Chapter 4:
1394 Words
Isaldora stepped into the shower, letting the scalding stream rush over her. Warm water splashed against skin, a steady rhythm that echoed in the marble-tiled silence. Crimson swirled at her feet—half-dried blood clinging to her arms, her throat, beneath her nails. She could’ve removed it all with a flick. But she didn’t.
She didn’t want to.
The sensation of it washing away felt good. Right. A quiet echo of everything she’d done tonight. A reminder of justice dealt in her own language—wrath.
This was satisfying.
The first official piece had been moved across the board—like a blade sliding clean across a throat.
The oath she swore beneath the shattered moon of Aetherwyn had been set into motion.
Tonight, she destroyed a few who had played their part in the m******e of her bloodline.
They weren’t the masterminds, not the core of the rot. But they were part of it. Enough to bleed. Enough to burn. Enough to send a message.
She tilted her head back, letting the water drum against her scalp as a slow, sinister smile curled across her lips—devoid of mercy, devoid of warmth. Eyes closed. She breathed in the silence.
Thanks to the Sirens who had informed her of these accomplices—who thought time had hidden their sins, who believed the fall of Aetherwyn buried their part in the bloodshed.
She didn’t just kill them.
She played with them.
The water stopped with a flick of her hand. Steam curled around her like smoke rising from an offering. She stepped out, skin flushed from heat, dried off slowly, then slipped into black robes. Her feet padded soundlessly across the floor.
A smirk curved her lips, sharp and slow, as the memory unfurled.
“Help—please! Save me! She’ll kill me!”
Her voice rang out sharp and desperate, echoing between the trees.
The Howlmoon patrolman whipped his head toward the sound—and stopped.
She emerged from the shadows, barefoot and trembling, a pathetic little thing wrapped in rags. Her clothes were torn in calculated places—shoulder, thigh, waist—each rip a weapon. Her hair was matted just enough to look unkempt, her skin smudged with soot and blood. She looked like she'd barely survived whatever had chased her.
The patrolman's eyes widened, his gaze dragging down her form, checking her out as he licked his lips. He didn’t even hide it.
“Who… who are you?” he asked, voice uneven as he tried to find the balance between concern and lust. “What happened to you?”
Isaldora flinched, gaze dropping. Her voice wavered.
“I’m a lone wolf,” she whispered, shaking. “I’ve been wandering for weeks. I—I saw her… a witch. A dark one. She destroyed a coven right in front of me. Burned them alive. I barely escaped.”
“Please don’t leave me out here. She’ll come for me.”
Her eyes welled with tears, and she stepped closer—just enough to touch his arm, her fingers grazing his skin lightly, smoothly.
He stiffened under the contact, then glanced away, jaw tightening. But not before she caught the flash of lust in his expression and gave an inward smirk. She knew he was fighting his desire.
Inside, the alpha of the Howlmoon Pack reclined on a broad leather chair, legs spread, eyes sharp. His beta flanked him, two enforcers standing nearby. The room stank of arrogance and smoke.
When the patrolling wolf led her in, they all looked up—and paused.
The alpha’s eyes traveled her form, slow and deliberate. The beta smirked. One enforcer muttered something under his breath and laughed. Even now, caked in blood and fear, she made their thoughts crawl.
“She claims she saw a dark witch destroy a coven nearby,” the patrolman said looking at her with a smirk.
“Is that so?” the alpha murmured, eyes never leaving her. “What exactly did you see?”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, like a man sizing up a purchase. His gaze lingered far too long on her bare legs.
Isaldora hugged herself, trembling. “She tore through them like they were nothing. I don’t know what kind of witch she was… it wasn’t natural. Please, I’m afraid she’ll follow me—she might already be here.” Her hands shook slightly as she clutched her arms. “Please… just give me shelter.”
“The alpha chuckled. “She won’t dare step here. My pack is strong.”
He stepped forward, raising his hand to touch her cheek—just as the first scream echoed from outside.
The room shifted. The beta rushed to the window, others behind him. Chaos spread across their faces like wildfire.Outside, bodies writhed in the moonlight.
Pack members were collapsing, convulsing. Blood spattered against the glass. Magic slashed through the air, unseen but brutal. One wolf’s jaw split open as he screamed.
“s**t. Alpha, we’re under attack—something’s ripping them apart!” The beta said his face paled.
The alpha turned to Isaldora, eyes wide. “You—what? What the hell—”
But she was already gone.
In her place stood a figure cloaked in black, her hood casting shadows over moonlit silver eyes. Magic pulsed from her skin in waves—cold.
“Oh look,” she murmured tilting her head.
“The witch already found you.”
They froze.
She lifted a hand.
The beta screamed as his limbs contorted and bones splintered outward. An enforcer exploded into crimson mist. Another collapsed, mouth open in a soundless scream, as blood poured from his eyes.
The patrol wolf, poor fool, tried to crawl away—his arms bent backward at impossible angles.
And through it all, she walked like a phantom, untouched.
Only the alpha remained, frozen
.
He ran.
Of course he did.
She followed, not rushing—just walking, savoring it. The cool night air rustled the grass as he sprinted across the field. His panic left a trail, heavy and obvious.
He looked back. No one.
Relief flickered.
He turned forward—and crashed into her.
The wind knocked out of his lungs.
She stood inches away now, the moon glinting off her pale hair, her face shadowed by the hood.
“You—what—who the hell are you?” he blabbered.
She tilted her head, grinning. “Your doom.”
Her hand rose, fingers curling and he dropped to his knees instantly, choking, clutching his throat.
She stepped closer, crouched beside him like a predator watching its prey’s last moments. She drove a dagger in his gut as he shrieked.
She smiled.
Then—she whispered something into his ear, soft and subtle.
His breath hitched. His eyes glazed.
He nodded.
Her fingers sketched a silent sigil in the air—one that shimmered for half a heartbeat before vanishing into his skin.
Then she rose and turned away.
Isaldora stood against the window, her reflection caught in the glass across her room—silver eyes calm, hair now dry and falling in pale waves around her shoulders. She stared out the tall window, expression calm, determined, the city lights glittering far below.
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The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of fabric and the soft creak of leather as Kaelith adjusted the cuffs of his coat. Pale morning light spilled through the tall windows, painting long streaks across the stone floor. A breeze stirred the edges of the curtain, cool and fleeting.
He stood before the mirror, silent, methodical.
The silence in the room broke with a faint knock.
The door creaked open, and an Omega stepped in, bowing quickly.
“Your Highness—everyone’s begun to arrive.”
He gave a small nod, not pausing as he reached for his coat.
Jet-black hair, swept loosely back, framed a face too sharply cut to be called beautiful—angular jaw, high cheekbones, and a mouth that rarely gave much away. His eyes, grey as tempered steel, held a quiet sort of weight—like they were always watching too closely.
Without a word, he stepped past the omega and into the hall, his stride calm, but deliberate.
Something in the air was shifting.
And he could feel it.
- Writer
