Chapter 76

**THE BURIED PROPHECY**

Two hundred and fifty years ago, on a cold winter’s eve, a gathering unlike any other took place in a secluded monastery deep within the Italian countryside.

The ancient stone walls, once a place of solemn devotion, now bore witness to a debate that would shape the fate of supernatural creatures for centuries to come.

Around a grand oak table sat representatives of three distinct worlds—humans, werewolves, and vampires. They were uneasy allies, brought together not by trust but by necessity. Flickering candlelight cast long shadows upon their stern faces as the air crackled with tension.

The witches had seen something. A prophecy. And it had frightened them all.

The visions had come to covens across the world—witches in the forests of France, the highlands of Scotland, and the colonies of the New World had all witnessed the same chilling revelation. A woman, neither fully wolf nor fully vampire, standing at the heart of a battlefield. Around her, the creatures of the night—those long at war—knelt in reverence. She was a unifier, a bridge between worlds. And in her arms, she held a child.

A child of impossible lineage.

The implications were clear: a hybrid bloodline, stronger than either species alone, destined to end the long-standing conflict and reshape the balance of power.

But those in attendance did not see unity in this vision. They saw a threat.

***At the head of the table sat Lord Ambrose d’Valmont, an elder vampire draped in fine, embroidered velvet, his cold gaze resting on the documents before him.***
***To his left, Alpha Gregor of the Northern Pack leaned back in his chair, his massive frame barely contained within the confines of his tailored coat. His thick beard twitched as he scowled. Across from them, Cardinal Matteo Bellini, a human representative of the Vatican, folded his hands before him, his scarlet robes pooling around his chair. He was an older man, his thinning hair powdered white, his expression one of quiet calculation.***

***Among the humans sat Alessandro Scava, a Florentine scholar, younger than most in the room but respected for his knowledge of supernatural lore. Unlike the others, he had not come to dictate, but to understand. He had been summoned for his expertise, yet he quickly realized his voice carried little weight in a room ruled by fear.***

***The discussion had been raging for hours.***

***"This prophecy is nothing more than superstition," the Alpha growled, slamming his fist onto the table. "A woman who would unite us? Do you take us for fools? Wolves do not kneel before a half-breed!"***

***"You misunderstand, Gregor," Lord Ambrose said smoothly, swirling a goblet of dark wine—or perhaps something far richer—between his fingers. "It is not a question of submission, but of power. If such a child were to be born, they would be stronger than any of us. Their lineage alone would challenge the very foundations of our kind."***

***"And that is precisely why this must never come to pass," the Cardinal interjected. His voice was calm, but beneath it lay a quiet, controlled fury. "The Church has long tolerated the existence of your kind, so long as you remain in the shadows. But a hybrid? A creature that blurs the lines of dominion? It is an abomination."***

***Alessandro shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his fingers tightening around the parchment in his hands. He had read the translated accounts of the witches’ visions. He had seen the same descriptions repeated in letters from across Europe and beyond. But where these men saw a curse, he saw something else.***

***Hope.***

***"Perhaps we are too quick to dismiss this," he ventured, his voice steady despite the weight of the gazes that turned upon him. "If the prophecy speaks of unity, is that truly so terrible? Have we not warred long enough?"***

***Alpha Gregor bared his teeth in a mocking grin. "A human, speaking of war? What do you know of our battles, boy?"***

***Alessandro did not flinch. "Enough to know they have been fought for centuries, and they will continue for centuries more unless something changes."***

***Lord Ambrose chuckled, though there was no warmth in it. "Idealistic words. But tell me, young Scava, do you truly believe that a child born of both our bloodlines would be welcomed? That such a being would be allowed to live without persecution? Humanity would never permit it. The wolves would tear it apart. Even my own kind would see it as an abomination."***

***The room fell silent for a moment.***

***It was the truth, and Alessandro knew it.***

***The witches had seen this future, but the world was not ready for it.***

***The prophecy was a warning, and a choice.***

***After a long pause, Cardinal Bellini sighed, pushing away his papers. "Then it is settled. This matter must be buried. There will be no union of our species, no hybrids, no prophesied child. We shall ensure it."***

***"How?" Alessandro asked, his voice quiet but firm.***

***"By whatever means necessary," the Cardinal replied.***

***A slow agreement spread across the table. Documents were signed, an accord was drafted. The three factions would work in silent collaboration to suppress any possibility of the prophecy coming true. Wolves and vampires would be kept separate. Any union between them would be met with swift punishment. And if, by chance, such a child was ever conceived…***
***It would not survive.***

***Alessandro felt a chill run through him as he watched the decision take shape before him. He knew, in his heart, that this was a mistake. That fate could not be so easily denied. But he also knew that to argue further would be to invite exile—or worse.***

***So he said nothing.***

Later that night, long after the others had retired to their chambers, Alessandro remained in the candlelit study of the monastery. He poured over the witches' records one final time, his fingers tracing the delicate script. The prophecy was too powerful to be erased completely. It would survive in whispers, in dreams.

But perhaps… it could also survive in ink.

With careful hands, he copied the most crucial details of the prophecy into a leather-bound journal. He did not include everything—just enough. Enough for someone, someday, to rediscover what had been lost. He tucked the journal into the lining of his cloak, his heart pounding.

The Scava family had long been record keepers, historians. He would not let this knowledge die with him.

As he stepped into the night, a cold wind swept through the monastery’s courtyard, carrying with it a whisper of the future.

One day, his descendant would find the truth.

And when she did, the world would tremble.