The halls of the Grand Council Chamber were dimly lit, the ancient torches lining the granite walls flickering with flames that danced like whispering spirits. Elara walked beside Dominic, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his ceremonial robes as they made their way toward the inner sanctum. She could feel the weight of eyes upon her—those of the Elders, the Alphas, and the silent guardians sworn to uphold the laws of the supernatural realm.
It was the night of the Blood Pact.
Every few decades, when a new Alpha candidate was brought forward, a ritual would be performed in the presence of the Council to affirm loyalty and unearth hidden truths. Elara, as the prophesied Alpha-born, was not only participating in this rite but was the centerpiece of it. But something within her stirred uneasily.
"You'll be fine," Dominic whispered, sensing her tension. "Just remember—don't fight the blood. Let it show them what it needs to."
Elara nodded, although a chill had settled in her bones. Something was off. The energy in the room—it was heavier than usual, like an impending storm held back by mere threads.
They entered the inner circle, surrounded by runes carved into the floor, their grooves filled with powdered moonstone. In the center stood the Altar of Binding, a slab of obsidian veined with silver. Council Elder Magnus, ancient and cold-eyed, raised a hand.
"Let the Blood Pact commence."
Dominic stepped forward first. A ceremonial dagger was handed to him, and without hesitation, he slit the palm of his hand, letting thick red blood drip into the basin on the altar. His blood sizzled faintly, absorbed into the stone.
Then, all eyes turned to Elara.
She inhaled deeply, stepped forward, and took the dagger. The blade shimmered strangely in her grasp. As it kissed her skin, a bolt of searing energy surged through her. She gasped, but pressed on, allowing her blood to fall into the basin.
At first, nothing happened.
Then the chamber shook.
Sparks exploded from the runes, the torches flared blue, and a wind howled from nowhere. The blood in the basin began to bubble and emit a crimson mist that twisted into spectral shapes. The council members rose to their feet, murmuring in alarm.
"Elara—!" Dominic stepped toward her, but a barrier of energy flung him back.
Her eyes rolled white as the blood responded violently, sending tendrils of raw power lashing out at the runes. Symbols etched thousands of years ago began to glow as if reawakened. The spirits of ancient Alphas stirred.
From the swirling mist, a voice echoed—not hers, not Dominic's, but something ancient and female.
"She carries the curse... and the crown."
The energy pulsed once more before collapsing in a wave that knocked everyone off their feet.
Silence followed.
Elara collapsed, unconscious, her blood still glowing faintly on the stone.
When she awoke, Dominic was at her side, eyes wide with concern. Council members whispered from the shadows, shaken. Elder Magnus approached, his expression unreadable.
"This was no ordinary Blood Pact," he said. "Your blood carries more than heritage—it carries judgment."
Elara blinked. Her body felt scorched from the inside, her skin too tight for her bones. "What does that mean?"
"It means," said Magnus slowly, "that prophecy wasn't wrong. But it didn't tell the full story."
Dominic helped her to her feet, shielding her from the wary stares of the Council. "We need answers," he said firmly.
Magnus nodded. "And you'll get them—but only if you survive what's coming."
Behind them, the altar still pulsed softly—alive.