The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering gold across the velvet drapes and marble floor. Yet Lysandra felt no warmth.
Curled into a high-backed chair, her fingers hovered over her lower abdomen—trembling. The room was silent save for the fire's whisper, but inside her... a storm raged.
It had only been days since that night.
One night. One choice.
One spell meant to give her everything—and cost her nothing.
She had chosen a man in the shadows. A stranger. A face plucked from the sea of fate. She had cast the spell, performed the enchantment, and erased all memory of the moment from his mind. A clean transaction. A secret motherhood. Her terms.
No father. No bond. No consequences.
But something had gone wrong.
Or perhaps… something had gone right in a way that terrified her.
She closed her eyes and pressed her trembling hands to her belly again.
There it was. That pulse. That thrum.
Not just life. Power.
A heartbeat, faint yet wild. Ancient yet newborn. Magic buzzed beneath her skin like lightning waiting to strike, far stronger than any pregnancy spell should trigger.
Her eyes flew open, panic tightening her chest.
This wasn't normal.
She rose, staggered to the standing mirror, and met her own reflection.
Porcelain skin. Violet eyes. Ink-dark hair cascading down her back like a midnight waterfall.
And behind her beauty—an aura. Soft once. Now radiant. Uncontainable. Like moonlight bleeding through shadows.
"No… no, no…" she whispered, clutching the edge of the vanity. "This wasn't supposed to happen…"
But she knew the truth.
This wasn't a normal child.
This wasn't a normal pregnancy.
Her hands flew to her spell registry drawer. Frantically flipping pages, she found the one—Memory & Erasure. The spell she had cast that night to wipe his mind.
The runes… shimmered faintly.
Incomplete.
The magic hadn't held.
He might remember.
Worse… the connection between them hadn't severed.
Worse still.
Terror chilled her blood.
The child inside her pulsed again. A swirl of magic and ancestry responded to her fear—and revealed itself.
She froze.
Vampire.
Lycan.
Witch.
Her knees buckled. "No… that's impossible," she whispered.
Triple-bloodline? It defied every law of magic and lineage. Such power was forbidden. Such a child could change everything—or destroy it all.
She straightened, wiped her tears, and looked at herself one last time.
"I need to know who he is," she whispered.
But there was no name. No sigil. Only fragments—gray eyes, a voice like dusk, a presence too powerful to forget.
She clutched her belly, feeling the energy radiating from within.
This was no ordinary child.
And he was no ordinary man.
---
The House of Delacroix
Gold-trimmed roses lined the manicured path as the carriage rolled to a halt before the towering estate. The Delacroix mansion stood regal and cold under the twilight sky, its white marble shimmering like frost.
Inside, Lady Jane Delacroix wrung her pearl necklace with feverish hands.
"He's arrived," she whispered, turning to her daughter. "Celestine, straighten your gown. This is not a game. This is your future."
Celestine smiled at herself in the mirror, all silver silk and perfect posture. "He'll choose me," she said, her voice dripping confidence. "I was born for this."
Outside, the double doors opened.
He stepped in.
Caveen.
Son of Maika the Vampire and Carl the Lycan Alpha. Heir to the mighty empires of Vellaria and Landon. Noble-born. Elite-blooded. Prince.
His presence stole the air from the room.
Dressed in a tailored obsidian coat, silver embroidery glittering along the sleeves, Caveen moved like winter wind—calm, precise, merciless in elegance. Eyes like storm clouds scanned the gilded hall.
Celestine curtsied with a practiced smile. "My Lord Caveen."
He bowed. "Lady Celestine."
The evening began.
Music. Wine. Conversation. Celestine sparkled under the chandeliers. She spoke of alliances, of wealth, of the honor of her blood.
Caveen listened.
But he felt nothing.
No spark. No warmth. No pull.
As the night ended, he bowed and departed. No offer. No interest.
Just cold silence.
---
The Moonwells' Secret
The path to the Moonwells estate twisted through enchanted forest, veiled in mist and ancient spells. The estate rose from the clearing like a forgotten castle—carved of moonstone, bathed in starlight.
Inside the car, Caveen adjusted the bracelet on his wrist. A magical suppressant. A symbol of the fragile peace between the elite clans.
If he removed it, he could sense more—see more.
But this was a witch den. He couldn't risk it.
Not yet.
The doors opened.
Lady Elaris Moonwells stood on the marble steps, regal and unreadable. Her daughters and nieces lined the hall in elegant formation, all cloaked in shades of silver.
Among them, one figure stood slightly apart—hooded in satin, still as moonlight.
Lysandra.
She felt him before she saw him.
That aura—familiar, dangerous, magnetic. Her breath caught. Her knees weakened.
Then he entered.
Him.
The man from the bar. The one whose memory she tried to erase.
The father of her child.
Caveen of Vellaria and Landon.
Not a stranger.
A prince. A hybrid. A symbol of unity.
And she had used him. Lied to him.
Carried his child.
> What have I done?
Her magic flared within her, pulsing wildly as she fought to suppress it. The cloak hid her face, but not the storm building beneath her skin.
Lady Elaris's voice rang out. "This is Lysandra. My daughter."
Caveen turned.
Their eyes met.
And something inside him stilled.
Not recognition.
Resonance.
Like hearing a melody long forgotten. Like watching the stars align.
She was a stranger… and yet, his soul leaned toward her.
"Lady Lysandra," he said, bowing.
"My Lord Caveen," she replied, voice steady despite the chaos inside her.
They said no more.
But neither of them looked away.
As the music swelled and nobles danced, the fire between them kindled in silence. Their bloodlines, their destinies, their secrets—tangled before they even spoke again.
And within Lysandra's womb, the child stirred once more.
The heir of three legacies.
The one who would change everything.