They took me to their camp before dawn.
The werewolves lived differently than the stories said. No chains. No howling madness. They moved with discipline, with loyalty stitched into every glance. This was not a pack of beasts—it was an army waiting to be unleashed.
Her name was Ryn Ashclaw. She was one of their generals.
She watched me constantly, as if waiting for me to break. I didn't. I learned quickly that pain could be swallowed, fear folded into something quieter and sharper.
But the world did not give me time to understand myself.
Three nights later, the vampires attacked.
They came like shadows poured from the sky—silent, elegant, cruel. Their leader descended in crimson silk, pale as death and beautiful enough to make your heart ache.
Her name was Seraphine Noctis.
She looked at me once, and everything inside me stilled.
Vampires were monsters, they said. Cold. Merciless. Yet when our eyes met, her expression shifted—not hunger, not hatred—but recognition.
"She's hers," Seraphine said calmly.
Ryn snarled, stepping in front of me. "She belongs to no one."
The battle was chaos—teeth, claws, blood soaking into the earth. I should have hidden. Instead, I moved. My body reacted before my mind could stop it. I fought with a strength that terrified me.
When it was over, the ground was littered with the dead.
Seraphine stood unharmed, watching me like I was a riddle she intended to solve.
"You don't know what you are," she said.
"I know what I'm not," I replied. "I'm not yours."
A smile curved her lips. "Not yet."
That was the moment the war stopped being distant.
It had found my name.