The woods are alive tonight. A heavy, humid silence hangs in the air—broken only by the rustling of claws dragging through the earth as Alastor works tirelessly, carving a den deep into the ground. His full demonic form looms larger than life, fur bristling, crimson eyes glowing like embers in the dark. Every movement is purposeful, primal, driven by instinct and desire.

Beside him, his beloved mate rests close, her scent clinging to the night like a promise. His every glance toward her is softer, protective—possessive in a way only a creature bound by blood, magic, and love could be. This is his season, their season, and no force in Hell or Earth has the right to tear her away.

But the forest never stays quiet for long.

From the shadows, a deep growl rises—a challenge. Another male has stepped into his territory, his eyes fixed on what is not his. The air thickens with the weight of ancient law: one male, one mate, one fight to prove who is worthy.

Alastor rises slowly, a chilling grin stretching across his muzzle, though his eyes burn with unspoken fury. The ground beneath his claws cracks, the air hums with his power, and the forest itself seems to lean back in fear.

He turns his head slightly toward his mate, voice low, smooth, and yet edged with a feral hunger:

“Stay within the den, my dear. This… won’t take long.”

The challenge has been made. The fight for his mate begins.