Shout came from the wall. “Open the gates,” echoing through the valley. Followed by the heavy groan of iron, shattering the stillness like the wail of some ancient beast. The massive gate began to rise, links of its chain grinding with reluctant force. Beyond it, a second set of wooden doors scraped open, their surface etched with runes worn smooth by time. Cold, dry wind filtered through the opening, carrying the faint scent of ash and steel.
The guard on the lead horse shifted his grip on the reins. He was clad in dull plate armor, its blackened surface gleaming faintly in the overcast light. His other arm circled the girl seated before him—a fragile thing, her ember-red hair tangled and streaked with grime. Her small form sagged limply against him, as though sleep had taken her or her spirit had fled.
“So, we’re finally here,” the guard muttered, his voice low and edged with unease. “The Devil’s Gate.”
The man riding beside him snorted, his helm turning briefly to glance at the towering fortress ahead. “This place still gives me chills,” he said. “Just thinking about what’s lies beyond those gates...”
“Enough.” Vathros’s voice cut through the conversation, low and commanding. From his place at the front of the group, the sorcerer barely turned his head. “Keep your fears to yourself. It weakens the new people around the place.”
The guards fell silent as the party rode beneath the gate, its shadow stretching over them like the maw of some unspoken terror. Beyond the gate, the fortress revealed itself fully.
It was a sprawling expanse, more city than castle, yet it lacked the noise and life one might expect. Half-empty streets stretched wide between cold stone buildings. Vendors lingered at the edges, their wares displayed beneath threadbare awnings, but their eyes held no spark of trade. Soldiers drilled in vast, open fields, their synchronized movements mechanical, unrelenting. A group of sorcerers stood in a distant yard, their incantations rising in sharp bursts as they hurled fire and frost from their wands at stone targets. Men-at-arm barked corrections carried on the wind, harsh and precise.
At the heart of the fortress stood the castle itself, an ominous structure flanked by two sprawling wings. Its blackened stone walls loomed high, streaked with the remnants of countless battles. Yet, even amid its oppressive grandeur, the gate on the far side of the fortress drew the eye. It was unlike any other—taller than the rest, forged from dark iron and etched with glowing runes that pulsed faintly against the grey sky.
“More sorcerers than before,” one guard remarked, his gaze flicking to the training yard.
The other nodded. “Since the master took control, the old ways are gone. Order of the First has been dissolved. No more house knights, no more levies, no more sacred duty. Just his chosen forces, loyal only to House Valar.”
Vathros slowed his horse, his scarred face grim. “The fools at the High Council have forgotten war,” he said. “They’ve forgotten death. They’ve forgotten what even lies here. And why this place was meant to be the first line of defence. Those who remember do not even care other than filling their coffers.”
Aldrich, the summoner riding beside him, chuckled darkly. “They didn’t hesitate to give this fortress to our master. Tradition means little when it costs them nothing. They’ve sent scraps, not soldiers, to guard this place.”
The group reached the castle gates, dismounting in silence. The guards handed their horses off to a waiting stable boy, their movements deliberate, almost reluctant.
“Is master here?” Vathros asked the guard.
“Yes, my lord. He’s inside with Lord Thorn and Lord Davor.” He replied.
“Get some rest, everyone. Don’t enjoy yourself without me,” Vathros said, his tone softer than before. He turned to the girl on the lead horse. “Bring her to me.”
The guard lifted the girl down, her slight frame swaying as he handed her over. Vathros’s hands tightened on her arms, and he scowled, tilting her face toward him. “Is she dead?”
Aldrich spoke from behind, his grizzled voice steady. “No, m’lord. After her awakening, her energy surged beyond control. It would’ve killed her without intervention. I gave her a tonic last night. She’ll wake—”
Vathros didn’t wait. He taps her cheek before striking the girl sharply across the face, his hand leaving a red imprint on her pale skin. Her eyes flew open, wide with terror and disorientation.
“Where—?” she whispered, her voice weak and trembling.
“Hell,” Vathros growled. “Now walk. Master is waiting.”
She staggered as he released her, her bare feet dragging against the stone. The ropes binding her wrists made her movements awkward, and she limped after Vathros, her head bowed as though the air itself weighed her down.
Aldrich watched her with a faint grimace. “Poor girl,” he murmured. “These old eyes have seen horrors, but this...”
