The chains rattled.
That sound had become Kenneth Prince's reality.
Cold, rusted iron shackles dug into his wrists and ankles, embedded so deep they had torn through skin and fused with dried blood. He couldn't remember how long he'd been in the darkness of this stone-walled prison. His memories came in broken fragments: of roars and flames, of a field soaked in crimson, of Zarek's voice calling out to him, then of blood—always blood—before the fog would swallow his mind again.
Now, it was always fog.
The cell was narrow, barely enough room to stretch his limbs. The only light came from the flickering torch outside the bars. He could hear them—the Vampire Knights. Every night they came. Mocking. Beating. Testing the creature they thought him to be.
But then she would come.
He didn't know her name. Every time, he whispered, "Mother..."
Seraphine Morrigale, concealed beneath her crimson cloak, said nothing when he called her that. Her golden eyes dimmed with quiet pain, but she never corrected him. Instead, she would kneel beside him, wipe the blood from his mouth with a cloth, and press a small piece of bread or fruit into his palm. She never spoke. Not once.
She couldn't. Not if she wanted to survive.
Seraphine was the daughter of a nobleman whom Kenneth had saved years ago. That memory, though buried under the rubble of his fading sanity, lived on in her heart. She had not forgotten the boy who risked everything to save a servant. She would not abandon him now.
But Kenneth was fading. His mind was breaking, his vision blurring more with each day. The potion the Elder had crafted was taking root deeper. Not one of control—but of suppression. Of consciousness. Of will. It dulled his mind, suppressed reason, and let the primal chaos of his werewolf blood surge forward.
Each day, the potion made it harder to remember his name.
Each night, the pain made it harder to remember why he should keep fighting.
The Vampire King and his court had failed to break his will with the first elixir. But they had pivoted. If they could not tame the hybrid, they would unleash it like a rabid dog upon their enemies.
In the chamber of war, the King sat flanked by the Elders and his twelve sons, generals of his vast legions.
"Six months," one of the sons growled. "We need six months to prepare the siege of the Western District."
The Werewolf Kingdom was a sprawling empire, divided into four fortified districts. The Western District was the weakest—and closest to their borders. The Alpha resided in the heavily protected Central District. Conquering the Western flank would give them a foothold.
"We will take the hybrid with us," the King declared, eyes gleaming. "Unleash him first. Let him sow terror and destruction."
An Elder hesitated. "But Your Majesty, his...mind. His will—"
"Silence," the King snapped. "He does not need a mind. He needs only teeth."
Back in the dungeon, Kenneth stirred. His head throbbed, pulsing with fever. The stone beneath him was slick with his blood. A cough racked through him, but his throat was too dry to speak.
A key turned in the lock.
The door groaned open.
The Vampire Knights were early.
Twenty of them entered. Then thirty. Then more. Until fifty surrounded him in a half-circle, sneering.
"Still not dead?" one of them spat.
"Should've killed you when you turned into that filthy mutt."
Boots slammed into his ribs. Blows landed on his face. A chain was wrapped around his neck and yanked.
Kenneth didn't scream.
He couldn't.
But then—
The scent hit him. Blood. Fresh. Arrogant.
The fog cracked.
His breathing deepened. His body trembled. Red surged into his irises. Then gold. Then both—swirling, searing, consuming.
A growl erupted from his chest.
The Knights stepped back.
He moved faster than their eyes could register. Chains snapped like brittle twigs. One knight's head was crushed against the wall. Another had his throat torn open by fangs. Claws ripped through armor and flesh. Screams echoed through the dungeon.
Kenneth was no longer a prisoner.
He was a monster.
A beautiful, horrifying hybrid, standing tall with blood-soaked chains hanging from his limbs. His hair whipped behind him, matted with sweat and blood, his golden-red eyes glowing in the darkness.
More Knights stormed into the corridor.
He tore through them.
One tried to restrain him with enchanted bindings. Kenneth bit his arm off. Another fired a crimson spell; Kenneth absorbed it through his blood and sent it hurtling back with triple the force.
Bodies stacked. Walls cracked. The entire dungeon trembled.
Two hundred dead.
He feasted.
Blood flowed like rivers. Sanity faded. The potion hadn't subdued him—it had unchained something far worse.
Alarms screamed throughout the castle.
The King, alert, summoned his six eldest sons. They descended upon the ruined dungeons, blades drawn, eyes blazing.
They engaged.
Kenneth fought like a god of carnage. He bled—but he laughed. A twisted, primal laugh. Each punch shattered bone. Each scream made him stronger. The sons fought in perfect sync, but Kenneth had no pattern. He was pure instinct. Pure destruction.
He knocked one through a wall. Broke another's leg. Nearly snapped the neck of the youngest.
They were losing.
Until the Elder appeared.
He tossed the potion into Kenneth's mouth. Kenneth roared—but his reflexes betrayed him. He swallowed.
The world blurred. His limbs trembled.
And then—
He collapsed.
The sons, breathing heavily, chained him again—this time with blacksteel, infused with soul-suppressing runes. They kicked him while he was down, their pride wounded.... again.
The King arrived soon after.
He looked upon the destruction. At the corpses. At the blood.
He smiled.
"Magnificent."
He turned to the Elder, who cowered.
"You've done well," the King said, voice rich with greed. "We will crush the wolves. And then the witches. This time... the world will belong to vampires."
Far away, beneath the stars outside Velmora, Zarek stood atop a cliff, the wind ruffling his hair.
"Two more days," Malrik said beside him.
"Two more days," Zarek echoed.
Kael adjusted his goggles, checking his scanner. Cassian flipped a dagger in his hand. Jaxon stretched his shoulder, sword slung across his back.
They were stronger now. Sharper. Hardened by training and beast hunts. Supplies were steady—Kael's parents, architects of Velmora's technology, saw to that.
"He's waiting," Zarek said. "Even if he doesn't know it. Kenneth's waiting."
"We'll bring him back," Cassian said.
No one spoke after that.
The wind howled.
The stars burned bright.
And the march toward war continued