Mated To The Last Aetherwyn

It was a peaceful day, like always. Sunlight bathed the lands of Aetherwyn in golden hues, casting warmth over crystalline rivers and towering trees whose leaves whispered secrets from centuries past. Magic shimmered in the air—soft, ever-present—like the heartbeat of something ancient and alive. Laughter echoed along cobbled paths where families mingled and children played. Inside the castle, heart of the Aetherwyn bloodline, joy pulsed strongly. Twelve-year-old Isaldora flickered in and out of sight. Her hip-length hair, spun from starlight, trailed behind her. Her eyes, glowing with moonlight hues, sparkled with mischievousness as she teleported behind her older brother. “IZZY!” Ivan yelped, flinging his book in the air. “I’m getting better,” she grinned, practically glowing. He groaned and stormed off toward the royal garden. “Mom! She’s doing it again!” Queen Dorathe Aetherwyn, radiant in a flowing emerald gown, looked up from her book, a serene smile dimpling her ageless face. “Isaldora,” she said gently, twirling on the spot. “Must you always torment your brother?” “I’m practicing,” Isaldora declared, twirling in place. “Besides, he’s fun when he’s mad.” Ivan tackled her from behind, pinning her and tickling her ribs until she shrieked with laughter. Their father arrived just then, tall and regal in obsidian robes. King Doewan’s silver eyes gleamed as he watched his children tumble and laugh. “So fierce, until your brother gets his hands on you,” he teased as Isaldora darted into his arms. “She’s far too powerful for her age,” Ivan grumbled. “Ah, but power means nothing without spirit,” Doewan said, shielding his daughter with a smile. “And she has more spirit than all of us combined.” Dorathe slipped her hand into her mate’s. They stood together—parents, rulers, protectors—watching the sun dip beyond the horizon. But beneath their smiles… was fear. Isaldora’s magic ran deeper than they’d ever seen. And time had its eye on her. That night, dinner was full of laughter and warmth. For one perfect moment, everything was exactly as it should be. What Isaldora didn't know was that it would be the last perfect moment she would ever have with her family. That her heaven would shatter. And when the moon was high in the sky, that's when the howls came and then, Bang! A thunderous crash, close and violent. Screams followed from the courtyard—panicked, multiplying. Inside the dining hall, Isaldora froze. She looked up to see the fear flash across her mother’s face. Her father was already standing. Doewan met Dorathe’s eyes. “Go,” he said. She hesitated—just long enough for him to kiss her temple. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you too,” he said. Then she turned to her children. “Run.” Isaldora and Ivan didn’t argue. They ran. Behind them, Dorathe raised her hands, ancient spells flying from her lips. Doors slammed shut. Shields lit up the air. But magic only bought seconds. Outside, Aetherwyn burned. Flames devoured trees and towers. The scent of blood mingled with smoke, turning the air thick with dread. Screams cracked like thunder, magic died mid-spell. Familiar voices turned strange with pain. Werewolves tore through the guard with foaming maws. Vampires flashed through the chaos, draining witches before dropping their bodies like wilted flowers. And worst of all—traitors. Witches and warlocks hurled corrupted spells, fueled by greed and vengeance. It wasn’t a battle. It was a s*******r. Inside, Dorathe stood like a shield, her children behind her. “We can fight,” Ivan whispered, eyes wide. “No.” Her voice was sharp. “You’re too young.” But fate didn't wait. The wall behind them exploded—stone and wind blasting inward. Figures surged through the smoke: vampires with red-ringed eyes, wolves mid-shift, witches cloaked in black flame. Dorathe hurled fire—wild and untamed. Blades of wind slashed through the smoke, shields of light crackled at her command. Beside her, Ivan fought fiercely, vines erupting from the floor, lashing around ankles, coiling throats. Isaldora’s hands burned with magic as she raised