One of the guards snorted. “Spare us the sympathy, old man. Come one, let's get to the brothel. It’s been months since the touch of a woman.”
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Inside the castle, the air grew heavier, thick with the scent of old stone and lingering smoke. The great hall stretched wide, its vaulted ceiling supported by massive pillars carved with serpentine designs. At its center stood a table of black stone, its surface etched with maps and marked with small figurines denoting armies and territories. The chairs surrounding it were likewise stone, their edges sharp and cold.
At the far end of the table stood a man of lean build, his dirt-blond hair falling to his shoulders in precise waves. He wore a tailored coat of deep grey, its crimson embroidery tracing the sharp lines of his frame. His ember-red eyes gleamed as he leaned over the map, gesturing sharply to the two armored men flanking him. Their black armor bore the crest of red fangs, and their grey cloaks swayed as they bowed at his command.
Vathros halted a good twenty paces from the table, bowing his head but not speaking. The girl hid behind him, trembling, her eyes darting around the room like a caged animal.
The blond man dismissed his knights with a flick of his hand. As they passed Vathros, they nodded briefly, their gazes cold and unreadable.
“Vathros,” the man said, his voice smooth but laced with steel. “You’ve returned. Try not to disappoint me. It’s becoming a habit of yours.”
“I wouldn’t dare, my master,” Vathros replied, his voice low. “I bring the girl, as requested. She bears the blood of Leonhart and has recently awakened.”
Vathros dragged the girl forward, ignoring her silent pleas. She stumbled, falling hard onto the stone floor. A soft cry escaped her lips, tears pooling on the ground beneath her.
The blond man approached, his boots echoing against the stone. He stopped before her, tilting her chin up with the toe of his boot.
“She stinks like horse piss,” he said, his lips curling in disdain. He leaned closer, his ember eyes boring into hers. “Don’t cry now. Save it for later.” He drew his sword, the blade gleaming with dark runes. “Answer my questions, or I’ll find other ways to make you speak. Do you understand?”
The girl nodded quickly, her entire body trembling.
The man laughed coldly, glancing at Vathros. “You’ve trained her well. She’s almost obedient like our hounds.”
“She was a wild one,” Vathros said without emotion. “Like her mother.”
The blond man smirked, his gaze flicking back to the girl. “She does have her eyes. Bring her to the dungeon. I have questions... and one surprise for her there.”
The girl’s nod came instinctively, the last shred of defiance buried beneath her need to survive.
----------------------------------------
The air inside the underground dungeon was suffocating. Each breath brought the rank stench of rot and decay—damp stone steeped in years of neglect, human waste, and despair. Torches along the walls flickered weakly, their light barely reaching the iron bars of the cells that lined the narrow corridor. Shadows twisted and danced, mocking the souls trapped in this wretched place.
Alira’s bare feet shuffled against the icy floor as she was half-dragged, half-pulled deeper into the gloom. Her nightgown clung to her thin frame, torn and dirty, and her bound wrists ached from the coarse rope that had dug into her skin. She kept her head down, emerald eyes fixed on the ground, too afraid to meet the gazes of the prisoners who watched silently from the darkness of their cells.
Vathros held the torch high, the flames casting deep lines across his scarred face. His robes, scorched and frayed, swayed as he walked. Behind him, the guard followed, their boots echoing against the stone with rhythmic precision. The dim light painted their black armor with a dull sheen, their shadowy presence amplifying the already oppressive atmosphere.
At the end of the corridor, where the cells grew fewer and the silence more absolute, a heavy iron door awaited. The blonde man stood before a cell which sent a cold chill from it. The torchlight revealed a woman inside, she had silver hair and pointed ears. She was sitting with her back towards the wall with her amethyst eyes looking sharply at her visitors.
The blonde man spoke with sarcasm. “Have you not died yet? Still hoping to see your son? Don’t worry, he’s in safe hands. I have to say even after all that torture you didn’t flinch… Well, you were the finest whore of that old bastard. Don’t worry, will send someone to keep you company. There are many men here. Just don’t freeze them to death with that magic of yours.”
They stepped towards the next cell. “What are you looking at? Open it,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.
