-------
The air in Serinhold moved like breath through a corpse—slow, damp, and rotten. Every step Virella took through the sodden marsh felt like a descent into something not quite dead, but not alive either.
Beside her, Isolde said nothing. Her pale hair was clumped with mist and bramble. Her red eyes were glazed—half-present, as if something deep in the swamp called her forward.
"I don't like this," Virella muttered, brushing away a hanging vine. "Too quiet."
Serinhold had once been a thriving sanctuary for witches. Now, it was drowning in its own curse.
They came to the marker first—a stone sigil carved into a tree twisted by time. It pulsed faintly with an inner red glow.
Isolde collapsed.
Virella caught her mid-fall, heart racing. "Isolde? Hey—hey!"
The girl's hands clutched her skull. "She's awake," she gasped. "Naera. She's not sealed anymore."
Virella looked up—and saw her.
A girl stood on the water's surface, barefoot and dry despite the mire. Her eyes were pure white, her voice a lilting whisper.
"I dreamed in the dark," Naera said. "For centuries. I dreamed of fire and ruin. And of you, little twin of blood."
Virella stepped forward, dagger drawn. "Stay away from her."
Naera smiled slowly. "She's one of mine now. She heard my voice before you did. Before anyone did."
Isolde rose behind her, eyes glowing white.
"Isolde—no," Virella whispered.
A second too late.
The girl's scream shook the trees. Power burst from her in a wave, throwing Virella back into the mud. Pain bloomed in her ribs.
Naera didn't attack. She merely watched. "You can't stop the awakening. The old blood sings louder each day."
Virella rose, coughing. "I don't care what song it sings. I'm here to stop it."
"You can't stop what you are," Naera replied.
Then, like mist in wind, she vanished—leaving Isolde collapsed again, the sigil bleeding beneath her feet.
------
Alaric had never liked tombs. But Arvale felt less like a grave and more like a memory. A deep, echoing absence.
The stone beneath his boots vibrated softly, like the hum of a long-dead heart still trying to beat.
He descended carefully, torch in one hand, claws ready in the other.
The air thickened as he neared the vault door—a perfect circle of obsidian, sealed with runes in a language he didn't speak. Yet his blood responded.
He cut his palm, pressing it to the stone.
It opened without resistance.
Within the chamber floated a girl—not standing, not laying, but hovering midair. Her arms were bound by silver-threaded vines, her skin pale and glimmering like moonlight on glass.
Alaric whispered, "Eira."
Her eyes snapped open. Gold, piercing, inhuman.
"You are not Varen."
"No," he replied. "But I'm his shadow. In some ways."
"You reek of wolf and betrayal."
"I came to stop him."
She floated down slowly, vines falling away. "And yet you awaken me."
"I need your help. Varen is raising an army. One that could destroy us all."
"I was a queen once," she said softly. "I turned entire kingdoms to ash with a thought. Why should I help you?"
"Because you were betrayed once too," he said. "And because Varen wants to do worse."
Her golden gaze softened.
"Then let me show you why he fears me."
Before he could speak, the shadows moved.
Varen's sentries surged forward—cloaked hybrids, eyes dead and bright. They attacked as one, claws raking.
Alaric spun into them, claws gleaming. One fell with a broken spine. Another tore through his side. Pain flared.
Then Eira moved.
With a whisper, every sound in the chamber died.
She opened her palm—and the sentries combusted without fire, collapsing in utter silence.
Alaric dropped to one knee, bleeding.
Eira touched his shoulder.
"You bleed for your truth. That is rare. I will follow you—for now."
------
Callum hadn't expected the Cathedral to still exist.
Half-buried under the lake of Eldaran, the ruins jutted like crooked teeth from the water's surface. He and his team—Zerius, Mara, and Kyden—entered through a broken bell tower now covered in algae and moss.
"It's like walking into the lungs of a drowned god," Mara whispered.
Callum nodded. "Let's not get eaten."
They descended through dark, water-slick tunnels, guided by Kyden's rune-light and instinct. The Vault, if it existed here, was sealed beneath layers of forgotten prayer and blood magic.
At the base of the cathedral, they found it.
A massive iron gate carved with angelic figures—each with fangs.
"Definitely vampire architecture," Zerius muttered.
Kyden placed a hand on the center rune. "This... isn't a prison. It's a tomb. Something died in here and was too dangerous to bury."
He traced the glyphs. "One sleeper. Very old. No name. Possibly First Blood."
Mara paled. "We're not opening this, right?"
Callum hesitated.
"No," he said. "But Varen might. And we need to know what's inside before he gets here."
He drew his blade. "Help me cut the seal."
But before they could move, a voice echoed behind them.
"You shouldn't have come."
It was Varen's lieutenant—Maelis, his resurrected sister.
She stepped from the dark in armor of ash-black steel, blade drawn.
Callum turned slowly. "Didn't think we were important enough to send royalty."
"I came for the girl," Maelis said, eyes on Mara. "She has light blood. We need it."
Mara stepped back, trembling.
Callum stood between them. "You'll go through me first."
Maelis grinned. "I was hoping you'd say that."
---
Later That Night
All across the continent, the vault sleepers stirred.
In Serinhold, Naera knelt by the blood-slicked sigil, whispering to the swamp.
In Arvale, Eira stood at Alaric's side, gold eyes watching the horizon.
In the Cathedral, Maelis vanished into shadows with Mara's blood on her blade—yet Callum lived, scarred but not broken.
And in the sky above, a single red star blinked to life.
A sign of the prophecy.
Of the blood and the shadow intertwined.
Of the war still to come.
---