Chapter 9

Alina’s stomach twists as she watches them—Magnus and Isalda—pull apart, the last of their kiss lingering like a poison in the air. When Magnus turns to face her, his eyes are like ice, his expression void of guilt or hesitation.

“You see, Alina,” he says calmly, voice cold and flat, “you were always a part of the plan. Isalda and I have been working toward this for years. You were just an obstacle we had to remove.”

The words land like a blade to the chest. Their betrayal crushes her, threatening to pull her beneath the surface of despair. But something else stirs within her—hotter, sharper.

Her hands curl into fists, nails biting into her palms. Blood starts to bead along her skin, but she doesn’t feel it.

“You’ll regret this,” she says, voice trembling with fury as rage begins to eclipse the sorrow. “Both of you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Her body surges forward, ready to strike, her vision narrowing, her wolf howling to be unleashed. Time slows around her as she channels everything she has into the movement.

But Isalda moves faster.

The moment Alina lunges, Isalda raises her hand, and instantly the ground responds. Olive green vines erupt from the floor beneath her feet, shooting upward with unnatural speed. Before Alina can even process it, they wrap tightly around her torso, arms, and legs—brutal, spiked, and unrelenting.

“Agh!” she screams as the thorns dig into her flesh, slicing through her clothing, embedding deep. The vines constrict harder with every struggle, sending waves of pain through her limbs.

“You know better than to fight against the vines, Alina…” Isalda’s voice rings out smoothly as she steps forward. A pale green aura pulses from her hand, illuminating her like a twisted goddess of nature.

Of course—the Moryvane gift. Every noble bloodline bears its own elemental legacy. The Xalverias command ice and water, the Vorathiels wield psychic and telekinetic forces, and the Moryvanes rule over nature itself—plants, soil, and stone. Not every Lycan is born with power, but the bloodlines pass it down like sacred inheritance.

Isalda and Alina both were among the gifted.

“You—” Alina’s voice trembles with hatred, her entire body shuddering as she pulls at her restraints. “You bitch…”

Isalda laughs—a sound sharp and empty. “I’ll need you to stay put for what’s about to happen next, Alina.”

Confusion flickers across Alina’s face. What comes next?

Then the sound comes—footsteps. Heavy. Numerous.

They echo through the corridor. Alina’s heart skips. She cranes her neck, straining to see through the pain, the blood, and the haze of firelight.

And then she sees them.

Her parents.

Her father—once proud, untouchable—now stumbles as he is shoved into the hall by armed guards. His head hangs, hair matted with blood. His tunic is torn, soaked crimson at the seams. Her mother walks beside him, regal even in ruin. Her posture is strained, her steps uneven, but she still holds her head high.

Alina’s heart nearly stops.

“Mother! Father!” she screams, her voice cracking from the force of it. She thrashes against the vines, agony tearing through her body as more blood drips to the stone floor beneath her.

“Let me go!” she cries out, desperation thick in her throat.

Her parents lift their heads at the sound of her voice. Their eyes meet hers—wide with fear and pain—and start to move toward her. But the guards step in, drawing silver-edged blades and slashing across their backs to keep them subdued. The scent of burning flesh fills the air.

“Alina…” her father murmurs as they force him to his knees beside her mother. Her mother’s lips tremble, tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t look away.

“I’ll kill you for this,” Alina seethes, her voice breaking through sobs as her rage reaches its peak. “I’ll kill you…”

And then she feels it.

Power.

It builds beneath her skin like a volcano ready to erupt. Her wolf stirs—furious, primal, ancient. The ice within her begins to churn.

Magnus, standing in the center of it all like a crowned traitor, watches her with calm disinterest. He tilts his head slightly and then draws the sword from his side. The firelight glints off its silver-black blade.

He steps forward—slowly, deliberately—and points the blade at her parents.

Alina’s pulse stutters.

That sword… it’s not ordinary steel.

It’s Rezionite.

The one substance capable of killing a Lycan.

“No…” she breathes. Panic sets in like fire spreading through dry grass. Her eyes dart between the blade, her parents, and Magnus. “Magnus, please.”

Her voice breaks, choked and hollow. “Whatever this is… whatever you want—just stop it. Let them go.”

Magnus doesn’t hesitate. He simply smirks and walks closer. “Do you still not understand?” he says. “This has never been about what you want, Alina.”

The guards force her parents into position—kneeling, exposed in the center of the great hall. Her father meets her gaze again, strong despite the blood dripping from his chin.

“Stay strong, Alina,” he says, voice steady even now.

Her throat closes.

Tears pour down her cheeks as her heart splits open in her chest.

“Magnus!” she screams, her voice raw and scraping. “You don’t have to do this! Let them go!”

Magnus doesn’t even acknowledge her. He lifts the sword slowly. The motion is elegant. Almost ceremonial.

“No…” she whimpers. “No, no, please…”

He raises the blade higher.

Her mother turns her head one final time. Their eyes meet. There is no fear—only sorrow, and the deepest love Alina has ever seen.

“Mother!”

The scream rips from her soul as she thrashes, her body howling in agony. The vines tighten. Thorns bite deeper. Her healing slows. Her vision shakes.

And then—

Steel sings.

Blood sprays.

Her mother falls.

A clean slice across the neck. Her body slumps to the ground, lifeless.

“NO!” Alina screams. It is not a word—it is a sound. A primal, devastating sound that tears the air in half. Her knees collapse, but the vines hold her upright like a marionette. The thorns drag her further into torment.

Her father screams, fury blazing in his eyes as he lunges at the guards. Magnus doesn’t pause.

The sword swings again.

The blade cuts deep—straight through flesh and into bone. Her father gasps. Blood pours from a massive gash across his abdomen.

He drops beside his wife.

And just like that—they’re both gone.

The world spins. Tilts. Warps.

Something inside Alina breaks.

And it doesn’t just break—it shatters.