Duskmoon Hollow
The market was alive in Duskmoon Hollow.
Traders shouted prices from wooden stalls stacked with fruits, spices, and fabrics.
Some of the witches openly sold their charms and artifacts, the locals already accustomed to their presence.
Children on the other hand laughed as they chased one another through the narrow lanes. Their mothers stayed close by, some
haggling over baskets of grain, while the others gossiped excitedly with their neighbors.
Then, out of nowhere, a boy barely in his teens came sprinting down the street, his face pale and breath ragged. "The Supreme Alpha is back!" he screamed.
The effect was immediate.
Mothers snatched up their children, while traders slammed their stalls shut with trembling hands. Some scattered to homes nearby, shutters clattering as windows were covered. While the rest found hiding spots, waiting the moment out. No one wanted to be a scapegoat.
Within seconds, the once lively market turned ghostly silent. What had been a place of warmth and chatter was now abandoned, dust swirling in the sudden emptiness.
It wasn’t long before the distant growl of an engine broke the quiet. A black jeep rolled down the deserted street, its tires crushing some of the forgotten fruit underfoot.
Inside, seated comfortably in the back seat, was the former Alpha King—now known to the people of the village as the Supreme Alpha—Angus.
He gazed out the window at the empty streets, a slow, satisfied smirk on his lips. Even with the window closed, he could scent the fear in the air.
That was power. And power, to Angus, was everything.
They arrived at their destination, and the guards immediately swung open the iron gates to let them in. The vehicle rolled through the vast courtyard, its tires crunching over gravel as the guards trained eyes followed them.
Angus had built this place after his settlement in the village, adopting every custom of the were-kind but twisting it to his own taste. The mansion was like a packhouse, except in this case, werewolves, witches, and even humans served side by side. To be precise, they served him. The whole community was built on control and to ensure his world Domination plans succeeded.
To Angus, Duskmoon Hollow wasn’t just his pack, it was his first creation. It was the beginning of the empire that would only grow until the world was under his feet.
As soon as he stepped out, guards bowed low. There were wolves and witches in charge of the safety of the packhouse and none dared to look him directly in the eye. Angus only gave a single glance, satisfied by their order, before heading in.
Angus reached his private quarters, and the heavy doors shut behind him with a deep thud. Without a sound, he began to strip until he was down to only his boxers.
Across his back was a rune, an hourglass-shaped rune etched deep into his flesh. Two opposing triangles touched at their tips, flanked by small star-like crosses on either side. This was once a bond mark and sign of his connection to his mate, Queen Seraphira.
But the bond had long been broken, leaving the rune a ghostly black scar across his back.
But that was not the only strange mark carved into Angus’ body. His arms and chest bore layers of tattoos—spirals, jagged lines, and interlocking shapes. The deeper ones looked burnt into his skin, healed over but still angry red at the edges.
Yes, the marks all had a purpose and Angus had bound its powers to his body. He had endured them all, standing still while they were carved into his flesh. After all, pain was irrelevant when power was the reward.
That was why Angus was feared. He was the strongest werewolf out there, and was immune to magic. In the past, Witches had tried and failed to kill him, their magic melting off him like water off stone.
He was untouchable. And he made sure everyone knew it.
Angus stood in front of the mirror, studying his reflection. The bond mark on his back looked dull and useless without Seraphira here to complete it. Yet he still traced it with a finger, as if he could feel her through the scar.
Sometimes, like now, he did miss her.
The door creaked open, and Angus didn’t have to turn to know who it was. Her perfume already saturated the atmosphere.
"Father," Ziva breathed.
Her voice trembled with excitement as she hurried toward him, wrapping her arms around him from behind. There was pure adoration in her eyes, the kind of devotion that bordered on madness.
Ziva pressed her face against his back, as if seeking comfort from the heat radiating off his skin.
"I missed you," she whispered, her fingers tracing the tattoos carved into his flesh.
But Angus stood unmoved, eyes on his reflection in the mirror before him. "I trust everything remained in order during my absence?"
Ziva lifted her head, pride shining in her expression. "Of course, Father. You can always trust me to keep things under control. The witches obey, the guards remain loyal, and none dare question your rule."
"Good." Angus said, "We’ve come this far to let even the smallest of things stand in our way."
"I also trust your journey went well?"
"Of course. The candidates are nothing but putty in my hands. Humans are fragile creatures, add in greed and display of power, and they’ll fall to their knees. It won’t be long now and everything will go as planned."
Angus’s eyes gleamed with ruthless determination, as though he could already see the world bending to his will.
Then Ziva said suggestively, "I’m sure you’ve had a long journey, Father, and could use a bath to relax." Her fingers trailed down his bare chest, slowly and deliberate, before sliding lower to cup the firm outline beneath his boxers.
Angus grinned, his voice thick with amusement. "I can never say no to such help."
Without another word, he swept Ziva off her feet. She let out a playful squeal, laughing like a newlywed as he carried her straight into the bath chamber.