A Scent of Fate

The scent still lingered.

Draven stood at the edge of the battlefield, staring at the bloodstained ground where the vampires had retreated. The scent of death was thick—burnt flesh, charred bodies, and the iron tang of spilled blood. Yet, beneath it all, one scent clung to his mind like a curse.

Hers.

His claws flexed at his sides as he exhaled sharply, trying to rid himself of the memory of her—golden eyes burning with fury, the taste of her power in the air, the way she moved like a shadow given form. He had fought many vampires before, but none like her.

And then there was the hesitation.

He had her. She was fast, but he was stronger. The fight should have ended the moment he had her pinned—but then, in that single heartbeat, his body had stilled. The scent of her blood, rich and alluring, had wrapped around him like a vice, igniting something primal.

A mate bond.

The thought made his stomach turn. No. Impossible.

Draven’s hands clenched into fists. His father had warned him of the dangers of vampires. He had seen what had happened to his brother, how an affair with a vampire had led to his downfall. A Lycan taking a vampire as a mate was unthinkable. And yet—

Heavy footsteps approached from behind.

Cyrus, his Beta and most trusted warrior, came to stand beside him. Taller than most, with sharp green eyes and dark brown hair, Cyrus was leaner than Draven but no less deadly. He had fought at Draven’s side in countless battles, his loyalty unquestioned.

“You’re quieter than usual.” Cyrus’s tone was casual, but his gaze was watchful.

Draven’s jaw tightened. “There’s nothing to say.”

Cyrus didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he glanced toward the horizon, where the retreating vampires had vanished into the night. “What now?”

Draven exhaled slowly. “We prepare.” His voice was low, dangerous. “The vampires will not let this go unanswered.”

And neither would he.

Even as he spoke, the scent of her still haunted him.

And that unsettled him more than anything else.

—

The taste of blood was still on her tongue.

Azrael rode hard through the night, the wind biting against her skin as her party of vampires sped across the open terrain, retreating from Lycan territory. The remnants of battle clung to her—her armor was splattered with dark stains, her blade still wet from the night’s slaughter. Yet, none of it compared to the turmoil raging within her.

Him.

The Lycan Alpha.

She clenched her jaw, fingers tightening around the reins of her steed. She had faced Lycans before—slain them without hesitation—but never had she fought one like him.

He was a beast of war, massive and unrelenting. Stronger than anything she had ever encountered. If she hadn’t been faster, more calculated, she would have fallen. But even as she replayed their fight in her mind, something else gnawed at her.

That moment.

For the briefest second, his movements had faltered. A flicker of hesitation. And she had taken the chance to break free. But why had he hesitated?

A chill ran down her spine, and she forced herself to push the thought aside. It didn’t matter.

The Lycans would pay.

She would return to court, report her findings, and demand that her father launch an attack. They had struck first—there was no denying it. Let the Lycans see what it meant to provoke the House of Night..

She had to be stronger. And next time, she would not let him walk away.

By the time they reached the capital, dawn was beginning to stain the horizon a deep, crimson red. Azrael rode through the towering gates of the castle and the moment they dismounted, a messenger was already waiting. “The King summons you, Princess.”

Azrael nodded and made her way to the throneroom.

The throne room was dimly lit, candles flickering against the cold stone walls. Valerion sat on his throne, regal and unshaken as always. Raphael stood beside him, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.

“You took your time,” Valerion said, his deep voice carrying through the chamber.

Azrael knelt, her expression unreadable. “I bring news.”

She recounted everything—the massacre at the ball, the survivor’s description of the beast, and the raid that followed.

Raphael chuckled when she finished. “You struck first, and yet you return

empty-handed. Hardly a victory.”

Azrael clenched her jaw, but Valerion ignored his son’s jabs.

Valerion steepled his fingers, his crimson gaze unreadable. “This Lycan you fought. Describe him.”

Azrael hesitated, recalling the sheer size of him, the raw power behind every strike. “Larger than any I’ve faced before. Stronger. I assume he's the Alpha. He fought with the skill of a warrior, not a beast.” She exhaled sharply. “And he hesitated.”

That caught Valerion’s attention.

Raphael scoffed. “Lycans don’t hesitate. They kill.”

Azrael’s grip tightened at her sides. “I know what I saw.”

A long silence followed.

Then, Valerion leaned back against his throne, his expression cold and calculating. “This is no ordinary attack. There is something at play here.” His voice dropped slightly. “And I will not act blindly.”

Azrael frowned. “We should retaliate. Show them we are not weak.”

Valerion’s gaze pinned her in place. “We will do nothing—yet.”

Azrael clenched her fists, but she didn’t argue.

“Continue gathering intelligence,” Valerion said. “Find out what truly happened at that ball. If the Lycans were responsible, we will ensure they regret it.” His tone turned sharp. “But I will not be provoked into war on mere assumptions.”

Azrael bowed her head. “Yes, Father.”

She turned to leave, frustration burning inside her. She knew the Lycans were responsible. She had seen what they were capable of. And now she had faced one in battle—one who had stopped for a reason she couldn’t comprehend.

Raphael’s voice followed her out of the throne room, low and taunting. “Careful, sister. I’d hate for you to get ahead of yourself.”

She ignored him, striding through the halls.

And yet, as she left the throne room, one thought lingered in her mind.

Why did he stop?