The weight of doubt pressed heavily on Eryon’s mind, growing with every whispered report of the Vampire King’s destruction. Tales of devastation reached the stronghold—Shadowbound creatures tearing through werewolf packs, villages razed to the ground.
Cassian’s pack had taken the brunt of the attacks, and the thought of Isla, Draven, and Lyra caught in the chaos gnawed at Eryon’s already frayed resolve.
Eryon stood alone in the training chamber, his claws flexing and retracting as he stared at the bloodstains that never seemed to fade from the cold stone floor.
Misery entered quietly, her crimson eyes watching him carefully. The silence between them stretched until Eryon finally spoke.
“What if… they need me?” he said, his voice rough, strained. “What if the King gets to them before we do?”
Misery stepped closer, her expression softening. “Then you protect them,” she said firmly. “You’re still their brother, Eryon. No matter what Seraphine and Eira say.”
Eryon’s amber eyes flicked to her, conflicted. “They wouldn’t understand what I’ve become.”
“They don’t need to understand,” Misery replied, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “You’re not doing this for their approval. You’re doing it because you care.”
Before Eryon could respond, a chill swept through the room. Eira’s voice echoed from the shadows, her tone sharp and biting. “Faltering already, are we?”
Eryon’s muscles tensed as Eira stepped into the light, her silver eyes gleaming with fury. Misery instinctively moved to place herself between Eira and Eryon, but Eira’s focus was singular. She stalked toward Eryon, her movements predatory.
“Your attachments make you weak,” Eira sneered. “Do you think your family will save you? They’ll betray you the moment you hesitate.”
Eryon’s wolf instincts bristled, a low growl rumbling in his throat.
“You don’t know them. You don’t know me.”
Eira’s smile was razor-sharp as she raised her hands, summoning tendrils of dark magic that filled the room with suffocating energy.
“Then I’ll remind you who you are, Eryon.”
The next hours were a blur of agony. Eira’s magic tore through Eryon’s mind and body alike, forcing him to confront twisted visions: Isla and Lyra turning their backs on him, their faces cold with disdain. Draven’s voice, condemning him as a monster. The images felt real, each one like a dagger to his heart.
He fought back, but the pain was relentless, stripping away his resistance piece by piece.
When it was over, Eryon lay on the cold stone floor, his body trembling, his mind a battlefield of doubt and loyalty. Eira crouched beside him, her voice low and insidious.
“They don’t deserve your loyalty. But we do. Remember that.”
As she left the chamber, Misery knelt beside Eryon, her touch gentle against his shoulder.
“You’re stronger than this, Eryon. You don’t need them. You don’t need her.”
Eryon’s voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”