Sold to the Alpha Tyrant: The Last Moonblood

The night clawed at the horizon as the limousine devoured miles beneath a canopy of stars strangled by storm. Inside, Dahlia sat motionless, fingers twitching against the leather seat, her wrist still tingling where the collar had once rested. The metal was gone, melted in oathfire and shattered vows, but something lingered—a phantom chain pulsing beneath her skin. It wasn't pain. It was awareness. A rhythm older than blood, buried deep beneath memory. Outside, the city lights thinned into mist. Inside, her thoughts unraveled like threads pulled from a ruined tapestry. Whispers danced just beyond hearing—prophecies in a dead language, truths her bones remembered before her mind could catch up.

"You feel it, don't you?" Damon's voice broke the silence, low and calm as the purr of the engine. His eyes caught the dim light from the console, silver irises gleaming like blades in the dark.

She didn't look at him. Just nodded. "It didn't die with the collar. The brand still burns." Her voice was quiet, laced with confusion and dread. "It's like... a second heartbeat. Something alive." She hesitated. "Something watching."

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. "Because it is alive. The collar was the cage. The brand is the key." His words landed like weight across her chest—final, heavy, inescapable.

"Am I cursed?" she whispered.

"You're more than cursed," Damon said. "You're marked by a force the world has tried to erase. And now that it knows you're awake, it won't let you go."

The limo veered off the main road, tires grinding gravel as trees swallowed the path. City lights vanished behind them, replaced by rising cliffs and gnarled woods. The air grew colder, tighter, filled with something old that pressed against Dahlia's chest like hands unseen. Her pulse quickened. Not fear—something worse. Recognition. A call she hadn't known she'd been answering. When the car stopped before a towering wrought-iron gate sculpted into snarling wolves and bleeding vines, Damon stepped out first, his coat snapping like a banner. Dahlia followed, boots hitting wet earth as the scent of old stone wrapped around her throat.

They passed through the gate onto a path of black stone flanked by pillars that shimmered with shifting glyphs. At its end, a temple loomed—carved from obsidian, alive with roots that glowed faintly with internal light. It looked less like a building and more like a creature that had curled up on the cliffside to wait. Inside, silence reigned, thick with incense and shadows. Glyph-lined halls whispered with each of Dahlia's steps. Her breath fogged. Memories pulsed—fragments of scales and fire, screams, a throne of molten glass. She didn't remember living them, yet they lived inside her bones.

At the temple's heart, an altar rose like a tombstone. A figure cloaked in ash lay across it, eyes sewn shut with crimson thread. When she lifted her head, her voice rasped through the air like torn silk. "The dragon stirs. The gods remember their rage."

Dahlia froze. "What... what are you saying?"

The woman stood, barefoot on stone, robes dripping with soot. "You were never just an Omega. You were born under false stars. Bound to forgotten fire. Your blood is not your own—it's stolen from time."

Damon stepped forward, voice low. "She speaks in ash. The night she shattered the collar, the storm bowed to her. That wasn't instinct. It was legacy."

Dahlia shook her head, hands trembling. "I'm not her. I'm not that thing."

The Seer pressed a skeletal hand against her chest. Fire flared through the brand beneath her collarbone, sending Dahlia to her knees. The glyphs on the walls pulsed in response. The temple itself seemed to breathe. "You are the Last Moonblood," the Seer whispered. "The dragon who loved a god and was cursed to rise again. The world forgot her. But her fire never did."

Visions surged behind Dahlia's eyes—golden antlers dripping flame, a silver blade buried in her own ribs, Damon screaming her name as fire consumed the sky. The past crushed her like a tidal wave. "I'm not her," she whispered again. But the brand beneath her skin pulsed—yes, you are.

And then, from the silence: a voice, low and venom-laced, not the Seer's but something darker. He will betray you. As he did before. Her body tensed. The words crawled into her ears, coiling like snakes. She looked at Damon—still, silent, unreadable. Did he hear it too? Or had it only spoken to her? She rose slowly, face pale, voice raw. "Why me? Why am I the last? What does it even mean?"

The Seer's stitched eyes turned toward her. "When gods and mortals still danced beneath the same sun, the Moonblood line was forged to guard the balance. You were the flame between dark and light. But one of you broke the covenant. Love shattered the seals. Now the False Gods wake, and their wrath seeks your soul."

Dahlia's fingers curled. The brand burned hotter, searing her veins. Damon stepped closer, his voice steel. "The Hollow Order hunts you because you're the only one who can stop what's coming. The brand makes you a target, yes—but also a weapon. I bought you to keep them from breaking you before you knew what you were."

She turned sharply, eyes blazing. "And I'm supposed to thank you for that? For chaining me? For branding me like livestock?"

"I didn't say you had to thank me," he said, voice cold. "Only survive. If you die, the world goes with you." The Seer's voice returned, softer now. "You must learn to command the fire. Wield the storm inside. Or it will consume you. And all things."

Dahlia swallowed. "And if I fail?"

"Then the False Gods rise," the Seer said. "And this world becomes ash."

The weight settled again. Damon reached out, fingers brushing the mark beneath her sleeve. His touch was fire and frost, sharp as memory. "We start tomorrow. Combat. Control. Command. You will not be anyone's pawn—not theirs. Not mine." She stared at him, defiant despite the tremble in her voice. "I make my own fate." His reply came like a promise. "Then make it before they do."

The temple shifted, shadows bowing to her breath. Outside, thunder cracked the sky like bone snapping. The brand flared one final time before fading to a low, steady burn.

She was the Last Moonblood. And the war inside her was only beginning.