"Some legacies are written in blood, others in silence."
The Lockwood estate sat atop a gentle slope, stood proudly on the edge of the crescent hills, overlooking Black Angel City, its polished steel and glass exterior glinting under the early morning sun. It was a mansion that bore the marks of time and prestige—clean, sophisticated, and designed to reflect both the family's noble heritage and their embrace of modernity. Unlike the Feylock mansion buried in shadows and secrecy, the Lockwoods' home welcomed the light, even if some rooms still whispered of age-old secrets.
Inside, the marble floors stretched across wide, open halls. Crisp white walls were lined with portraits of past Alphas, their eyes watchful and wise. The air was laced with a subtle mix of fresh pine and something older—like aged books, or worn leather. A scent that reminded everyone who stepped in that this house had stories, history, and bloodlines deeply rooted in power.
The tech was state-of-the-art. Holographic maps, biometric security systems, and AI-controlled surveillance humming quietly beneath the elegance. But tucked within all that modernity were reminders of the old world—ancient swords mounted above doorways, runic carvings etched into banisters, and a family crest that hadn't changed in over a century. The Lockwoods were not just royalty. They were legacy.
John stood on the balcony that led directly into Raven's room, the breeze brushing through his shirt as he looked out over the garden. His hand rested on the rail, clenched just slightly. It had been twenty-four hours since she was taken, and she still hadn't woken up.
If not for the bond between them—still flickering, still alive—he would have lost his mind.
His thoughts drifted back to that night. The moment the rogues attacked, he had been right beside her. He tried to protect her, but the ambush had been too sudden, too brutal. He'd been injured, badly. Bloodied. But then something impossible happened. Raven had seen him fall, and even in her weakened state, she had reached for him.
And somehow... she healed him.
They came from a bloodline of healers, sure, but for generations, no one had exhibited the gift. Everyone thought it had been lost. Skipped. But not her.
It came at a cost, though. Her powers had drained what little strength she had left. And now, she lay silent, tangled in her bedsheets, her dark hair cascading over the pillow like ink. Pale. Peaceful. But far from okay.
John stared at her sleeping face, jaw tight, eyes dim with guilt and frustration. He hadn't been strong enough to stop it. To stop them.
"John," a soft voice called behind him.
He turned. Sasha stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable as always. Her golden hair was tied back in a tight braid.
"The Queen would like to see you."
He gave one last glance at his sister, then nodded. "I'll be back."
As he stepped out, Sasha quietly closed the door and approached the bed. Her eyes softened at the sight of Raven, but her fingers moved quickly. From the folds of her cloak, she drew a small relic—an ancient stone carved with forgotten symbols—and whispered in a tongue lost to time. She slid it under the bed, directly beneath Raven's heart.
The relic pulsed faintly.
"There," she whispered. "Sleep safely now... Princess."
Satisfied, she took a seat at Raven's bedside, her eyes never leaving the sleeping girl.
An hour later, Raven stirred with a soft groan, flashes of the chaos before she passed out flickering through her mind like shards of broken glass. She remembered her brother—bloodied, falling—and her own scream echoing in the night. Her eyes snapped open, chest tightening with panic.
The warm, muted scent of lavender filled the room.
Sasha was slumped in a nearby chair, fast asleep, her chest rising and falling slowly. A soft light bathed the space from the tall windows, and the balcony door stood ajar, letting in the scent of morning dew.
Raven took a deep breath to steady herself and tossed a small pillow in Sasha's direction.
The older girl jolted awake with a yelp. "A sleepy princess, huh? Planning to nap all day?"
Raven cracked a dry smile. "Says the one drooling in her sleep."
Sasha chuckled, rubbing her eyes. "You've been out for more than 24 hours, if my math is still any good. Seriously, Raven, you scared the hell out of us."
Raven frowned. "Ugh... that's the third time in three days." She ran a hand through her tangled hair and sat up slowly. Her body still felt heavy. "Tell me—what happened while I was out? Is John okay?"
Sasha's expression softened. "He's fine. He's with your parents. They're all waiting to see you."
As they laughed and caught each other up, Raven rose to take a quick shower. Stripping off the robe, she paused in front of the mirror—and froze.
There, etched into the skin of her right shoulder blade, was a tattoo.
A silver-lined wolf howling at the moon.
It hadn't been there before.
Eyes narrowing, she brushed her fingers across it. It didn't hurt, but it radiated a strange warmth. With a shrug—confused but too hungry to deal with it now—she threw on a hoodie and jeans and stepped out.
Together, she and Sasha made their way to the kitchen. Raven's stomach growled loud enough to echo through the hallway.
As she began devouring her third helping of breakfast, a maid peeked in and immediately turned back around to alert the rest of the house.
Moments later, her mother's voice rang down the corridor—firm, concerned, and royal as ever.
"Raven Lockwood, what is going on with you?"
Her father looked furious, arms crossed as he glared down at her from the end of the dining table. The tension in the room was suffocating. They had been worried sick, searching the entire city for her, and now that she was finally back, she had the nerve to sit calmly at the table, stuffing her face like nothing had happened.
"Hey, Mom. Dad," Raven said with an awkward, nervous smile, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm really okay. You don't need to worry anymore—"
"Raven!" Racheal's voice cracked like thunder, filled with both fear and frustration. "What were you doing in that place?"
John leaned against the doorframe silently, arms folded, watching. He had no intention of stepping in to help her this time. She had to answer for herself.
Raven's smile faded, her lips pressing into a thin line. No amount of charm could save her now.
After a long, tense exchange filled with accusations and worried outbursts, it was decided: she was grounded—until further notice.
Later That Night
The moonlight trickled in through the curtains, casting pale lines across her bed. Raven tossed in her sleep, forehead creased in discomfort. Something was haunting her again.
She was running—through smoke, blood, and fire. Her hands were covered in crimson, and her breath came in frantic gasps. Figures surrounded her, enemies she couldn't name. Just when she thought she would fall, someone stepped beside her.
A presence. Strong. Fierce. Familiar.
He stood beside her, defending her from the darkness, but she couldn't see his face—only the silhouette of a man whose soul called to hers.
"Who are you?" she cried out in the dream.
He turned to her. His voice echoed with something ancient and binding.
"Find me."
Raven shot up in bed, heart pounding, breath ragged.
The dream lingered like smoke in the corners of her mind.
Next Time on Chapter 6: "Run From the Moon"
A prophecy. A choice. A rebellion.