them—lightning surged, bright and blinding— Then sputtered out. The bolt fizzled mid-air. Too unstable. Too raw. Her chest tightened with fear. Her breath hitched. She wasn’t ready for this. She had power—damn, she had power—but she wasn’t trained for war. She was just a child. “Now—go!” Dorathe shouted, flinging a flame that consumed a vampire mid-lunge. They ran again. Their mother followed, magic flaring to protect them. The once-familiar halls were ruined—statues cracked, blood smeared over shattered marble, the scent of ash choking the air. They turned a corner— And stopped. Across the broken courtyard stood their father. King Doewan was fury incarnate, obsidian blade in hand, lightning crackling around him. Bodies lay in his wake. But he was bleeding—too much. And his back was exposed. “No,” Dorathe breathed. And in an instant, a werewolf lunged as his claws raked down Doewan's spine. He staggered. Then a vampire struck—fangs piercing his throat. Time froze as Isaldora saw her father falling to ground . “FATHER!” Isaldora and Ivan screamed. Dorathe’s cry tore the night in two. She lifted her hands—and the attackers disintegrated into ash. The three ran to him. Doewan was on one knee, blood pouring, breath rattling. “I can fix this—I can—” Dorathe sobbed, pressing glowing hands to his wounds. He held her hand with a small smile. “Protect them.” His gaze found Isaldora as she sobbed and looked at her father—hus silver eyes dimming. And then the light and life faded from them. Isaldora clinged to him her body shaking with loss. Her mother let out a scream that shattered something sacred. Her magic surged—a blast of raw, aching grief. Dorathe touched his face. Pressed her forehead to his. “Wait for me,” she whispered. “I’ll find you again.” In the stars.” Then— “Ivan!” Isaldora screamed. Her brother fell. A curse struck first—then claws, then a blade. Blood pooled around him, dark and final. Isaldora collapsed at his side, sobbing. “No—no—please—IVAN!” Dorathe screamed again and rushed to her children, limbs shaking, face streaked with ash and blood. Her wounds bled slowly and sure. Her soul—the flame that made her powerful—had been torn from her. “Mama,” Isaldora sobbed. “I’m here,” Dorathe whispered, even as her strength failed. “I’m here.” She cradled her daughter’s face, brushing away tears. “Listen to me, my little star. You must go. You must live.” she said as she felt her energy depleting. “No!” Isaldora wept. “I can heal you—I have to—please—don’t make me—” Her hands glowed as light poured into her mother’s wounds. It wasn’t enough. “You can’t,” Dorathe whispered. “There’s no time.” “I can fight!” “No.” Her voice turned fierce again. “You must survive. You are the last of us. Our blood, our light. They must not take you either.” She pressed her forehead towards Isaldora’s. “You are more than you know,” she whispered, tears rolling down her eyes. “One day, you will know and you'll rise again.” Tears blurred Isaldora’s vision as she shooked her head, clinging to her mother like a child desperate to wake from a nightmare. “Please don’t leave me…” “I’ll never leave you,” Dorathe breathed. “I’ll always be here.” She placed a hand over her daughter’s heart. “Swear it, that you will live,” she said, her voice breaking. “On my soul.” Isaldora shook, but nodded. “I swear.” “Then go.” With one final, heart-shattering look— Isaldora vanished in thin air. Dorathe remained in silence, surrounded by ash and death. She smiled—trembling, proud—and summoned the last of her power. A perfect illusion of her daughter’s lifeless body appeared beside her. Dorathe lay down beside it, arm draped protectively around the false form. She closed her eyes. And with her final breath, she joined her mate in the stars. Ash drifted like snow through the ruins of Aetherwyn. From the smoke, a few remaining attackers emerged—wolves, vampires, cloaked traitors. They stepped over the bodies, pausing only briefly. “It’s done,” one said, surveying the fallen. “Aetherwyn is gone. No one left.” With that, they vanished into the shadows—dragging their bloodstained victory behind them.