BloodMoon: Captivated by the Forbidden Lycan Alpha
Chapter 215: ASA MARCEL

Chapter 215: ASA MARCEL

I was barely listening at first, still caught up in the comfort of the reunion, still breathing in the safety of the Mira home, when Dante’s words cut through the haze.

"There was a vampire," he said, his voice tight, almost wary. "Covered in blood. Not one of ours. He moved like something ancient."

The air seemed to vanish from the room, sucked out by the weight of what he had just said. My heart gave a hard, painful thud against my ribs, and before I could stop it, a flood of memories surged up from the depths where I had buried them long ago. A figure cloaked in black. Blood dripped from his hands. Eyes like molten silver. The cold, amused smile that promised ruin.

Asa.

The name thundered in my mind, and for a moment, I wasn’t standing in the Mira home anymore. I was a child again, hidden behind my mother’s skirts, peeking out in terror as the ancient vampire from the Marcel bloodline passed through our lands like a walking nightmare.

I clenched my hands into fists, my nails biting into my palms to ground myself. The Mira magic inside me stirred uncomfortably, reacting to the memories, to the fear that still lived in the marrow of my bones. Qadira noticed the change in me immediately. She reached out, brushing her fingers lightly against my arm, grounding me. "Ma?" she asked, low and urgent.

I forced myself to breathe, to speak, even as my voice came out rougher than I meant. "Did he say his name?"

Dante shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he watched me carefully. "No. But... the way he moved, the way the guards reacted... It was like they were terrified. Like they knew him, and they all addressed him as "Master."

Of course, they would know him. Every old bloodline knew the name Asa Marcel—the monster that even the boldest warriors only dared speak of in whispers. But deep down, I knew better. Asa Marcel was never truly gone. Monsters like him did not die; they simply waited. Patient. Unseen. Until the time was right.

I straightened, pushing the fear aside, locking it away like I had so many years ago. I had Qadira and Frery, and the rest of the coven to protect.

If Asa had returned, then the world was shifting in ways none of us could ignore, and that meant that he was the one who wanted the power of Freyr and Tor.

Asa Marcel. He had not been like other vampires, not even the eldest among them. No flesh bound him. No bone anchored him. He was something else entirely, a force that had forsaken the weakness of a mortal shell. He was blood. A living river of it, moving, writhing, pulsing with a terrible, endless hunger. His presence bled into the air itself, thickening it, staining the very atmosphere until it felt like every breath you drew might drown you in him. I remembered how he gathered himself into form when he wished for a towering silhouette shaped from crimson mist, veins and tendrils flickering like smoke within him, the outline of a man only barely maintained.

Eyes like twin coals burned in that shifting mass, bright and ancient, cold with a patience no mortal could fathom. There was no heartbeat, no breathing, no life. Just magic. Old, dark magic that fed on death, which pulled strength from every drop of spilled blood around him. And when he spoke... gods, when he spoke, it was not with a mouth. It was a voice that bled directly into your mind, as smooth and poisonous as venom, seeping into every hidden fear you ever tried to bury. Asa did not need a body; he did not need fangs or claws.

He was the blood, the blood stone blood, and the blood obeyed him.

"Tell me everything you saw," I said to Dante, my voice hardening, steady now.

I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees, watching Freyr closely as he spoke, his voice low and steady.

"It started with the voices," Freyr said, staring into the flames as though he could still hear them whispering. "At first, we thought it was just the mountain itself... but it wasn’t. There was something deeper. Someone was using the core of Bloodstone Mountain, drawing power from it."

His hand flexed slightly, as if recalling the strain in his own body. I caught the flicker of pain in his eyes before he hid it away.

"It weakened me," he admitted, the words spoken with the rare kind of honesty that made my heart twist. "I couldn’t hold my strength. It was Tor who caught me before I could fall, and he anchored me."I swallowed hard. Tor, my son’s mate, and the Alpha Lycan of the bay shifter pack. Freyr’s voice dropped lower. "We knew then that we couldn’t stay together. It was too dangerous. If they wanted us both... splitting up gave us a chance."

