Chapter 2: Betrayal
1550words
"We're almost there," Luke said, his hand warm against the small of her back. "The sacred grove lies just beyond these trees."
Ella nodded, fighting the nervous flutter in her stomach. During their journey, Luke had spoken of ancient rituals and forgotten magic that might explain her condition. His kindness had been unwavering, his touch always respectful yet somehow thrilling. For the first time in her life, she felt valued, even special.
"You seem tense," Luke observed, amber eyes reflecting the moonlight. "Are you afraid?"
"Not afraid," Ella admitted. "Just... uncertain. My entire life, I've been told I was broken. It's hard to believe there might be another explanation."
Luke stopped, turning to face her fully. His expression softened as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. "You were never broken, Ella. You were simply waiting to be understood."
The sincerity in his voice made her heart ache. How different her life might have been if someone had said those words to her years ago.
They emerged into a clearing bathed in silvery moonlight. At its center stood a circular stone altar, ancient symbols carved into its surface. Torches surrounded the perimeter, their flames unnaturally still in the night air. Several werewolves in ceremonial attire stood waiting, their expressions solemn.
"What is this place?" Ella asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"The Heart of the Moon," Luke replied. "A sacred place where our pack has performed rituals for centuries. Tonight, it will help unlock your true potential."
As they approached the altar, the assembled werewolves bowed to Luke. He acknowledged them with a nod, his demeanor shifting subtly from the warm companion of their journey to something more regal, more distant.
"Everything is prepared, my prince," said an elderly werewolf, his gray beard reaching his chest.
"Excellent," Luke replied. "And the princess?"
Princess? Ella frowned. Luke hadn't mentioned any princess.
Before she could ask, movement at the edge of the clearing caught her attention. A slender female werewolf emerged from the trees, her beauty striking even in the dim light. She wore an elaborate dress of silver and white, her dark hair adorned with moonstone jewelry.
"Luke," the newcomer called, her voice melodious yet somehow cold. "You've returned successfully."
Luke's entire demeanor changed at the sight of the woman. His face lit up with an emotion Ella had never seen before—pure, unguarded adoration.
"Lydia," he breathed, moving toward her with barely contained eagerness.
Confusion washed over Ella as she watched Luke take the woman's hands, bringing them reverently to his lips. The intimacy of the gesture was unmistakable.
"Ella," Luke said, turning back to her with Lydia's hand firmly clasped in his. "Allow me to introduce Princess Lydia of the Eastern Pack, my betrothed."
Betrothed. The word struck Ella like a physical blow. In their three days together, Luke had never once mentioned a fiancée.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Ella managed, her voice surprisingly steady despite the sudden hollowness in her chest.
Lydia's eyes swept over Ella with clinical detachment. "So this is the vampire with the special blood." Not a question, but an assessment.
"Yes," Luke confirmed. "Just as the ancient texts described."
The atmosphere shifted, tension crackling in the air like lightning before a storm. Ella took an instinctive step backward. "What texts? Luke, what's happening?"
Luke's expression changed again, the warmth she'd grown accustomed to draining away, replaced by something colder, more calculating. "The Prophecy of Blood and Moon," he said. "Written centuries ago, it speaks of a vampire born with royal blood so pure they cannot feed normally—their body rejecting common blood as unworthy."
"Royal blood?" Ella echoed, confusion mounting.
"Indeed," Lydia interjected, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Blood with extraordinary power. Power that, when properly harvested, can be transferred."
Understanding dawned slowly, horror creeping through Ella's veins like ice. "Harvested?"
Luke nodded, all pretense of affection gone. "Your blood contains ancient power, Ella. Power that rightfully belongs to Lydia as the future queen of our united packs."
Betrayal crashed over Ella in waves. Every gentle touch, every kind word, every moment she had treasured during their journey—all lies, carefully crafted to lead her willingly to this moment.
"You never cared about helping me," she whispered, the truth cutting deeper than any blade. "This was always about my blood."