The guard with the keys stepped forward, fumbling only briefly before the lock clicked. The iron door groaned in protest as it swung open, revealing a cell larger than the others but far from more accommodating. The only light came from Vathros’s torch, and it revealed walls slick with moisture and a floor littered with rags that might once have been bedding.
The guard and Vathros exchanged a bow and left without a word, placing the torch in a rusted sconce near the entrance. Alira stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the ground, her small body trembling as the blonde man turned to her.
“Come now,” he said, his tone mockingly gentle. “We’ve only just begun.”
With a rough pull, he dragged her into the cell. She stumbled, nearly falling, but his grip kept her upright. Without ceremony, he pushed her to the far corner, where the wall bore an iron chain affixed to a shackle. He removed the rope from her wrists and replaced it with the cold steel.
Her hands trembled as the shackle snapped shut, her fingers brushing the damp stone as she lowered them. If death would claim her now, she thought, it would be mercy. But even that fleeting hope was smothered by a thought stronger than her own pain.
“What is your name?” The blonde man’s voice pierced the silence, sharp and unyielding.
“Alira,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
“Your parents?”
“Lyna and Aeron,” she said, barely audible.
The back of his hand struck her face before she could brace herself. The force sent her sprawling to the floor, a metallic tang filling her mouth as fresh blood spilled from her lips. Her cry echoed in the cell, raw and helpless.
“No lies,” the blonde man hissed.
“Lyra Leonhart and Aeron Lambert.” She whispered tremblingly.
The sound of her cry stirred movement from the far corner of the cell. A frail figure shifted, skeletal limbs creaking like old wood. The man, chained to the wall, turned slowly. His white hair fell in thin strands around a face sunken and aged beyond its years. But his eyes—vivid blue—shone with a sharpness that defied his broken body. He tried to speak, but the sound that escaped his throat was guttural, a muted cry of anguish.
“Aagh,” he rasped, his chains rattling as he struggled to sit upright.
Alira’s gaze darted toward him, her heart racing. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t look away.
The blonde man sneered, glancing briefly over his shoulder. “Oh, that. Well, that’s the surprise.”
Alira blinked, tears streaking her bloodied face. “S-Surprise?”
The man smirked, stepping aside so she could see the prisoner more clearly. “This,” he said with theatrical flair, “was once the lord of this very castle. Heir to the purest bloodline of dragons, blah, blah. You know, all that. But what is important is his name. Edward Leonhart. Your uncle. That very man who should be dead. Right? Ed?”
Her breath hitched, the weight of his words settling on her like a stone. “Uncle?”
Edward’s eyes locked on hers, and for a moment, the warmth in his gaze chased away the chill of the cell. He reached a skeletal hand toward her, the chains clinking softly. Alira stretched out her own hand, her fingers trembling as they sought his.
“Tch. Tch. Tch,” the blonde man interrupted, stepping between them. “Enough for now. There will be time for your reunion later.”
Alira’s hand fell back to her lap, her head bowed once more.
The blonde man circled her slowly, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “Do you remember how you kept your sister from me, Ed? Treated me like some depraved animal.” He leaned closer to Edward, his sneer twisting into something darker. “And now look at you. No tongue to curse, no power to bite. Your precious house is nothing more than ash and whispers. I have broken centuries-old feud of our houses. You should be happy about that.”
Edward’s face contorted with rage, his chains rattling as he struggled against them.
“Why are you doing this?” Alira asked, her voice barely audible.
The blonde man paused, feigning thought. “Why?” His tone turned mocking, almost playful. “Let’s call it... a necessary change. Have you ever wondered why only certain bloodlines were gifted with the blessings of dragons? Why only a few can wield magic? Why only a few get something while others just envy them? It’s unfair, don’t you think? A man like me, who clawed his way to power, denied by birthright alone. I was no knight, no magic to wield, even my brothers picked on me. But I have one thing that they do not have, a genius brain.”
He crouched in front of her, his ember eyes gleaming with something primal. “Your mother was one of the women I ever truly loved. She was weak like me, just waiting to be devoured by the world. I dreamed of her every night. Wondered how it would feel to hold her, to feel her waist and that tender lips. She was that one fine whore that every man would choose to spend his night with. But she chooses that dog of hers. It’s a pity she died.”
Edward’s muffled scream tore through the cell, his chains clanging violently against the wall.
