The carriage wheels groaned as they rolled over uneven ground, the forest blurring past on either side like a dark, endless wave. The air inside the cabin was stale—thick with silence, and something else… tension.
Ophelia sat alone, pressed into the corner of the plush seat, arms folded tightly across her chest. Every jolt of the carriage rattled through her bones. The farther they drove, the more the trees seemed to press in—ancient and whispering. A thick mist crept along the ground, weaving like silent ghosts between the trunks. Her breath fogged the tiny window as she leaned forward, peering out into the void.
Something was wrong.
The driver had sworn the route was safe. Lysander had ordered guards ahead of the carriage. Yet still... her instincts whispered unease.
She drew the curtain back slightly and squinted into the shadows.
Nothing. Just forest. No riders. No torchlight. Not even a bird in the branches.
Then—the horses neighed. Sharply. Panicked.
A violent jolt threw her forward in her seat as the carriage slammed to a halt. Her head struck the side wall and pain flared behind her eyes.
"Hello?" she called, trying to get the attention of the coachman, her voice shaking.
No answer.
She reached for the door latch. It stuck.
A loud crack split the air outside.
The horses screamed.
Another jolt rocked the cabin. Then—silence.
Ophelia's heart hammered. Slowly, she pressed her ear to the wooden wall of the carriage. Muffled sounds reached her. A groan. A wet, sickening squelch. Then—
A hiss.
Low.
Her blood turned to ice.
Shades.
They were here.
She clawed at the latch again, shoved her shoulder against the door—and this time, it burst open. Cold air slapped her face. She stumbled into the mud just in time to see them.
Figures. Barely human. Smoky, shadow-born things, their forms shifting like smoke in wind. Glowing red eyes pierced the mist. One hovered over the coachman's twisted, lifeless body.
Ophelia took a step back.
A branch cracked beneath her boot.
The nearest Shade twisted its head, sharp as a serpent.
She bolted.
Branches clawed at her dress. Thorns tore her sleeves. Her feet slipped on damp leaves as she sprinted through the underbrush, dodging trees, heart slamming like a drum. Behind her, movement whispered—footsteps that didn't belong in this world. Swift. Gliding.
She veered down a narrow gully, nearly tripping. Ducking behind a fallen log, she pressed herself into the wet earth, hand clamped over her mouth to silence her ragged breathing.
And then—fingers.
Cold, black fingers wrapped around her ankle.
"No—!" she shrieked as she was yanked backward, dragged across the ground. Mud filled her mouth. A Shade loomed over her, its face a swirling horror of bone and smoke, empty eyes gleaming like embers.
It reached for her throat.
She screamed, clawing at the ground, kicking wildly—
And then—
A roar.
It split the forest like a blade. No human cry. Not an animal either.
Something in-between.
Something furious.
A silver blur slammed into the Shade, tearing it away from her. Dust and leaves exploded as the creature hit a tree. Another roar—feral, thunderous.
Ophelia scrambled upright, staring.
Lysander.
But not as she knew him.
He stood on two legs, but his body was something more—something monstrous and beautiful. His skin shimmered, fur and muscle shifting with every breath. Gold eyes burned with savage light. Long claws gleamed at his sides. He was a man. A beast. A nightmare and a saviour.
The Shades hissed, circling.
He didn't hesitate.
He lunged.
The first Shade shrieked as he struck, disintegrating under the force of the blow. Another wrapped its tendrils around him, but Lysander twisted, spine bending, jaw elongating mid-motion. He tore through them like paper. His movements were fluid, terrifying—shifting with every blow, part-wolf, part-shadow, part-man.
Ophelia couldn't look away.
The last Shade tried to flee.
Lysander caught it mid-leap, slammed it into the earth, and with a growl, ended it.
Silence fell.
The forest, for a breath, held still.
Lysander stood, chest heaving. Blood stained his claws—not his, but theirs. His shoulders trembled. Golden eyes burned through the gloom.
Then he turned.
His gaze met hers.
And she flinched—because in that moment, he was not the man who had bought her.
He was something older. Wilder. Terrifying.
And he saw it.
His features softened—just slightly. The beast receded. Fur faded back into flesh. Claws shortened. His breath steadied.
"Ophelia," he rasped, voice barely human.
She couldn't speak. She just nodded, numb.
He strode to her, knelt beside her, and touched her face with rough, trembling fingers.
"I'm sorry. I arrived a bit late."
She just nodded again, still traumatized by everything that had happened.
He looked her over, brow furrowed, then, without another word, swept her into his arms.
"We need to leave. Now."
As he carried her, she clung to his shoulder, her voice a whisper.
"What were those?"
