Rejected now unstoppable

chapter 1

In the beginning, before the first betrayal scarred the night, there was only the Covenant.

The world of the hidden kin was vast and quiet, a tapestry woven from moonlight and ancient oaths. Werewolves roamed the deep forests of the Blackwood Range, their packs moving like rivers of silver fur under the stars. Witches dwelled in the mist-shrouded valleys, their covens tending groves where the trees whispered secrets older than stone. Vampires ruled the shadowed cities hidden beneath human metropolises, their courts glittering with crystal and blood-wine, eternal and elegant.

For centuries, the three bloodlines had honored the Covenant of the Three Moons. Signed in the blood of the First Elders after the Great War—a war that had nearly ended all supernatural life—the pact forbade open conflict between the kinds. No werewolf would hunt a vampire for sport. No witch would curse a pack without cause. No vampire would drain a witch’s life-force to fuel their immortality. In return, each kind protected the others when the human world grew too curious, too armed, too close.

The Covenant was enforced by the Council of Elders: one elder from each bloodline, chosen every fifty years by rite and ritual. They met once a decade in the neutral ground of the Hollow Spire—a towering obsidian needle that rose from the heart of the Blackwood Range, visible only to those with the sight. There, they renewed the blood-oath, drank from the same chalice, and swore on the Three Moons: the silver moon of the wolves, the crimson moon of the vampires, and the emerald moon of the witches.

Peace was not perfect. There were grudges. There were border skirmishes. There were young hotheads who tested the edges of the pact. But the Elders were iron. They punished swiftly and without mercy. The Covenant held.

In the year 1897, the current Council consisted of Elder Thorne of the werewolves, a grizzled alpha whose silver scars told stories of battles long before humans charted the world; Elder Vespera of the vampires, a woman whose beauty had not aged since the Renaissance and whose eyes could freeze blood; and Elder Morwen of the witches, whose hair was woven with living vines and whose voice could calm storms or summon them.

They were old, wise, and feared. They were also tired.

The Covenant had lasted so long that many of the younger kin had never known war. They grew restless. The werewolves chafed under the rules that forbade them from claiming new territory. The witches whispered that their magic was being stifled, that the old spells of power were f*******n under the pact’s “balance.” The vampires, ever proud, resented sharing the night with creatures who did not bow to them.

But the young did not yet dare to speak openly. They gathered in secret, in the fringes of the Blackwood, in the abandoned subway tunnels beneath Lagos (for even in the human city, the hidden kin had carved their own domains), and in the forgotten catacombs of Europe. They called themselves the New Bloods. They dreamed of a world where strength ruled, not oaths.

Among them were three who would one day change everything.

Luka was born in the Blackwood packlands in 1998, under a moon so full it seemed the sky had cracked open. His mother, Aria, was a low-ranking delta wolf who had mated with a rogue from a rival pack. The union was frowned upon, but not f*******n. Luka’s first shift came at three months old—far too early. He tore through the nursery den in a frenzy of black fur and tiny claws, killing two pups before the betas could restrain him. The pack called it a curse. Aria begged for mercy. Elder Thorne himself examined the child and declared him “unstable.” But he did not order the death. Instead, he ordered exile for mother and son. “Let the wild teach him control,” Thorne said. “Or let it kill him.”

They were cast out with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a warning: never return.

Mira was born the same year in the Emerald Grove, a witch coven deep in the valleys of the Blackwood. Her mother was a healer, her father a traveling storm-caller who had vanished before Mira’s birth. When Mira was five, she tried to heal a dying sapling. The spell backfired. Green fire erupted, consuming half the grove and killing twelve witches, including her mother. The coven elders—led by Morwen—declared her magic “wildfire.” Uncontrollable. Dangerous. They bound her hands with ironvine and cast her out, blindfolded, at the edge of the forest. “The earth will reclaim you,” Morwen said, “or it will not.”

Cassian was turned in 2001, not born. He was a human orphan in Lagos, six years old, begging on the streets near the hidden vampire court beneath the city. A vampire lord named Darius took pity—or perhaps amusement—and turned him. But Cassian refused to feed on humans. He starved himself until his body withered, then fed only on rats and stray dogs. Darius, humiliated, declared him “defective.” The court hunted him through the tunnels. Cassian escaped, half-mad with hunger, and fled north into the Blackwood Range. The vampires marked him for death.

By 2005, the three children—each seven years old—found themselves converging on the same forgotten hollow in the Blackwood. They were starving, terrified, and alone. They did not know each other’s names. They did not speak the same tongue perfectly (Luka spoke only pack-tongue, Mira the old Gaelic of her coven, Cassian street Yoruba and broken English). But hunger and fear are universal languages.

They met at the edge of a frozen stream. Luka, in half-shift, growled. Mira’s hands sparked green. Cassian’s eyes glowed red. They circled each other, ready to kill.

Then the moon rose—full, silver, crimson, emerald all at once in a rare triple alignment known as the Triune Eclipse. The mark appeared on each of their left wrists: a crescent moon pierced by a thorn, a single drop of black blood beneath it.

They froze.

The mark burned. Not with pain, but with recognition.

They did not understand it yet. But something ancient stirred inside them. A bond. A promise. A destiny.

They did not fight. Instead, they shared the small rabbit Luka had caught. Mira warmed the meat with her fire. Cassian watched the night for threats.

That night, the three children slept in a circle, backs touching, for the first time.

They were the youngest exiles.

They were the rejected.

And somewhere in the shadows, Elder Thorne watched from afar, his silver eyes narrowed.

He had seen the mark before—in old scrolls, in nightmares. The prophecy of the Triad: three children of the three bloods, marked by the Triune Eclipse, destined to either renew the Covenant forever… or shatter it and drown the world in blood.

Thorne had hoped the prophecy was myth.

Now he knew it was not.

He turned away, vanishing into the trees.

The peace of the Covenant had begun to c***k.

And the fracture started with three small, broken children who had nothing left to lose.