Monte Valenti - 11:47 PM
The southern district burned like a funeral pyre.
Gunfire thundered through the alleyways, flares streaked the sky, and rival insignias-Valenti red and D'Aragon silver-were painted in blood across concrete walls. The air stank of diesel, smoke, and vengeance.
Beneath the chaos, two empires were tearing each other apart.
In the eye of the storm, a sleek black Bentley glided down cracked asphalt like a hearse. The ground trembled beneath it, not from its engine, but from the presence it carried.
Inside sat Aurelian D'Aragon-the patriarch of the D'Aragon line.
The last true heir of the wolf.
His silver hair was slicked back, revealing a scar above one brow-earned, not inherited. A matte-black handgun rested across his lap, but he hadn't touched it. He didn't need to. His weapon was in his blood.
Beside him sat Donata and Rafaelo-his most trusted lieutenants.
They weren't ordinary enforcers.
They were Bloodbound-wolf-marked, chosen, cursed. Creatures of moon and fury bound to the D'Aragon name through ancient rites.
"We told Valenti to stay off the docks," Donata muttered, loading a fresh clip of silver-tipped rounds.
"They didn't just touch the docks," Rafaelo snarled, knuckles white. "They butchered Lupo and stuck his head on a stake. Like a fucking dog."
Aurelian said nothing. But his fingers curled into a fist.
Lupo was kin. Loyal to the bone. Not Bloodbound, but family.
This wasn't an insult. It was a provocation. An offering to war.
"The Ridge," Aurelian finally said. "We meet him there. And we finish this."
---
Devil's Ridge - 1:03 AM
Two convoys encircled the ancient hilltop, black tires crushing old stones and ancestral bones.
The wind howled through the trees like spirits warning of what was to come.
On one side stood the D'Aragon clan, led by Aurelian, his trench coat snapping in the wind. Behind him, five Bloodbound warriors waited in silence-eyes glowing, bodies pulsing with the wolf just beneath the skin.
Across the ridge, Salvatore Valenti stood fat with power and arrogance, cane in hand, a smirk cutting his face in half.
"You came limping, old dog," Salvatore mocked. "Didn't bring the priesthood this time?"
Aurelian's eyes flashed. "Your blood runs in these hills too, Salvatore. Or did you forget what your grandmother was?"
Salvatore's face twisted-but only for a second.
He had denied his lineage. Sold off his soul to politics, crime, and dirty capital. He trafficked more humans than legends, wielded guns instead of glyphs. Aurelian had kept the old ways hidden, protected-dangerous, sacred.
"You want the docks?" Aurelian said quietly. "Then come take them."
He stepped forward, removing his coat. Across his bare arms, sacred wolf-sigil scars twisted like constellations. Proof of the Rite.
Donata's breath caught. "You're invoking the Rite of the Hill?"
Aurelian didn't look back. "Blood for blood."
---
The Fall
They fought under moonlight and madness.
Salvatore came at him with surprising speed, a blade of pure silver glowing with runes. Old magic-stolen, not earned.
Aurelian shifted mid-air-bones breaking, stretching, skin tearing. Not fully wolf, but something between: a hybrid Alpha, crowned in fur and fury.
Claws clashed with silver.
Fangs met flesh.
Blood soaked the stones of Devil's Ridge.
But something was wrong.
Aurelian slowed. His form wavered.
The blade had been cursed.
His transformation flickered like a dying flame. His breath came shallow. A poisoned edge had pierced his lung.
Salvatore laughed through gritted teeth, driving the blade deeper.
"You're not the king anymore," he spat. "You're a relic."
---
But then-he stepped forward.
From the shadows, a younger figure emerged.
Ciro D'Aragon.
Not Alpha. Not yet.
But the blood of both houses ran through him-wolf and fire.
His mother had been Valenti. His soul? Torn. Balanced.
He walked to the center of the ridge. Not in panic. In purpose.
Aurelian, broken and bleeding, looked up at him.
He didn't beg.
He simply pulled the obsidian-and-gold Alpha's ring from his trembling finger and held it out.
The symbol of the D'Aragon crown.
Ciro stared at it.
The world held its breath.
And he took it.
He slid the ring on his finger, and the wind stopped.
The moon shifted.
Every Bloodbound on the ridge fell to one knee.
Even the Valenti soldiers hesitated, unsure whether to shoot or kneel.
Donata and Rafaelo looked at each other... and bowed.
Ciro raised the ring high above his head.
Salvatore tried to move-raise his blade again.
But Ciro moved like lightning.
He seized Salvatore by the throat, lifting him with impossible strength.
Ciro's grip tightened around Salvatore's throat like a noose forged from ancestral wrath. The older man struggled, silver blade clattering to the ground, his legs kicking helplessly as he dangled in the air.
His once smug face now twisted into panic, spittle leaking from the corners of his lips.
Ciro's voice dropped into a low, thunder-laced growl.
Not fully wolf. Not fully man. Something... becoming.
> "You had the docks," he said.
"You had the damn docks through the Rite of the Hill. Fair and blood-won."
His golden-ringed hand trembled, not from weakness-but the sheer restraint he was showing.
> "You could have walked away a happy man. A living man.
But no... you just had to be greedy.
You came for my father's crown.
My family's name.
My birthright."
Salvatore choked, barely whispering, "You're... nothing..."
Wrong answer.
Ciro's expression snapped.
> "Then let me show you what 'nothing' does to cowards."
He slammed Salvatore into the hillside.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Bone cracked.
Blood sprayed.
The earth itself groaned beneath the weight of the violence.
A fourth, fifth, sixth time.
Each slam reverberated across Devil's Ridge like a war drum, echoing into the night like a god delivering judgment.
Salvatore's skull shattered like porcelain.
His ribcage folded inward.
His screams became gurgles, then silence.
With a final heave, Ciro tossed the twitching corpse over the ridge like garbage.
The Valenti foot soldiers, watching from below, scattered as the body landed with a grotesque thud. Some screamed. One dropped to his knees in shock.
The night was still for just a breath.
Then Ciro turned, blood splattered across his face like war paint.
He raised his hand, fingers curved like a claw.
Eyes glowing gold beneath the moonlight.
> "Any Blood Hound loyal to the crown-kill every Valenti that knelt to that man."
"Spare only the innocent. Burn the traitors to ash."
For a second, there was hesitation.
Even Donata's lips parted in surprise.
He was young. He was just crowned.
But this?
This was a King's decree.
Then Rafaelo bared his fangs.
Donata drew her twin blades.
And the Bloodbound descended the hill like divine executioners.
Screams tore through the night.
Gunshots, claws, howls, and fire.
The D'Aragon wolves were cleaning house.
And Ciro?
Ciro stood on the hilltop, unflinching.
Watching the night burn with the calm of a god who'd just declared the dawn of a new age.
Aurelian smiled, bloodied and fading.
The last Alpha was dying.
But his legacy?
Had just become immortal.