This was trauma, her trauma.

I tore through my room, knocking over furniture, clawing at anything that could ground me. My breathing was uneven, my mind spiraling. I wanted to find peace in the chaos, solace in this pain, but nothing could shake what I had just seen. I wanted him dead, wanted him to run the way she did, feel the pain she felt, bear the wounds she suffered. Where even is it? Is it my mother behind the fog? It can't be. I felt my mate.

The memories clawed their way back, relentless and unforgiving.

My steps dragged me into the living room, though I barely noticed. My eyes locked onto the dining table at the far end, where a single frame rested.

I wasn’t crying, yet my vision blurred. A strange pressure built behind my eyes, something deep. My fingers closed around the portrait, lifting it carefully.

It was her.

My mother.

I sucked in a breath, but the air felt thick, unsteady. A strange sensation rippled through me, like the world had shifted without warning. My balance wavered. I glanced down.

The floor wasn’t leveled.

Beneath my foot, something jutted slightly from the ground. The edges were sharp, precise. Lines cut into the wood formed a perfect outline.

A hidden door.

I stepped back, my pulse hammering. What could this be? The walls, the air, even the silence of the room, it all felt different now. Like I had touched something I wasn’t supposed to find.

Something buried. Something waiting.

I moved towards the kitchen quickly. Reaching into the drawer, I grabbed a knife, feeling the cold steel press against my palm. Without hesitation, I walked back toward the dining area, my breath steady, my mind strangely clear.

I knelt down and plunged the knife deep into the edges of the wooden surface, wedging it into the thin crevice that had been hidden for so long. With a firm push, the plank came loose far too easily, as if it had been waiting to be removed.

The opening revealed a dimly lit hallway stretching beyond my line of sight. A deep crease formed on my forehead as I stared into the void, the silence pressing against my eardrums.

And yet, I felt… good. Strangely but confused as well. This was my one of my father's many properties, one he housed with harlots in the absence of my mother.

A lightness settled in my chest that instant. Stepping into the darkness felt natural, familiar, like returning to something I had long been separated from.

I picked up a torch and took my first step down. The moment my foot touched the cold floor, I flicked the light on, exhaling as I tucked my left hand behind my back. The space swallowed the beam almost instantly, but what little it illuminated sent a shiver down my spine.

The walls stretched upward, curved like the ribs of a great beast, their glassy surfaces capturing faint reflections that flickered and twisted as I moved. Though my feet barely made a sound, the sizzling still lingered in the air, as if the ground itself was alive and shifting beneath me.

I had lived in this house for over a hundred years. How had I never known this was here?

A strange sensation crawled over my skin, like the whisper of an unseen force. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t dread. It was a pull, a beckoning, something intangible yet undeniable.

I took another step. The feeling grew stronger.

Then my eyes snapped toward something up ahead. A faint glow, pulsing like a heartbeat. I moved toward it, but before I could reach it, the torch in my hand flickered violently.

The light sputtered once. Then again.

I scowled and shook it, but it was no use. The beam blinked out entirely, leaving me in the suffocating dark. Frustration flared in my chest as I let the useless tool fall from my fingers, the metal clattering against the stone.

And then, a sound.

A sharp, sizzling noise filled the space, cutting through the silence that had nearly driven me mad.

I didn't think I was alone down here.

The chamber stretched around me, silent with its core unyielding, its air thick with something ancient, something watching. My steps were slow, hesitant, my bare feet pressing against the cold stone as I moved forward. For what felt like an eternity, I had wandered through the darkness carefully. My wolf instincts were suddenly dampened, all my senses reduced to a sense of fear, following a pull I could neither name nor resist. And now, I stood before it.

An altar.

At its center lay a book, bound in aged leather, its spine fastened shut with a thick belt. It looked wrong in the dim light that broke from above. There were cracks in the wood that the sunlight penetrated through. Its presence was intrusive, like something that had been placed here not to be found but to be kept away. The cover exuded a faint, dying glow, an eerie orange mist curling from its surface before vanishing into the still air.

I could only stare.

For a moment, I questioned everything. The creatures of folklore, the whispers of the old world, the bedtime stories meant to terrify children into obedience. They weren’t real. They couldn’t be. And yet, standing here, watching this thing breathe, I felt the walls of my reality begin to fracture. It felt like witchcraft was real and present here.

I stepped closer.

The aura flickered. The leather strained against the belt as though something within it stirred. My throat tightened, but my eyes stayed locked on the surface, drawn to the words etched into the worn cover.

Three names, carved with an unnatural precision, bold and unwavering, as though they had always existed.

Binds, Doubled-Soul, and The Cursed Alpha.

A chill crawled through my skin, cold and unshakable.

I wasn’t meant to be here.

And yet, the book had been waiting.

I couldn't ensure my safety but was called to whatever this seemed to be.

I ran my hand over the book, feeling the worn leather beneath my fingers. It was thick, solid, the kind of craftsmanship that lasted centuries. The belt around it was tight, the buckle aged but sturdy, like it had been locked for a reason. Whatever this was, it wasn’t meant to be found easily.

I stepped in closer, lowering myself to the altar’s level. Dust clung to the surface, undisturbed by time, untouched by hands—until now. I blew across the cover, watching the dust lift and swirl into the air before settling back into silence.

I didn’t hesitate.

With a firm grip, I unfastened the belt, the buckle giving way with a sharp click. The book opened beneath my hands, pages thick and rough, browned with age. This wasn’t just old. It was ancient. And yet, something about it felt… alive.

Then I saw it.

A message. No introduction. No preface. Just a direct order on the first page of it.

I exhaled sharply, reading fading words from the chapped sheet, my voice low but steady.

"To the Hrothgars, halt the coming of Morvena Xanthe-Brynhild, she who mauls the Prime Alpha, he to come with a lost mate, soul in binds."

Beneath it, a number.

476.