The blonde man ignored him, his focus entirely on Alira. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin. “But that’s for another time. For now, you’re here. Image of her very self, more tender and fresh except for that shitty smell. And we both have all the time in the world.”
Edward’s screams reached a fever pitch, his chains straining against their bolts. Alira’s own cries joined his, echoing through the dungeon as the blonde man’s laughter filled the void between them. She trembled, her back pressed against the cold stone wall. Her nightgown hung in tatters, and her small hands gripped the remnants of fabric tightly to her chest. Her eyes, wide with terror, darted to the blonde man as he loomed over her.
The scrape of his boots against the stone echoed like a drumbeat of dread. He shrugged off his coat, letting it fall unceremoniously to the damp floor, and drew the blade from his side with a sharp hiss of steel. The sword clattered to the ground beside him as he crouched, his gaze predatory.
“No, no, please,” Alira whimpered, her voice breaking as she pushed herself farther into the corner. “Uncle! Uncle, help me!”
Her cries only seemed to amuse him. He reached out, tearing the fabric of her gown with a single pull, the delicate material shredding like parchment. Her tender skin caught the flicker of the torchlight, pale and marred with scars both fresh and old. His hands, rough and calloused, traced her waist as though appraising a sculpture.
“Spare her, you monster.” A soft voice came among the cries and screams, it came from the other cell, from the elf woman. “Do whatever you want with me, just spare that poor child.”
“How can I not touch such a soft and smooth skin,” he murmured, his tone almost reverent. “She’s a rare prize to have.”
Alira lashed out, her small hand striking weakly against his chest. He snarled, the sound guttural, and struck her across the face with the back of his hand. The force sent her sprawling, her head striking the wall.
“Brother,” she sobbed as her eyes closed, voice but a broken whisper. “Save me.”
He leaned closer, his breath hot and foul against her skin. His fingers reached for her again, but a voice cut through the suffocating air like a blade through flesh.
“You filth,” the voice snarled, cold and brimming with fury. “Get those hands away from my possessions.”
The blonde man froze. His trembling hands fell to his sides, his face paling. Slowly, he turned his head toward the source of the voice.
She stepped into the light, her presence commanding and otherworldly. Her gown was black as the void, its intricate embroidery glinting faintly like threads of moonlight. The high collar and lace sleeves framed her regal figure. Her silver white hair cascaded over her shoulders, a braid weaving along one side, and her pale ears adorned with intricate jewellery caught the dim glow of the torches.
But it was her eyes—red as fresh blood, glowing with an intensity that seemed to pierce the soul—that held his gaze and made him shiver. Her lips, painted in the same crimson hue, curved into a faint smirk, though her expression carried no warmth.
“Did I order you to taint her with your filth, Islar?” Her voice was low, smooth, and sharp enough to flay skin.
The blonde man—Islar—recovered quickly, forcing a smile. He took her hand with feigned reverence, brushing his lips against the blood-red gem on her ring. “No, my queen. Forgive this unworthy servant. It will not happen again.”
Her gaze flicked to the far side of the cell, where the gaunt figure of Edward Leonhart sat slumped against the wall, his chains rattling faintly with each laboured breath. Disgust flashed across her features as she turned back to Islar.
“Step aside,” she ordered.
Islar obeyed, retreating to the edge of the cell. The queen approached Alira, her heels clicking against the stone. The girl flinched as the queen crouched beside her, her pale hand reaching out.
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“Look me in the eye, child,” the queen commanded.
Alira hesitated, but the queen’s grip was firm, tilting the girl’s chin upward. The glowing red eyes held her captive, and Alira’s breath hitched as the stories of creatures came to her mind, cursed creatures that drink blood to satisfy their thrust: Vampires.
The queen wiped the blood from Alira’s lips with her thumb, then licked it with a slow, deliberate motion. Her expression darkened, though it was impossible to tell if she was displeased or intrigued.
“She’ll do,” the queen murmured. “Kill the other one.”
At her words, Vathros stepped into the cell, drawing a dagger from his robes. He crossed to Edward without hesitation, gripping the man’s matted hair and pulling his head back to expose his throat.
“No! Please!” Alira screamed, lunging forward and grabbing the queen’s skirt. “Spare him! Please, I’m begging you!”
