away the bandage Sabrina had wrapped the night before.
He stared.
The wound was gone.
Not scabbing. Not healing. Gone.
Only a faint silvery scar remained—smooth and pale against his skin.
Sabrina noticed the change in his expression and leaned in. “What is it?”
He held out his arm. “This. It’s… healed. Completely.”
She blinked, surprised. “Already?”
“I don’t heal that fast,” he muttered. “Not from something like that. Not overnight.”
He rotated his wrist, studying the spot. “Whatever you did, it wasn’t just a basic charm.”
Sabrina watched him closely, her voice softer now. “I didn’t do anything unusual. Just something to ease the pain. Help it along a little. That’s all.”
He met her eyes. “Then why do I feel different?”
“How different?”
“My senses are sharper. Like—everything feels more alive. Sounds, smells, the way the light moves… it’s all turned up.”
She hesitated, then slowly reached for his arm again, brushing her fingers lightly over the scar.
Dmitri flinched—not from pain, but from something else entirely.
A jolt of energy surged between them.
They both felt it.
He stilled, watching her. She pulled her hand back instinctively, eyes wide.
“What the hell was that?” she whispered.
Dmitri didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out and took her hand gently, letting their skin meet again.
The same spark—like a thread of raw magic crackling through both of them.
This time, neither of them pulled away.
The air shifted. A low hum filled the space. Light shimmered faintly across the floorboards—golden, warm, like the first rays of morning.
Sabrina’s breath caught. “I don’t— I’ve never felt anything like that.”
Dmitri nodded slowly. “Me either.”
They sat like that, hands clasped, wrapped in quiet awe.
Something had changed. Something neither of them could explain.
But it was real. And it was powerful.
And it had only just begun.
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