Chapter 1 Not One Of Us

The sun hung high in a cloudless sky, bathing the valley in golden warmth as Anastasia and her friends gathered herbs for their families. Laughter drifted between the trees-until a sound shattered the peace. A sharp whooshing, too fast, too unnatural. The girls froze. Seraphina and Aurelia rushed to Anastasia's side, their faces drained of color, their hands trembling. They had never encountered vampires before, but they knew the stories. The whooshing sound was always the first sign.

Little Elysia, who had yet to reach her first transformation-werewolves only turned at eighteen-caught a glimpse of a vampire's face and let out a piercing scream. "Vampire!" Her cry rang through the air, sharp and urgent. Within moments, the older, stronger, and more battle-hardened werewolves abandoned their firewood and sprang into action, baring their fangs and claws as they rushed toward the intruder, ready to fight.

The battle raged on, the strongest of the werewolves fighting valiantly-though hindered by the daylight, unable to fully transform into their majestic wolf forms and unleash their true power. Meanwhile, Anastasia and her friends fled. They were young, barely past their transformations-most had turned only four years ago, some even more recently.

At twenty-three, Anastasia was the oldest among them. Like the others, she had gained her werewolf abilities at eighteen, yet unlike them, she had never been able to fully transform, not even under the light of a full moon.

Most of the valiant werewolves had fallen, their bodies littering the battlefield. The vampires, outnumbering them and unweakened by the absence of a full moon, had suffered only a few losses. Now, the merciless bloodsuckers turned their attention to the young werewolves, who scrambled to escape.

The surviving warrior werewolves roared in defiance, chasing after the enemy to protect their own. But just as the vampires closed in on the girls, something extraordinary happened.

Anastasia's eyes, which should have glowed the usual yellow of a werewolf tapping into its power, flared into a golden-orange blaze. A surge of raw energy coursed through her veins. Without thinking, she snatched up a jagged piece of wood from the ground.

Then she moved.

Not with the swiftness of an ordinary werewolf. Not even with the speed of a vampire.

She was faster.

Before anyone could react, she became a golden blur, cutting through the air with the force of a storm. In less than three seconds-an impossibility, even among supernatural beings-she struck.

One by one, the vampires fell, their screams cut short as her sharpened stake plunged into their hearts. Twenty-five enemies, slaughtered in the blink of an eye.

Then, silence.

The battlefield stood still.

The remaining werewolves-her pack, her people-stared at her in stunned disbelief. Even the wounded ones, gasping for breath, could do nothing but watch. No werewolf had ever moved like that. No werewolf had ever been like that.

What was she?

Unbeknownst to the werewolves, a ferocious vampire lurked in the shadows, concealed high among the trees. He had watched everything-the impossible speed, the massacre of his kind, the golden-orange glow in the girl's eyes.

Now, he saw his chance.

Anastasia's eyes flickered back to their normal shade. Her breathing grew unsteady as the weight of what she had done crashed over her. The 25 vampires she had slain-just seconds ago-were now crumbling to ash before her very eyes.

Her heart pounded.

I did this?

Overwhelmed, her vision blurred, and the world tilted. Darkness swallowed her senses.

Just as she was about to hit the ground, a blur shot from the trees.

The hidden vampire struck with lightning speed, faster than any werewolf could react. In the blink of an eye, he caught Anastasia's limp body in his arms.

Before the werewolves could even process what was happening-before a single cry of protest could leave their lips-he was gone.

Vanished.

Vamped away into the night, taking Anastasia with him.

The battlefield fell into stunned silence. Then, chaos erupted.

The werewolves howled in fury and despair.

Their beloved Anastasia had been taken.

Seraphina collapsed beside her father's lifeless body, her sobs wracking her entire frame. Bitter tears streamed down her face as she clutched his hand, wishing-praying-that he would wake up. But he wouldn't. He never would.

Around her, the air was thick with sorrow. The surviving werewolves wept for their fallen-mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and comrades. The battlefield, once filled with the echoes of battle, was now silent, save for the muffled cries of the grieving.