The queen looked down at her with an expression devoid of emotion. She raised her left hand placing on the head of the girl, revealing a black ring with golden rune carvings.
“Kill?” she said, her tone eerily calm. “We’re not killing him, child. He was dead long ago. I am releasing him from the binding of this mortal body. It’s a sacred duty."
Edward’s blue eyes locked on Alira’s, and for a moment, a faint smile touched his lips.
Vathros’s dagger flashed, and the sickening sound of a blade slicing through flesh filled the cell. Blood splattered onto the floor, pooling at Alira’s knees. She froze, staring at her trembling hands now stained red.
The queen raised her right hand, the blood-red gem on her ring glowing faintly. A foul stench filled the cell as the air grew thick with unseen power. She whispered ancient words, her voice like the distant toll of a funeral bell:
“Zhal’thir vakar sol’khan, vrae vor Thul’vrae.”
Edward’s lifeless body twitched, then fell still. The shadows around him seemed to dissipate, as though his soul had been severed from the mortal realm.
The queen lowered her hand, her head bowed slightly. “May thy soul find peace beside our true lord, Zerathu’um.”
She turned to Alira, who sat paralyzed, her tear-streaked face pale and bloodied. The queen’s voice cut through the silence once more. “Place this one with the other two.”
Islar bowed stiffly. “Yes, my queen. I will see to it.”
“No, have someone bathe her and prepare some clothes for her. And bring her to my chamber later,” she ordered. “Her blood is different. Purest for any human and other beings. It rivals my own. Her blood... reminds me of someone.”
The queen paused at the threshold of the cell, her voice a venomous whisper. “And remember, Islar. If you ever touch any of my possessions again, it will be your last.”
“It will not happen again, my queen. Regarding the reward you mentioned…”
“Speak plainly. You know I don’t like that diplomatic tone of yours. I have lost touch with diplomacy, it has not been well for me in the past.”
“I would like a drop of your blood, for my son. With it he will rise with a new power, which may rival the strongest wizards in the future.”
“Yeah, I seem to have forgotten about that. Kaiser, was it? Hmm? Very well. Meet me before going back to Valar. Just focus on the other two individuals, they are necessary to move on with the real objective.”
Islar nodded, though his clenched fists betrayed his frustration. As the queen ascended the stairs, her footsteps fading into the distance, he turned to Vathros with a sneer.
“You disappoint me, yet again,” he spat. “You’re become nothing more than her obedient dog.”
Vathros met his gaze impassively. “Forgive me, master. My blood pact with her does not allow me to go against her will.”
Islar's sneer deepened. "Her thirst is weakening her. She hasn't fed in the last few months. If she changes her mind, it will be difficult for us. We have failed to gather any information about her in the last fifteen years and now she is collecting these peasants. Despite searching in a foreign land, we have had no success in acquiring any information about it. Contact the others and prepare to leave for the other side. This time, I want success; reach out to their king and get in touch with him. With the Dark One.”
----------------------------------------
The melody of her humming was the first thing Alira noticed, cutting through the suffocating weight of her pain like a fleeting ray of sunlight. Each step up the spiralling stone stairs was agony, her bare feet burning with pain and her legs trembling as she clung to the cold, rough wall for support. The past weeks had blurred into a relentless nightmare. Her mother’s death, the abduction, and the endless dread had transformed her. The girl who once filled with an energetic smile now walked with her head bowed, the chains of obedience and survival wrapped tightly around her spirit.
She paused at the top of the spiralling staircase. The hum was clearer now, coming from the single wooden door ahead. The sound was deceptively soft and calming, at odds with the raw fear that had become her constant companion.
Standing by the door was a man.
He was unlike any of the armored knights or robed sorcerers she had seen in the dungeons. His black cloak hung heavy around him, the leather armor beneath fitted and unadorned. A sword rested at his hip, its worn hilt within easy reach, and a hood shadowed the top half of his face, leaving the lower half obscured by a mask. Despite the stillness of his posture, his presence was suffocating, like a coiled serpent watching its prey.
Alira lowered her gaze instinctively, her heartbeat quickening.
The man turned slightly, he rapped twice on the door with knuckles that seemed armoured by sheer will. “The girl has arrived, my lady.”
The humming stopped.
A soft voice responded from within, calm yet edged with a command that brooked no refusal. “Send her in.”
