The Beast and The Blade

The battlefield was chaos—blood and shadows dancing beneath the pale light of the moon. Screams of the dying mingled with the snarls of Lycans and the hissing fury of vampires locked in battle.

And Azrael was at the heart of it all

She was a blur of darkness, her twin blades glinting in the firelight as she cut through her enemies. A Lycan lunged at her, his claws extended—but she sidestepped, slashing deep into his ribs. He howled in pain, but she was already moving, spinning, delivering a second strike to his throat. Blood sprayed across her armor as he collapsed.

Another came at her, larger, more experienced. This one carried an axe, something crude but effective in Lycan hands. He swung in a wild arc, the weapon slicing through the air with enough force to shatter bone.

Azrael ducked, letting the blade pass inches from her head. She retaliated with a precise stab to the back of his knee, bringing him to the ground. Then, without hesitation, she drove her second blade through his skull.

Draven strode into the battlefield like a force of nature, his presence alone shifting the tide of war. His warriors, who had been faltering, rallied instantly.

A growl rumbled deep in his chest, a sound of pure, unrelenting fury.

Then, without hesitation, he shifted.

His body expanded, bones stretching, muscles bulging, fur sprouting as his transformation ripped through him like a storm. Within seconds, he was no longer a man—he was something far more terrifying.

A true Lycan.

He towered over them all, his frame was massive, his fur the color of tarnished gold. His claws—long as daggers. His fangs—gleaming in the firelight.

And then—he moved.

He didn’t run. He didn’t charge. He tore through the battlefield like a hurricane of death.

A vampire rushed him—Draven ripped out his throat.

Another came from behind—Draven whirled, his claws raking through his chest, tearing ribs apart like paper.

A third tried to retreat—Draven caught him by the leg and slammed him into the ground with bone-crushing force.

It was devastation.

And then, his gaze locked onto her.

Azrael met his eyes. And in that instant, she knew—he was here for her.

Their warriors blurred into the background. The battle was still raging, but in that moment, it no longer mattered.

This was their fight now.

Azrael tightened her grip on her blades.

Draven bared his fangs.

And then—they collided.

The impact sent a shockwave through the battlefield.

Azrael dodged his first strike, barely. His claws sliced through the air, missing her by a hair. She countered with a precise, lightning-fast strike to his ribs. Her blade bit deep.

He didn’t even flinch.

His massive arm swung, catching her mid-motion. Azrael flew backward, slamming into the wreckage of a collapsed house. The wooden beams shattered around her.

Pain flared through her body, but she pushed herself up just in time to see him charging again.

She leapt aside. His claws ripped through the house, tearing the structure apart as though it were made of parchment.

Azrael landed on a rooftop, panting. He was strong. Too strong.

But she was faster.

She jumped down, feinting left before striking right, her sword cutting across his shoulder. He grunted but retaliated instantly—his arm slammed into her, sending her crashing through a market stall.

She coughed, wiping blood from her lips. She barely had a moment to react before Draven launched himself at her again.

His speed was terrifying—far too fast for something his size. She darted back just as his claws raked through the air where she had stood. She countered with a swipe of her blade, aiming for his exposed ribs, but he twisted, catching her wrist in an iron grip.

She struck him with her free hand, a dagger slicing across his chest. Blood splattered, dark against his fur. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he bared his fangs in something almost like a grin.

Then, he threw her.

Azrael crashed through a tree, splinters embedding into her skin as she tumbled. She barely managed to roll to her feet before he was on her again, relentless, merciless. Each strike from his massive claws sent shockwaves up her arms as she parried, the sheer force behind his attacks unlike anything she had ever faced.

Her speed was her greatest advantage. She twisted and wove between his strikes, slashing at his legs, his arms, drawing blood—but he kept coming, unfazed, unstoppable.

Draven roared, lunging at her with terrifying speed. She ducked under his swing, sliding behind him, and sliced her blade upward—aiming for his spine.

But he moved.

Faster than she expected.

His clawed hand shot out, gripping her throat, lifting her off the ground with ease. Azrael gasped, her fingers clawing at his unyielding grip. He slammed her into the earth, the impact rattling her bones.

She struggled, her golden eyes burning with fury, but his strength was absolute. He loomed over her, his fangs bared, his massive frame blocking out the moonlight.

And then—he froze.

His grip slackened. His breathing hitched.

His golden-brown eyes locked onto her, pupils constricting as something unseen gripped him from within. A scent—hers. It crashed into him like a tidal wave, something deep and primal within him snapping into place.

Azrael saw the hesitation—the flicker of something she couldn’t quite place.

And she seized the moment.

With all her strength, she wrenched herself free, kicking him back. Draven stumbled, just for a heartbeat, just long enough for Azrael to retreat, her mind racing.

The battlefield around them blurred into meaningless noise.

She didn’t understand what had just happened.

But neither did he.

Draven stared at her, his chest heaving, his claws still dripping with blood.

For the first time, the ruthless Alpha hesitated.

And Azrael—who had never known fear—felt an unfamiliar chill creep down her spine.