The abandoned textile mill near Red Hook was silent except for the soft whispers of the East River wind slipping through broken windows. Valya Sergeyevna Draganova sat cross-legged on a rusted metal catwalk, the moonlight highlighting her silver-white hair with icy tones. The black streaks at her temples framed her face, while her golden eyes reflected the faint city lights beyond the waterfront.

  She dabbed at the wound on her ribs with her finger — a shallow but irritating reminder of her fight with Maxx. A reminder she secretly enjoyed. “Still fast,” she murmured to herself, amused. “Still stubborn.”

  But it was the girl — the cub — who stayed in her thoughts like a splinter. Young, wild, wounded, and untrained, she carried the scent of moonlight and old blood, along with the pendant.

  Valya leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She expected the target to be an average rogue wolf—sloppy and impulsive. But the girl was different—partly feral and barely holding herself together. And more dangerous than she had thought.

  Valya ran her fingers along a fang on her necklace, each piece holding a story from a different life. As she moved her hand, the necklace made a soft rattling sound.

  Aya displayed both bravery and vulnerability, a dangerous combination. If Valya had wanted, she could have torn her throat out after slamming her into the wall. But Maxx was there, and she had different plans for him.

  She leaned back, letting her spine stretch out gracefully like a cat. Stefan wanted the killer dead, but she feared and desired someone else, not Stefan.

  Her lips curled as she remembered Maxx’s face. The anger in his eyes, the strength in his limbs, and the familiar rhythm of his combat moves. They had fought side by side, hunted together, shared intimacy... and had threatened each other with death more times than she could count.

  Old lovers. Old rivals. Old scars.

  “Killing your cub would hurt you more,” she whispered into the cold air. “But perhaps I wait. Perhaps I watch.”

  The idea pleased her. Let the girl live a little longer and reveal secrets gradually. Watch Maxx become more desperate, then Valya would strike again — at the moment that would cause the deepest cut.

  She stood, raising her arms high over her head, as the old metal creaked under her weight.

  “Maxximillian…” she purred. “We are not finished.”

  Her silhouette vanished as she stepped off the catwalk, landing among the shadows. She had a new target to plan for and a war to ignite.

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  Deep beneath the foundations of New York, in the hidden underground chambers where no mortal has ever heard a whisper, the Nightborn Council gathered once again.

  A blue-white flame flickered along the sigils carved into the stone walls, pulsing like a heartbeat. Archways trembled under the weight of ancient magic, and the air itself tasted like cold metal and dust.

  Magister Kharon Vescari stood in the center of the circle, hands clasped behind his back.

  “The watchers report new movement,” he said, his voice echoing through the darkness. “A disturbance near the Pier District.”

  A younger vampire moved forward, eyes wide with concern. “Magister, the scent we traced last night — it has changed.”

  “Explain,” Kharon snapped.

  “The killer is no longer alone.”

  A silence descended on the room.

  Kharon’s eyes narrowed. “Who found them?”

  The scout hesitated. “We can’t say. But there was a fight. Fresh blood. Lupine. Three signatures.”

  Another elder leaned forward from her throne. “Three? The killer and two others?”

  “Correct,” the scout said. “The traces suggest a werewolf of great age and strength. The other — a woman. Cold. Precise.”

  Kharon’s face hardened. “Describe the female’s scent.”

  The scout trembled, a subtle but meaningful reaction. “It bore death, battle, silver, and something else—something ancient.”

  Kharon exhaled slowly. “Draganova.”

  The chamber hummed with tension. Valeska Sergeyevna Draganova was a name whispered in quiet tones. A remnant of past conflicts. A mercenary wielding a blade, loyal only to herself.

  “And the other signature?” Kharon asked. “The powerful one?”

  The scout swallowed. “Maxximillian DeSilva, Magister.”

  A quiet hush turned into a faint, fearful whisper that spread like poison.

  Kharon picked up his staff from beside his chair and tapped it on the floor. The room went silent. “So,” he said, voice thick with worry, “the wolves have the killer. And DeSilva is involved.”

  One of the elders hissed, “DeSilva is an outcast among his own. If he is involved, do you truly believe he will follow accords, treaties, or pacts? If he’s hiding the culprit, why would he willingly share any information?”

  “Does his status even matter?” someone snapped. “If his actions violate our rules, he can still be held responsible for any damage caused.”

  “They haven’t broken anything yet,” Kharon said sharply. “It would be foolish to think that Maxx DeSilva would involve himself in something as petty as a rogue wolf or careless killings. Until we have more information, we can’t be sure what this all means.”

  “But Magister,” the youngest elder said cautiously, "if the wolves have found the killer—”

  —then they must reveal their knowledge and help in safeguarding our secrets,” Kharon concluded. “This council’s main goal should be to seek answers and keep balance, not to find reasons to start conflict.”

  Kharon sat, leaning forward in his chair, his pale face sharp as a knife edge in the torchlight. “I have known Maxx DeSilva for a millennium. Regardless of his standing among the wolves, he is a man of honor. Send word to the High Circle,” he commanded. “Inform them of our findings and that this council will sanction no further actions until we investigate further.”

  The elders bowed their heads.

  “And summon the Nightborn Guard. Quietly. Discreetly.” His voice hardened.

  “While Maxx may be shunned by his own, Sofia DeReyes is not. She can be just as dangerous if provoked. She and her husband would make a formidable pair of opponents should they stand against us. We will not permit rumors or conjecture to bring about chaos and death, nor will we leave ourselves vulnerable to attack.”

  The flames in the sigils faded, as if the chamber itself was holding its breath.

  Outside, the icy underground wind carried only one whisper: War is awakening.