The man opened the door without looking inside, his movements measured and deliberate. Alira stepped forward, her head bowed as she passed him, the weight of his silent scrutiny pressing against her back. The door closed behind her with a soft thud.
The room was modest compared to the vast halls of the castle, yet it held an unspoken elegance. A large bed, draped in dark linens, sat to the left, and to the right, a wooden writing desk stood near a wide, arched window. The moonlight filtered through, casting faint silver lines across the floor.
But it was the woman in the center of the room who stole all of Alira’s attention.
Her silver-white hair cascaded down her back like liquid moonlight, damp and glistening from the water that filled the wooden tub. The high collar and lace sleeves of her gown lay discarded nearby, and her pale skin glowed faintly in the dim light, smooth and unblemished except for the intricate jewellery adorning her ears.
“Come here, child,” the woman said without turning, her voice carrying a quiet power.
Alira obeyed, stepping carefully toward the tub until she stood at its edge. The woman’s presence was overwhelming, her beauty otherworldly, and yet it was the calmness in her tone that unsettled Alira the most.
“Help me bathe,” the woman instructed, her tone leaving no room for refusal.
Alira picked up a cloth from the side, dipping it into the water. She worked with careful strokes, smoothing it over the woman’s arm.
“Are you mute?” the woman asked, her eyes still closed. “In the dungeons, you were… not so silent.”
Alira swallowed, her voice faltering as she replied, “No, Mistress.”
“Mistress,” the woman echoed, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Serena will suffice. ‘Mistress’ makes me feel old.”
Alira hesitated, then nodded quickly. “Y-Yes… Lady Serena.”
A soft laugh escaped Serena’s lips. “Go on. Speak your thoughts. I prefer honesty over meek obedience.”
Alira’s grip on the cloth tightened. “I… I’ve heard tales in my village. Are you a vampire?”
“Vampire?” Serena’s eyes opened for the first time, glowing faintly crimson as she glanced at the girl. “Not a witch? That’s new.” She chuckled softly. “No, child, I am neither. Merely a woman. No more, no less.”
“How can some call you a witch?” Alira said, her voice growing steadier. “You saved me from that monster.”
“Monster,” Serena mused, her tone thoughtful. “If you think he was a monster, remember this: history has often called me far worse.”
Alira didn’t respond, her hands working the cloth over Serena’s shoulder. The rhythmic motion calmed her nerves, though the tension in the room remained palpable.
When the bath was finished, Serena rose gracefully from the water, unbothered by her nakedness as droplets trailed down her pale figure. “Fetch me a dress from the closet,” she instructed.
Alira moved quickly to obey, limping toward the wardrobe near the wall. She opened it to find a row of black gowns, identical in their elegance and simplicity. She selected one and turned back, her breath catching as Serena’s gaze locked onto her.
The woman’s crimson eyes glowed faintly, their intensity holding Alira in place. For a moment, she felt as though she were being judged, weighed, and measured. Fear clawed at her chest, but she forced herself to move, each step feeling like a battle.
When she reached Serena, she held out the dress with trembling hands. “Here, Lady Serena.”
Serena took it with a faint smile, her eyes softening as she began to dress. “When did you awaken?” she asked suddenly, her voice almost casual.
“Two weeks ago,” Alira replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “The day my mother… the day she died.”
Serena’s hands paused, her gaze sharpening. “Your mother. Lyra Leonhart?”
Alira nodded.
Serena’s expression darkened, though her voice remained calm. “I gave the order to bring the youngest Leonhart’s bloodline. That happened to be you. But your mother’s death... I had no hand in that.”
Alira stared, confusion and anger bubbling beneath her fear. “Then why—”
“I took responsibility for her death,” Serena interrupted. “If you seek vengeance, take it. But you’ll only have your chance when you are strong enough. Right now, you are nothing but a fragile rabbit in a world full of wolves. Change that first.”
The words stung, but Alira didn’t argue. She stood silently, her hands clenched at her sides.
After a long pause, she finally spoke. “Why did you bring me here? I deserve to know why my mother died.”
The woman ignored as she adjusted the high collar of her gown, its black fabric catching faint glints of light from the room’s flickering torches. She moved toward the balcony with an air of reality, her steps light yet measured. The sound of her soft footfalls against the stone floor seemed to echo louder in Alira’s ears, amplifying the weight of the moment.
