Chapter 5
1055 Words
In the cold-lit chamber of the Royal Duskhowl Palace, the Council of Supernaturals sat in tense silence.
Kaelith Duskbane, Alpha Prince of the Duskhowl Pack, sat still beside his father at the head of the long obsidian table—shoulders squared, fingers steepled in silent focus. Sharp-eyed and unreadable, he radiated a calm that felt anything but passive, the kind that spoke of sharp instincts and held-back power.
The Alpha King's expression mirrored that of every leader in the room: grim, composed, and deeply unsettled.
The rogue attacks had shifted. What once were scattered, aimless outbursts had become something else—measured, persistent. Packs, covens, vampire nests, warlock circles—every major supernatural group had suffered losses. Not annihilation. But damage. Damage that weakened.
They weren’t trying to dominate.
They were trying to drain.
The long table bore the weight of unspoken fears.
The long table bore the weight of silence.
To the King’s left, Vampire King Victor sat composed and calculating, his expression unreadable beneath centuries of discipline. Beside him, Prince Adrien lounged with an elegant indifference, fingers tapping a rhythm against the armrest, though his eyes were sharp. Watching.
At the far end, the High Alphas of the northern and western territories sat stiffly, their shoulders drawn, the quiet between them bristling. Across from them, six of the High Witches and Warlocks occupied their seats with practiced calm. Among them sat High Witch Serenya, Seeress of the Obsidian coven—her pale and aged features lending her a quiet authority.
Finally, the Alpha King broke the silence, his voice low and steady, but iron underneath.
“We’re not dealing with rabid attacks anymore. This is deliberate.”
“Agreed,” said the Western Alpha. “At first, it was small border attacks—scouts here and there. But then the attacks started getting closer. Bolder.”
“Strange, there haven't mostly been any serious harm other than security breaches,” added the Northern Alpha. “They’re weakening us. Picking at pressure points.”
Serenya's voice was soft, but carried clearly.
“There have been nearly sixty calculated strikes in under a month. All across different regions.
Victor inclined his head, speaking with cool clarity.
“The patterns are inconsistent. But the intent… seems anything but.”
“In Hollowmist circle,” a deep voice murmured. “their defensive charms were shattered—but their central circle was left untouched.”
Kaelith finally spoke, his tone quiet but cutting.
“They’re probing. Testing strength. And they know exactly where to strike.”
Adrien scoffed faintly, fingers still drumming.
“You’re giving rogues a bit too much credit, don’t you think?”
Kaelith’s gaze flicked to him, impassive.
“I’m giving them credit for not acting like rogues.”
Serenya's voice drew their attention once more.
“An unguarded coven outside Ashen Groves was attacked three nights ago. The residue left behind pointed to three rogue vampires… and two witches.”
One of the high witches leaned forward, his brows furrowed.
“Rogues from different species working together?” He shook his head slowly. “That shouldn’t be possible.”
Kaelith leaned forward slightly, his voice even but edged with steel.
“Rogues don’t form coalitions. Not without help. This isn’t some uprising. It’s coordinated. Guided.”
Adrien’s tone turned mildly mocking.
“So what—you’re suggesting a grand commander of misfits is pulling the strings?”
Kaelith’s eyes locked with his, voice cool.
“I’m suggesting someone’s using them as puppets… while we argue about whether the strings exist.”
The Northern Alpha muttered, “It's true rogues don’t cooperate. They tear each other apart before they even reach the front lines.”
Victor’s voice was thoughtful now.
“Unless something bigger is driving them.”
Kaelith leaned back slightly, his tone precise.
“Or distracting us.”
A few heads turned.
“A surge this chaotic,” he continued, “with no demands, no claims, and now inter-species attacks—it reeks of something else. A smokescreen. It’s not about what’s being attacked. It’s about where we’re not looking.”
A moment of silence followed. Every face weighing the possibility.
Until—
The chamber doors creaked open.
Kaelith’s Beta stepped in briskly, expression tight beneath his composed exterior. He bowed first to the Alpha King, then to the room—but his eyes locked onto Kaelith’s.
“Forgive the interruption. But you’ll want to see this Alpha.”
Kaelith stood at once.
“What is it?”
The Beta hesitated for the briefest moment.
“Not something I can explain, Alpha.” His gaze shifted toward the others. “But… it concerns all of us.”
The Alpha King stood and the rest of the members followed as they followed the beta toward the courtyard.
And the moment they stepped foot outside—
Every soul froze.
At the center of the courtyard, four figures writhed in eerie silence.
A wolf.
A witch.
A vampire.
A warlock.
Their bodies were mangled—bones jutting at impossible angles, skin torn and soaked in gore—yet somehow, impossibly, they moved.
On their knees, backs arched and heads bowed low, they clawed at the stone with what remained of their fingers. Nails cracked. Flesh split. Blood pooled.
They were writing.
Furiously scraping words into the ground in jagged, slanted strokes—dragging bone shards, broken nails, and raw knuckles across the cold stone. The sound was sickening. Wet. Slow. Final.
The council stood frozen.
Kaelith stepped forward instinctively, his breath sharp in his chest. The tang of blood, rot, and old magic filled the air like a choking veil. His wolf growled low beneath the surface, teeth bared, pacing in tight, agitated circles.
His jaw clenched as he watched their hands grind against stone, now little more than bloodied stumps. It was as if pain had long left them—or had never been there to begin with.
And then, slowly—finally—the four fell still. Fingers curled inward. Shoulders sagged. Blood dripped.
They shifted in eerie synchronization, crawling to the edges of their carved message before falling prostrate—bodies forming a jagged, half-circle around it.
Kaelith’s gaze dropped to the ground—and every instinct in him roared.
A single word, slashed deep in blood and bone.
DOOMWITCH.
- Writer
