Page 83 of Fated Alpha Baby

That’s what I’m here for.

The witches’ chanting echoes faintly around me, sounding distant, as though I’m hearing it through vast depths of water. Their voices anchor me to the world beyond this vision, while my consciousness drifts deeper into the dark witch’s memories.

Around me, shadows twist and shift like living things.

The witch fought us every step of the way before Amalia administered the potion. Even now, I can feel her resistance pressing against my magic. It feels like thorn-covered vines wrapping around my arms, trying to drag me away from the truth.

But I am stronger now.

I know it the moment my power surges through the darkness.

White-gold light blooms from my hands, illuminating the endless void around me. The shadows recoil immediately, hissing like frightened snakes dispersing as they retreat from the glow. The resistance weakens.

The darkness parts, and suddenly, I am no longer standing in emptiness.

I am somewhere else entirely.

The scent of smoke fills the air. Burning wood.

Ancient stone walls surround me, damp and cracked with age. Hundreds of candles burn in iron brackets along the walls, their flames flickering unnaturally despite the absence of wind.

People fill the chamber.

Dozens of them; men, women, witches, wolves, humans. All dressed in black robes.

Every single one of them kneels before a massive stone altar etched with symbols that make my stomach twist.

The symbols are older than anything I have ever seen in the August Moon archives. Older than Ashclaw. Older than the valley itself.

A chill slithers down my spine.

A figure draped in black robes stands at the center of the chamber. Unlike the others, this person’s face remains hidden beneath an elaborate silver mask that takes the shape of a perfect face with chiseled features.

The mask gleams in the candlelight, beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Power radiates from the figure in suffocating waves, and I almost choke just by looking at it.

The witch whose memories I’m exploring kneels among the others, her head bowed reverently as the masked leader raises both hands.

“Brothers and sisters,” the figure says, its voice layered as if it’s hiding its true voice with something more deliberate than just the mask.

The voice is distorted, neither male nor female. Ancient. Cold.

“Our king stirs beneath the earth!”

The crowd murmurs in response, a strange excitement rippling through the chamber.

My pulse quickens.

Vaelkor.

They’re talking about Vaelkor—the Hollow King.

“The prison weakens,” the masked figure continues, its voice carrying in echoing ribbons through the chamber. “The bloodlines have awakened. The descendants have returned. The prophecy unfolds exactly as it was written.”

My breath catches.

Bloodlines? Descendants?

Ashclaw…