"Shades," he said grimly. "Trained. Controlled."
Her fingers curled into his tunic.
"They were after me."
"Yes."
"Why?"
He didn't answer.
"Lord Lysander," she pressed, "how did you know I was in danger?"
He didn't answer that either.
Earlier…
In a different part of the forest, Lysander stood alone, Aria's trinket clutched in his palm. The small charm—glass and bone and forgotten memories—burned cold against his skin. Visions of her bloodied hands and terrified eyes flickered behind his lids.
And then—the wind changed.
Smoke. Burned flesh. Fresh blood.
But not Aria's.
Something closer. Familiar.
His eyes flew open.
Ophelia.
His shift surged forward, unbidden. Claws pierced the earth. The world blurred as he sprinted through the trees, faster than any man could run, his body flickering between forms—part-beast, part-shadow, heart pounding with primal urgency.
Then—he sensed it.
Pain, fear, terror.
Sharp. A Female.
Ophelia.
He crashed through the undergrowth, the scent of blood heavy in the air. The narrow path came into view—the carriage overturned, horses panicked and neighing. The coachman's body lay crumpled, throat slashed.
And there—Ophelia, half-conscious, dragged by cloaked figures with glowing eyes.
Shades.
Or something worse.
One lifted a blade.
Lysander didn't think.
He shifted mid-leap, descending. The first attacker didn't even scream—just crumpled beneath the impact.
The others turned too late.
One tried to vanish into the shadows.
Lysander caught his arm—and tore it clean off.
Lysander didn't say a word. He just kept moving, his jaw tight, eyes locked on the path ahead. Ophelia lay limp in his arms, her breathing shallow and uneven.
Then, in the blink of an eye, the world around them shifted.
One moment they were in the woods, and the next—they were at the mansion gates.
He had used Veil-Walking.
A rare and ancient ability known only to a few among the shape-shifter bloodlines, Veil-Walking allowed Lysander to slip between the folds of the physical world and the Veil—a shadowed, unseen layer of reality that flowed beside their own. Within that space, he became invisible and untouchable, moving swiftly through the world as though it held no weight.
But the power came with a cost.
Only elite shifters like him could wield it, and even then, it drained him. He could feel the strain already—his vision dimming at the edges, his heartbeat pounding like a drum behind his ribs. Veil-Walking couldn't be used often. Not without consequence. Nosebleeds, disorientation, sometimes even collapse.
And in places warded against shadow magic, it was useless.
Still, it had bought them time. Ophelia needed care, and he had needed speed. As the shimmer of magic faded from his skin, Lysander tightened his grip on her and pushed through the mansion's iron-bound doors.
Only one man stood waiting: the butler.
Old, sharp-eyed, and composed, the butler didn't flinch when Lysander appeared out of thin air. He simply stepped forward without a word, already reaching to support Ophelia's weight as Lysander staggered slightly.
"She's burning up," Lysander muttered, voice hoarse. "Prepare the room. Get water. Towels."
"Alright, Sir," the butler replied, swinging into action immediately.
He took Ophelia from Lysander's arms with surprising care and strength, nodding toward the grand stairway.
"Come. Quickly, before the servants see. You look like death."
Lysander wiped a line of blood from beneath his nose and followed in silence.
The butler was the only one who knew the truth. And the only one he trusted to help him hide it.
---
A healer was summoned, quiet and fast.
Her hands glowed faintly as she mended Ophelia's wrist, tended to her bruises, and wiped the blood from her face. Lysander stood in the corner of the room, arms crossed, unmoving. His eyes never left Ophelia.
"She'll live," the healer said finally. "But I suggest rest. And no more outings or stressful activities for now."
He didn't respond.
Not until they were alone did he move to her side.
Ophelia lay curled beneath the covers, pale and small. Her eyes flicked toward him—guarded. Afraid. Yet also searching.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why did they come after me?"
"I don't know," he said, kneeling beside her. "But I will find out."
Silence stretched.
Then, softly, he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
She didn't pull away.
"You're not safe," he said. "Not out there. Not anymore."
"What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, voice low, "you need to be very careful and cautious."
She just nodded, too exhausted to say a word.
---
That night, long after the healer had left and Ophelia had drifted into uneasy sleep, Lysander stood alone in his study.
In his hand was a scrap of torn black silk.
It had been clenched in one of the attacker's fists.
Embroidered on it—barely visible—was a silver thorn.
His jaw clenched.
Not a random mark. Not a common thief's token.
A sigil. A symbol of allegiance.
Someone had recognized her. Or feared what she might become.
Either way…
This wasn't a simple attack.
It was a message.
A warning.
And Lysander Grey didn't take kindly to warnings.