Before I could process the knot forming in my stomach, Dante leaned forward, picking up where Freyr left off. His jaw was tight, his voice clipped with urgency. "I moved toward the heart of the mountain," Dante said, his gaze pinned to mine like he needed me to understand every word. "And... the mountain welcomed me."

A shiver ran up my spine. The mountain was ancient, older than any bloodline, and it trusted no one easily.

"It showed me," Dante continued, his eyes darkening. "Lord Marcel. What he has done. He has harnessed something. A vampire, something ancient, and another creature buried deep within the mountain itself. He is using them both. Feeding off them." He swallowed hard. "And worse," Dante said, voice barely above a whisper, "they were after Freyr and Tor. They wanted the Kayne Stone."

At the mention of the Kayne Stone, my heart lurched. That stone was tied to Freyr’s blood, to his very existence. Losing it would mean losing him. "We didn’t have time to think," Dante pressed on. "The creature moved fast—too fast. We had to reach them before it did. Tor was already starting to falter."

"And it was Freyr," Dante said, glancing toward him with something like reverence, "who used the Mira magic. Even weakened, he managed to tear a hole in the space around us to pull us out before the creature could take him or Tor."

"And brought us here, "Tor finished quietly, my voice rough with emotion.

Freyr finally turned his gaze to me then, and in the flickering light, I saw the exhaustion, the pain, but also the fierce, unbreakable will that had carried him through it. "Not all battles are fought with blades," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "Sometimes... It is the magic we carry inside us that saves us, and we must know when to retreat. I did not realize I was trembling until Qadira’s hand tightened around mine.

I closed my eyes, the pain slicing through me sharper than any blade. It was not just fear, it was the deep, soul-crushing ache of understanding. A terrible truth I had hoped to never speak aloud.

The room had fallen silent, everyone waiting, the weight of the moment pressing in from all sides. I drew in a shaky breath, forcing myself to lift my head and meet their eye,s Dante’s steady gaze, Qadira’s worried frown, Freyr’s unspoken knowing, Tor’s sharp alertness.

"I know who the vampire is," I said, my voice raw, scraping against my throat.

The fire popped loudly in the hearth, as if the world itself recoiled at the words I was about to release.

"His name is Ash Marcel," I continued, each word tasting bitter. "An ancient evil... far older and far more dangerous than any of you have faced. He was sealed away centuries ago, buried deep because death itself could not claim him."

Their faces shifted some with confusion, some with dread. Only Freyr remained still, his expression tightening ever so slightly as if he had suspected but dared not name it.

"And if he’s awake," I said, my voice dropping into a whisper, "then the world is already in danger."

The words hung in the air, thick and final, like a death knell ringing out over a battlefield.

"Ash doesn’t just kill," I went on, needing them to understand the full horror of what we were facing. "He consumes. Blood, magic, land, souls, everything falls under his hunger once he rises. If Lord Marcel has harnessed him..." I broke off, pressing a trembling hand against my forehead, feeling the Mira magic under my skin stir restlessly, in fear.

I drew in a ragged breath, the fire’s warmth now feeling distant, useless against the cold sinking into my chest.

"There’s more you need to know," I said, my voice scraping low, heavy with everything I had once sworn to forget.

Their eyes were all on me, Qadira, Dante, Freyr, Tor, even Rolan and Rou by the shadows of the foyerwatching, waiting, bracing. "Ash Marcel," I said slowly, "is not just an ancient vampire. He is the realm’s nightmare the horror that haunted the oldest bloodlines, the fear whispered about in songs meant to warn and ward. He is ruined flesh."

I saw the way Dante’s jaw tightened, how Qadira shifted closer to me, the Mira magic in her prickling like mine. "No one is safe," I said, the words like lead on my tongue. "Not the strongest warriors, not the hidden houses, not even the magic born. If Ash gets what he wants if he gathers enough power he will not just destroy kingdoms. He will break the very weave of this world."

Silence slammed into the room, thick and suffocating.

"And Lord Marcel," I spat the name, my fingers curling into fists at my sides, "is reckless enough to think he can control him."

Rolan leaned forward slightly, his silver gaze darkening with something old and grim. "No one controls Ash," he said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Not even the gods could."

I nodded, because deep down, every instinct in me screamed the same truth: We were standing on the edge of something vast and terrible.

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