CHAPTER 67: CHAPTER 67: BRAIN-DEAD ALPHAS

Selene’s movement stilled at the mention of the name, Alpha Aeron. It was really absurd that someone was asking whether she had heard it or not. She did not only hear but...

She had never thought she would hear that name again, especially not like this, after a year, and from the mouth of her enemy.

For a fraction of a second, her eyes changed just enough for Sara, watching from the corner, to notice. But almost immediately, they returned to their usual calm, like the stillness of a lake after a ripple.

Kellan’s smirk widened, certain he had just found her weak point. He was always right—if anyone didn’t fear his father, then they definitely feared them, the Dusk Draven alphas.

"Ah... so you have heard of them. Good. Then you know you’re not just in trouble... you’re already dead."

Selene stepped closer until her shadow drowned his. The faint shimmer of silver bled into her irises, making him flinch before he could stop himself.

"If they’re so dangerous, then they’d better hurry," she murmured.

Then came the smile—cold, sharp, and promising pain. "Because if they take too long... there won’t be enough of you left for them to save."

Her fist struck him, again and again. Each blow was a solid, merciless crack against flesh and bone, the sound echoing through the damp stone walls.

Sara’s stomach churned at the wet thud of impact, at the way blood pattered against the floor like rain. Chains rattled violently with every strike, and Kellan’s smug laughter bled into low snarls, then into the guttural, broken sound of a man losing his arrogance.

Soon the arrogant jerk was howling like a mangy mutt, begging for mercy. His lips was split open, his skin blooming with purples and reds from head to toe. But Selene didn’t even blink.

This wasn’t rage—it was routine. Beating bastards like him was just another day’s work... the fastest way to pry out the truth about where they were keeping the other witches.

She fisted his hair and yanked his head back until his neck strained. "How many witches does your father have?"

His eyes widened. "Witches... What are you talking about?"

But she saw it—the flicker of recognition. Realization dawned, and for the first time, there was a shadow of unease in his gaze. Yet his lips curved in a bloodied smirk.

"So, bitch... You are actually a witch." He laughed, the sound jagged and wet, like glass grinding against stone.

He leaned forward despite the chains biting into his wrists. "A witch? But how? I thought your kind were nothing but pathetic little rats... hiding in your holes, too scared to even fight back. Or did you finally hire some other race to do the dirty work for you?"

His eyes slid past her, settling on Sara with open mockery. "That one, sure. She looks like a witch. But you... silver hair and eyes like a blade—what the fuck are you? I’ve never seen a witch who could fight like this."

In his mind, witches weren’t warriors. They were worthless bitches.

Little creatures who clung to scraps of abandoned magic they could barely keep safe. Creatures of their kind had been hunted, chained, and bled dry for centuries.

Witches didn’t just die in werewolf hands, they were broken first. Stripped of their magic drop by drop, forced to live long enough to watch their own covens sold off, their powers drained into the veins of the wolves who owned them.

Some were kept in dungeons for years, chained in iron that burned their skin until it was nothing but scar tissue, fed only enough to keep them alive so their magic wouldn’t wither.

Others were used for sport, their screams echoing in the night as young alphas learned to "play" with them the way hunters toy with cornered prey.

Kellan was the worst of them. He didn’t just torture witches. He made games out of it. He would whisper promises of freedom just to watch their hope crack when he laughed in their faces.

He had a habit of keeping them barely conscious, forcing them to heal so he could start all over again. And when they were too broken to fight back, he would pass them along to the others like worn-out toys.

Selene’s palm cracked across Kellan’s cheek, jerking his head sideways. If he hadn’t been an alpha, that single slap would’ve knocked him out cold.

"Have you gone deaf? I asked, "How many?"

"What are you talking about? We don’t keep witches. My father is already stronger than most alphas alive, do you think he needs your filthy kind to make him stronger?"

"Don’t spit lies when we both know exactly why you keep witches," Selene said, her voice like velvet dragged over knives. Her smile this time was slow and deliberate, and it made him shiver.

Because he knew... somehow, she knew. The real reason. The secret they weren’t even allowed to tell their own kind.

Even witches didn’t know the truth. So how did she?

"What nonsense are you saying?" Kellan forced a laugh that didn’t quite hide the tension in his jaw.

"Sure, in the past some alphas kept witches to boost their power with magic, but now it’s frowned upon. We werewolves are proud creatures, we never take help from your filthy kind."

"Filthy kind..." Selene’s voice was soft and dangerous. "You’re still doing it. You’ve always been doing it. You just don’t have the spine to admit it."

These filthy bastards were truly disgusting. Every day, Selene felt like her eyes were being forced open to witness yet another cruelty in the world.

And all of it seemed to trace back to one source: the werewolves. Beasts so consumed by their pride and arrogance, they refused to consider anyone beyond themselves.

She believed their arrogance had rotted their minds, turning them into nothing more than savage animals, obsessed with dominance and blind to the suffering they caused.

Selene wasn’t just another victim...she was living proof of their cruelty. And the more she saw, the clearer it became: she wasn’t alone. So many others had been tortured, broken, and discarded by these brain-dead Alphas who saw themselves as gods.