❝ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇᴡᴏʟꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀɪᴇꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀɴ ᴀʟᴘʜᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏᴍᴇɢᴀ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡᴀꜱɴ'ᴛ?❞
For generations, the Blood Moon Pack and Grave Shadow Pack have been at war, the werewolves from each side bearing high tensions and malicious in...
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THIRTEEN YEARS AGO
For the first time in their wretched, blood-soaked history, Eliza Jeralt had a meeting with them.
Nala and Lala. They were expecting her.
She wasn't nervous. Nope, no, not at all. Not in the slightest. Absolutely not. Biting on her lower lip, she ignored the sticky, damp sensation of her clammy palms, opting to tighten her grip on her wooden paddles and row forward.
Her little canoe ventured into the depths of the sea, amid churning currents, and straight to Lala's Land—a group of isles strictly entrenched as mermaid territory. A steady fog descended upon her. Chills scattered across her face from a swift and salty breeze, tickling at her nose.
She couldn't help but sneeze, stirring a startled yelp from her second-in-command Henry. She heard him flinch.
"Sorry," Eliza squeaked.
Half an hour ago, her people had warned her about this suicide plan, pleading her to cease even the mere notion of a bargain with them.
"They cannot be reasoned with!" Henry hissed, his fangs flashing at her momentarily. "Do you know how many times they've tried to eat us after all these decades?!"
"Tried," Eliza meekly pointed out, a finger raised in reluctant objection. "Failed. They've never succeeded."
Henry reeled back like he had just been slapped. "You're not funny, Eliza!"
"Er, I'm not joking–"
"Stop talking!"
Still, here they were.
Henry and the others knew Eliza better than to refuse her, for she could be stubborn whenever she wanted to be; the next best thing he could do was accompany her instead. Her resolve may be steel, but her heart was often in the right place. Any chance that Eliza had to give her vampires a better life, she would take... even if it meant forging an alliance with them. She had sworn upon Ingrid Herself, before Her untimely demise, to look after their kind.
At all costs.
Which wasn't hard since there were only, like, twenty of them. Twenty against too many werewolves to count since Ingrid's absence from this world—outnumbering both the vampires and mermaids combined. Two centuries had flown by in a bleak blur. Meanwhile, Luna's canine subjects grew by the hundreds, scattered across the New World in their own distinctive packs, all of whom Eliza can barely keep track of anymore.
Blood Moon this, Grave Shadow that—none of that mattered. A mutt was a mutt, regardless of the type. Sometimes she didn't know what was worse: the power-hungry alphas amid the thousands of feral lycanthropes who owned these lands or the sadistic horde of scaly monsters that lurked beneath these dark, dingy waters.