"I did what was necessary for my people," Luke replied, not bothering to deny it. "Lydia needs your blood to complete her transformation into the most powerful alpha female our kind has ever known."
At his signal, werewolves moved from the shadows, surrounding Ella. She tried to run, but her vampire speed was no match for a dozen werewolves on their sacred ground. They seized her arms, dragging her toward the stone altar.
"Please," she begged, struggling against their grip. "Luke, don't do this!"
But the man who had shown her kindness was gone, replaced by a prince focused solely on his ambition. He watched impassively as the werewolves bound Ella to the altar with silver chains that burned her skin.
"The full moon reaches its apex," the elderly werewolf announced. "We must begin."
Lydia approached, now holding an ornate silver dagger. The blade gleamed in the moonlight as she positioned herself beside the altar.
"Your sacrifice will not be forgotten," she told Ella, her voice devoid of compassion. "Your blood will fuel a new era for werewolves."
Ella pulled desperately against her restraints, the silver burning deeper into her flesh. "Luke," she called out one last time, searching for any remnant of the man who had made her feel worthy. "Was any of it real? Did you feel anything at all?"
For a moment—just a moment—something flickered in Luke's eyes. Regret? Pity? But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"The ritual begins," he announced, turning away from her pleading gaze.
The elderly werewolf began chanting in an ancient language, his voice rising with the wind that suddenly whipped through the clearing. Lydia raised the dagger high, its blade catching the full moon's light.
"With this blood, I claim my destiny," she declared.
The dagger plunged down, slicing deep into Ella's arm. Pain exploded through her body as her blood—brighter and more vibrant than normal vampire blood—welled from the wound. Lydia positioned an ancient chalice to catch the crimson flow, her eyes gleaming with triumph.
As her blood filled the vessel, Ella felt her strength ebbing. The world began to blur around the edges, darkness creeping into her vision. Through the haze of pain, she watched Lydia drink deeply from the chalice, Luke standing proudly at her side.
"More," Lydia demanded after draining the cup, her eyes now glowing with an unnatural light. "I can feel the power, but I need more."
The dagger fell again, opening new wounds. Ella's screams echoed through the forest as her blood—her life—drained away. With each drop, memories flashed before her eyes: the clan that had rejected her, the loneliness that had defined her existence, the brief hope Luke had kindled only to cruelly extinguish.
"Something's wrong," the elderly werewolf suddenly announced, his voice sharp with alarm. "The princess—"
Ella forced her eyes open to see Lydia doubled over, the empty chalice fallen at her feet. Strange red veins spread across her face, her body convulsing as she clutched at her throat.
"What's happening?" Luke demanded, catching Lydia as she collapsed.
"The blood," the elder gasped. "It's rejecting her."
Chaos erupted around the altar as werewolves rushed to their princess's aid. In the confusion, Ella lay forgotten, her life seeping away into the cold stone.
"Take her away," Luke ordered, cradling the writhing Lydia in his arms. "Dispose of her in the eastern ravine. No one must know what happened here."
Two werewolves roughly unshackled Ella from the altar. Too weak to resist, she felt herself being carried through the forest, away from the sacred grove. The moon watched impassively as they tossed her broken body into a ravine, leaving her to die alone among the rocks and shadows.
Pain consumed her world, each heartbeat weaker than the last. As consciousness began to slip away, something stirred deep within her—a warmth spreading from her core, reaching toward her fingertips. Her blood, what little remained in her veins, began to glow with an ethereal light.
In the space between life and death, ancestral memories awakened—voices speaking in languages long forgotten, faces of regal vampires who had ruled with power and wisdom. The truth of her heritage unfurled within her dying mind: not defective, but royal. Not broken, but precious beyond measure.
As the full moon reached its zenith, Ella's dormant bloodline power stirred from its ancient slumber. Her wounds began to close, her body fighting against the inevitable with strength she had never known she possessed.
The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was her own blood rising from her wounds, forming intricate patterns in the air above her—a crown of crimson light hovering in the darkness, waiting for its rightful bearer to awaken.