One by one, they gathered the bodies of their loved ones, lifting them with trembling hands, their hearts heavy with the weight of loss. The journey home was slow, burdened by grief. None of them had imagined that such a normal, joyful day would end in tragedy.

But beneath their sorrow, lurked something else.

A lingering shock.

Anastasia.

Her name was on every mind, unspoken yet deafening.

No one could forget what had happened-how, in the blink of an eye, she had annihilated 25 vampires. A feat beyond belief. A power no werewolf had ever possessed.

And now... she was gone.

Taken.

The pain of their losses was immeasurable, but the mystery of Anastasia's strength-and the fear of what it meant-haunted them just as much.

As the weary werewolves arrived home, the province of Varethia was plunged into mourning. The four Elders-the revered rulers of the land-summoned all the villagers to gather for the burial and funeral rites of their fallen heroes.

A young, strong werewolf was swiftly sent to deliver the sorrowful news to the Royal Family, carrying the weight of a battle lost and lives shattered.

As the villagers assembled beneath the moonlit sky, grief hung thick in the air. Families clung to one another, their faces streaked with sorrow and exhaustion. Flames from the torches flickered, casting long shadows over the sacred burial grounds.

Among the mourners stood Anastasia's parents, their hearts pounding with unease. Searching through the crowd, they found Elder Magnus, one of the few who had returned from the battlefield.

Desperation lined their faces as they approached him.

"Elder Magnus," Anastasia's father urged, his voice heavy with emotion. "Tell us..." What happened to our daughter?"

The elder's gaze softened, but the weariness in his eyes spoke volumes. He exhaled deeply before replying.

"My friends," he said solemnly, placing a reassuring hand on their shoulders, "now is the time for mourning. Let us bury our fallen heroes."

"But Anastasia-" her mother pressed, her voice breaking.

Magnus shook his head gently. "Tomorrow morning, the Council will convene. This time, we Elders will not sit alone. We will summon all the survivors of the battle... and both of you, for we will speak of Anastasia."

Anastasia's father swallowed hard. "So she's alive?"

A faint, tired smile touched the elder's lips. "Yes. That is all you need to know for now-your daughter is alive and well."

Relief and dread warred within them, but there was no time for more questions.

Magnus turned toward the grieving villagers and lifted his staff, signaling for the ceremony to begin.

"Come," he said. "Let us honor the dead."

Deep within a strange, mist-laden forest, a lone figure landed with supernatural grace. Gnarled trees loomed like silent watchers, their twisted branches reaching toward the starless sky. A small, weathered hut stood nearby, its wooden walls worn by time and secrecy.

With a sharp, merciless shove, the vampire dropped Anastasia onto the cold, damp earth.

She groaned, her mind swimming as consciousness stirred. Her head pounded, her body ached, and as her vision sharpened, she saw the dark silhouette looming over her.

Then, a glint of silver.

The vampire gripped an axe, its wicked blade catching the faint glow of the moon. With deadly intent, she raised it high, preparing to bring it down-straight for Anastasia's neck.

The air seemed to freeze.

Then-

A sudden blur.

A sickening tear.

The vampire let out a strangled gasp. Her body went rigid. The axe slipped from her fingers, landing uselessly in the dirt.

Then, as if an invisible force had crushed her from within, she collapsed into a heap of ashes.

Anastasia's breath caught in her throat. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Heart racing, she lifted her gaze-

And there he stood.

A young man, tall and imposing, with striking features carved from shadow and moonlight. His deep crimson eyes burned in the darkness, glowing with an eerie, inhuman light.

He had killed the vampire in an instant. Saved her.

But he himself was one of them.

Terror and gratitude warred within her as she scrambled back, pressing her hands into the damp soil.

"W-Who are you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The mysterious vampire gazed down at her, expression unreadable. For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, in a voice as smooth as silk, he spoke:

"You should not be afraid, Anastasia. You and I are not so different."