The first howl echoed through the glass spires
of Blackthorn Manor at midnight. Eleanor Vayne,
CEO of Vayne Industries, had built her empire on
steel and silence, but the moon had other plans.
Her veins burned with silverblue fire, a mark no
doctor could explain. The old family ledger,
hidden beneath floorboards since her father’s
death, had been waiting for her. It spoke of the
Vayne line—werewolves bound by oath to serve the
crown.
She had never believed in ghosts, yet here she
was, clutching a letter sealed with crimson wax
and the crest of the Iron Throne. The message
was clear: You are summoned to the Royal Court.
Your blood is needed.
The alternate world of Albion did not run on
democracy or free markets. Magic was law, and
only those of noble birth could wield it.
Werewolves were not beasts—they were soldiers,
bound to the monarchy by ancient pacts. The last
Vayne had died in a duel with a traitorous duke,
his name erased from history. Eleanor had grown
up thinking her family was dead. Now, she was
being called back.
The journey to the capital took three days.
Eleanor rode in a private train, her suitcases
packed with cash, data drives, and a single
dagger engraved with the Vayne sigil. She had no
illusions about the court—whispers of betrayal
followed every noble, and the throne room was a
den of predators. But she had something they did
not: a company worth billions, and the ability
to buy silence.
The Iron Throne sat atop a black stone dais, its
edges carved with runes that pulsed faintly.
Queen Isolde, a woman of sharp cheekbones and
colder eyes, greeted her with a smile that did
not reach her lips. “Eleanor Vayne,” she said,
voice like steel. “Your father’s daughter. I
assume you know why you’re here.”
She did. The throne needed werewolves to secure
the borders against the northern clans, who had
broken their oaths. The Vayne line had been the
strongest of them all. Eleanor had no choice but
to comply. Yet, as she knelt before the queen,
her claws unsheathed without warning, she felt
the pull of something older than politics—a
primal hunger, a need to hunt.
The rules were clear: werewolves could not shift
inside the palace walls. To do so was treason.
But when the queen’s advisor, Lord Malvane,
sneered at her and called her a “mongrel,” the
air turned electric. Eleanor’s fingers curled
into fists, her pulse pounding. The scent of
fear filled the room.
She refused to be insulted. Not again.
That night, she broke the rule. In the shadows
of the eastern wing, under the full moon, she
let the change take her. Her bones cracked, her
skin split, and for the first time in decades,
she ran—not as a woman, but as a beast. The
palace guards found her the next morning, claw
marks gouged into the marble floor, her human
form slumped against the wall, bleeding but
alive.
The court was stunned. Some called her a monster.
Others saw an opportunity. Queen Isolde summoned
her once more, this time to a private chamber.
“You have power,” she said, placing a ring on
the table between them. “But power without
purpose is a weapon left unaimed. You will lead
the werewolf division. Or you will be exiled.”
Eleanor stared at the ring. It was forged with
the same silverblue metal that now ran through
her veins. A symbol of loyalty. A chain.
She accepted.
But the court was not done with her. Lord
Malvane had secrets of his own, and he would not
let a Vayne rise without a fight. The next full
moon, as Eleanor stood at the edge of the
northern border, watching the wolves circle, she
knew one thing for certain: the game had only
just begun.
And she would not be a pawn.
