Hades' Cursed Luna novel Chapter 469

Chapter 469: How Times Have Changed

Hades

The manufacturing of the domes was in full swing by the time we left the last plant. We’d been promised all five would be completed within four weeks.

As the car zoomed toward our next location—Freddie directing our chauffeur from the front seat—Lucas Stavros’s voice slipped through my thoughts like a ghost. Which, I supposed, he was.

*"They taught us to count the years of injustice like coin. I learned to count them as a debt that must be paid in full. Only then, I told myself, would the world be made even."*

He’d been referring to the werewolves.

My father’s plan had been absolute: complete elimination. The blueprint he’d designed for Silverpine’s destruction had been inherited by my brother Leon, who’d refined it, expanded it, made it more efficient. Then it had passed to me when I took the throne—this legacy of revenge disguised as justice, of genocide disguised as survival.

Each Stavros who came before me had died with that vision unfulfilled, but the hatred endured. It survived like a virus, passed down through blood and oath, waiting for the Alpha strong enough to finally execute it and the perfect time to initiate the full offensive.

The infrastructure had been built for that purpose. The Arrays. The domes. The technology. All of it designed to ensure that lycans would flourish while werewolves would be made extinct.

And now I was using it to save them.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Instead of plotting with governors and ambassadors about how we’d divide Silverpine’s territory after the werewolves ceased to exist—how we’d extend our reach, claim their resources, loot what remained and call it spoils of war—I was sheltering their refugees. Cramming them into domes meant to protect lycan civilians. Offering them our serum. Integrating them into our quadrants.

My ancestors would call it betrayal.

Eve would call it redemption.

I didn’t know what to call it.

The weight of it pressed against my chest—generations of Stavros hatred, centuries of injustice on both sides, and here I was, the one who’d decided enough was enough. The one who’d looked at that legacy of revenge and said *no.*

Not because werewolves were blameless. They weren’t. The injustices my ancestors counted like coin were real—lycans hunted, persecuted, treated as lesser for generations. The scars ran deep on both sides.

But genocide?

That was where I drew the line.

Eve had drawn it for me, really. She’d looked at me with those eyes that saw through every defense I’d ever built and asked a simple question without ever speaking the words themselves: *What kind of Alpha do you want to be?*

It was in the way she looked at me when I told her of my plan all along—like she couldn’t believe I, the man she had grown to love, would ever choose to be a genocidal maniac. She’d been warned time and time again about me, but she refused to choose another side.

It was like she had seen something in me that not even I saw. She stripped away what my father’s training and indoctrination and corruption had done to me and looked at the man within. She bound herself to me and used it to pull me out of the corruption that ate away at my darkened soul.

She didn’t give me a heart, for I was heartless. She shared hers with me.

And somehow, as if it had been woven in the threads of fate and moonlight, it was enough.

She loved fiercely, even when it was used against her. Saved Kael from my wrath. Saved Elliot from Felicia. Saved me from myself.

She promised Cain a world where his daughter would not have to hide for the races that her mother and father were.

So I chose the Alpha I wanted to be.

Not what kind I was supposed to be. Not what my brother, father, or grandfather had been.

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