Alira followed hesitantly, her limp more pronounced now after their earlier conversation. Pain lanced through her leg with every step, but she dared not complain. She reached the balcony, gripping its cold, worn edge for support as she looked out into the vast expanse of the world beyond.
The horizon was ominous, dominated by a swirling mass of blood-red clouds that churned in the far distance like an open wound in the sky. They seemed alive, pulsating with an unnatural rhythm that made Alira’s breath hitch.
“Look at those clouds,” Serena said, her voice low but intense. She gestured toward the scarlet storm with a pale, graceful hand. “Do you know what lies there?”
Alira shook her head, her emerald eyes wide.
“There lies a land, a forbidden land as humans describe,” Serena continued, her tone steady, though an edge of sorrow bled into her words. “Once, it was rich with pure energy. where my people thrived for millennia. We were not conquerors or destroyers, ever after advancement in magic. We were protectors, overseers of not just our people but all living beings.”
Her voice dropped, and her gaze hardened. “But that land is now cursed. Every being, everything is tainted by corrupted energy. My people have been twisted, and enslaved by their own leader. They have become something... unrecognizable. And I would do anything to lift that curse—even if it means purging your lands again.”
Alira stared at her, stunned into silence.
Serena’s expression softened slightly, but the weight of her words pressed heavily against the air between them. “I made a promise to protect my people. To him. And I intend to keep it. Your blood is the key to lifting the curse.”
“My blood?” Alira whispered, her voice trembling. “How could my blood lift such a powerful curse?”
“Not just yours,” Serena replied, her crimson eyes narrowing slightly as they reflected the distant storm. “There are four others like you. Each of you carries a piece of what was sacrificed to save this world once before. But it is your bloodline that concerns me most. You have traces of the Guardian Dragons within you—ancient protectors of my kind.”
Alira’s heart raced, her confusion mounting. “Guardian Dragons?”
Serena turned her piercing gaze back to her, and her voice was laced with an almost reverent sorrow. “Yes. They were once known as Divine Dragons that gave blessing to chosen bloodlines. Their names were Erythion of the Ice, Sylvara of the Life, Kaeltheras of the Dark, Rhogar of the Flame, and Myrridion of the Stone. They sacrificed their essence alongside our king to seal the Dark One into another realm. But the curse came from the seal was devastating for our kind.”
Serena’s eyes dimmed for a moment, the glimmer of tears visible. “The Guardian Dragons are long gone, and their bloodlines have almost vanished after centuries of mixed blood. You are a rare fragment of their legacy. And yet, someone has gathered what remains of my people. He rules as a self-proclaimed king, wielding their corrupted forms as his soldiers, all while disguising as the Dark One.”
Her voice broke slightly, and she turned away, wiping a single tear from her cheek. “If Valeria were still here... If he had survived...”
Alira frowned. “Valeria?”
“My… sister,” Serena said, her voice almost a whisper. “With her magic and vast knowledge, we could stand a chance. I have searched for her in the past but have no luck. She is long gone, along with our husband. Lord Protector of the Land of Dragons, Mythoria.”
A sharp silence fell between them, broken only by the distant wind outside.
Serena suddenly turned, her eyes blazing with intensity. “These humans don’t even realize what is waiting for them. Consumed by their greed and indulging in all forbidden magic. Even if I am on your side now, it will not change the outcome. Their society is already breached by the dark forces of Valar. His ambitions alone will break the very foundations of their civilization. I am to blame for that.”
“What do you mean?” Alira asked, her voice edged with panic.
Serena stepped closer, her movements as fluid as flowing water. She raised a single finger, and from it, a glowing drop of blood emerged, pulsing with the same energy as the red storm on the horizon. Alira froze, her legs refusing to move as Serena’s gaze locked onto hers.
“You will understand in time,” Serena said, her voice low and resonant. “Forget who you were before you came here. Forget the bloodline you come from. From this moment forward, you will be something far greater.”
The drop of blood hovered between them, its glow illuminating Serena’s fierce expression. “I bestow upon you a fragment of my sacred blood. It will awaken the power buried deep within your blood; the true blood of Flame Dragon: Rhogar, the Guardian Flame of Emberheart. You wield magic that my kind perfected over centuries. You were born to burn villages to ash with a single spell. No one can stand against your flames.”
