The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven-Chapter 560: Time to Die

[Third Person].

Xamira clawed desperately at Meredith’s wrist, her small hands trembling as her breath came in shallow, broken gasps. Her face flushed deep red, eyes wide with panic.

"My... lady..." she choked.

The expression on Meredith’s face did not soften. Valmora was there now—fully present, her presence cold and merciless behind Meredith’s eyes.

"Who," Valmora asked through Meredith, her voice edged with scorn, "is your lady?"

Something shifted in Xamira’s gaze, and a sharp and immediate understanding dawned on her. This wasn’t the gentle Luna who had drawn gardens with her on the floor.

This was her wolf. And if she stayed like this for another heartbeat, she would die.

Therefore, in a sudden burst of light and motion, Xamira’s body slipped free—shrinking, reshaping—until a green bird burst from Meredith’s grasp and shot toward the open balcony door.

But it was already too late because, a moment later, the door slammed shut on its own.

The bird struck the glass with a dull thud, fluttered back unsteadily, then shook its head before launching itself wildly into the room, wings beating fast as it searched for escape.

Meredith—no, Valmora watched calmly.

"Do you truly believe," she asked coldly, "that you can escape my claws after I have waited so patiently for a moment like this?"

Slowly, unmistakably, faint claws began to form at Meredith’s fingertips, shadowed and sharp, her purple-lit eyes never leaving the frantic bird.

Fear rippled through the air.

The bird chirped sharply, darting from corner to corner, but the bedroom door was closed. The balcony door sealed. There was nowhere left to flee.

In a flash of light, the bird transformed again, this time into a butterfly, its delicate wings flashing green as it zigzagged unpredictably through the air.

Valmora scoffed. "No matter what you become," she said, her voice dripping with disdain, "do you really think I cannot kill you?"

Her gaze flicked—calculating. Then she snatched a pillow from Xamira’s bed and hurled it upward.

The butterfly barely avoided it, veering away at the last second.

Valmora inhaled slowly, her patience thinning. "Do you know the worst kinds of living things?" she asked, her eyes tracking the fluttering shape. "Those without dignity... and those who hide behind camouflage."

She lifted her chin slightly, power coiling tight beneath her skin.

"So," she demanded, her voice sharp as a blade, "which one are you—you shameless, crafty shapeshifter?"

Xamira didn’t answer that question. Instead, she felt time was running out. And every instinct in her screamed danger.

Realizing that flying forms were useless, she shifted again—shrinking rapidly until a small rat hit the floor and darted away, scrambling beneath chairs, skidding toward the bed, desperate to hide anywhere Valmora couldn’t reach.

But none of that mattered. Her mistake was underestimating who she was facing.

Valmora’s fury sharpened—not wild, not reckless, but cold and precise. The repeated attempts to flee only fed it.

With a slow inhale, her fae power surged, and the room responded. Chairs lifted, the bed rose, and the desk, the table, even the smallest stool floated into the air. Everything.

Exposed beneath it all, the rat froze for a split second, then bolted.

Seeing there was nowhere left to hide, Xamira leapt for the suspended rug and shifted again mid-motion, transforming into a colored pencil that clattered softly among the others already lying there.

As soon as that happened, the magic holding the room aloft was released. Everything settled back into place without a crash, perfectly aligned, as if it had never moved.

Then, Valmora walked forward unhurriedly. Her gaze fell to the rug. The pencils lay scattered—red, blue, green, charcoal—innocent, and indistinguishable.

But not even a trace of panic was found on her face. Instead, her lips curved.

"I was beginning to get bored," she said softly. "But finally... this is becoming interesting."

Next, she crouched, moved the drawing sheets aside, and studied the pencils. She recalled that Xamira had transformed into a red pencil before dropping on the rug.

Then, she picked up the red pencil and turned it slowly between her fingers. She could still feel Xamira’s presence—faint, nervous, but clever. Too clever to stay predictable.

Without hesitation, she snapped the pencil cleanly in two, her gaze still on the other pencils.

Nothing happened. There was no reaction or transformation. The other pencils remained still.

Valmora straightened. A small, almost appreciative smile touched her face. "You are either brave," she admitted quietly. "Or foolish."

She already knew that Xamira might have played one last trick, changing into a different colour of pencil when it landed on the rug. And she had intentionally snapped the wrong pencil to see if any of the remaining pencils would react, but nothing of that sort happened.

Valmora reached down again and picked up a charcoal pencil instead, rising to her full height. Then she turned her back on the rug and began walking toward the tightly shut balcony doors, her voice calm and final.

"I’m done playing with you."

Just then, she stopped at the balcony door. The air around her shimmered, heavy with restrained fury. Without holding back, she snapped the black pencil cleanly in two.

At the same instant, the yellow pencil left behind on the rug amongst the other coloured pencils, shimmered and changed.

It twisted, darkened, and stretched—an ash-coloured feral cat with thin black stripes burst forth, silent as a shadow. Her muscles coiled as her paws spread wide and she launched herself into the air, aiming straight for Valmora’s back.

Valmora had been waiting for it. So, she released the broken pencils in her hands, letting them fall to the floor.

In the very next heartbeat, her right hand shot out—precise, unerring—and closed around the cat’s throat without her even looking back.

"Enough!" Her voice thundered through the room, cold and absolute.

Then slowly, she turned, finally facing the creature now clawing wildly at her arm. Scratches raked across her skin, sharp and frantic, accompanied by guttural sounds, but Valmora did not flinch.

The pain did not reach her. The level was insignificant.

Valmora’s glowing purple eyes locked onto the cat’s frantic gaze. "Now," she said calmly, almost indulgently, "it’s time to die."