Alira trembled, her emerald eyes locked on the glowing blood.
“This is your chance,” Serena said, her tone softening slightly. “A chance to take revenge on people who killed your mother, on people who made you suffer. Even me, if you shall.”
The blood moved closer, and Alira’s heart thundered in her chest. She didn’t move, even as the drop hovered just above her skin, warm and thrumming with a power she couldn’t comprehend. Her lips parted, but no words came.
Serena’s smile was faint, her eyes gleaming with something unspoken. “Do you accept it?”
Alira closed her eyes, breathing deeply as she opened her gaze with determination. “Yes.”
Serena’s smile lingered, faint and enigmatic, as she stepped closer to Alira. The drop of blood hovering at her fingertip pulsed like a living heart, casting shifting crimson light over the young girl’s trembling face. It seemed to call to Alira, a silent rhythm that resonated in her chest, both terrifying and magnetic.
“Close your eyes,” Serena commanded, her voice low but firm.
Alira hesitated for a fraction of a moment, then obeyed, her eyelids fluttering shut. Her hands, slick with sweat, clenched at her sides as if holding her fragile resolve together.
“You will feel pain worse than you have ever felt,” Serena continued, her tone steady and unyielding. “Do not resist it. Let it take you. Only then will you be born like true dragon.”
Alira barely had time to brace herself. A single drop of the sacred blood touched her lips, warm and impossibly thick, slipping past them and onto her tongue.
The taste struck her immediately—a rich, metallic tang that seemed to hum with life. The moment it slid down her throat, heat bloomed in her chest, sharp and sudden, spreading outward like wildfire.
Her breath hitched, her body stiffening as the sensation exploded. A searing wave of heat raced through her veins, its intensity robbing her of breath. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold stone floor, her fingers clawing at its unyielding surface.
Her world became heat and pain.
It wasn’t just the fire; it was the weight of something ancient awakening within her, pressing against her mind and soul, testing their limits. Her pulse hammered against her skull, her heart beating in frantic rhythm with the surge of power consuming her.
Serena stepped back, her expression calm but watchful, her gaze locked onto the writhing girl. “Do not fight it, child,” she said, her voice cutting through the chaos. “This is your inheritance. Claim it. The moment your mind stumbles will be your last.”
Alira’s head snapped back, her mouth open in a soundless scream as a sharp, blinding pain erupted between her brows. It was as if a red-hot brand was being pressed into her flesh, carving its mark. Tears streamed down her face, only to evaporate in the rising heat.
Her body convulsed, her muscles locking and releasing uncontrollably. The air around her shimmered with heat waves, and a faint, acrid smell filled the room as wisps of smoke rose from her sweat-soaked dress.
The pain in her forehead sharpened, condensing into a single burning point. Then, with a flash of searing light, it spread outward, and the mark revealed itself.
Between her brows, an intricate flame pattern appeared, glowing a vivid, molten red. It pulsed faintly, like the embers of a freshly stoked fire, casting flickering light across her pale, contorted face.
The room responded.
The temperature surged, waves of heat rippling outward from Alira’s trembling form. The stone beneath her hands warmed, and the very air seemed to quiver, heavy with a newfound energy. The torches along the walls flickered violently, their flames shrinking and bowing as if cowering in the presence of live flames.
Alira’s chest heaved, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Her body trembled under the weight of the transformation, every muscle taut with strain. She felt as though she might burst apart, unable to contain the raw, unbridled force coursing through her.
And then—stillness.
The heat around her stilled, the suffocating pressure easing, though the air remained charged. Alira’s hands, once clawing at the ground, relaxed, her fingers splaying across the stone. Her shoulders sagged as her head lowered, sweat-soaked strands of ember-red hair clinging to her face.
“Open your eyes,” Serena commanded. Her voice was softer now, but it carried an unyielding authority that left no room for refusal.
Alira hesitated, her entire body trembling as though afraid of what she might find. Slowly, she lifted her head.
When her eyelids parted, the room seemed to darken, as though the light itself recoiled from the inferno blazing within her gaze.
Her eyes no longer held the familiar emerald hue. They burned, red and molten, like living flames, shifting and flickering as though alive. The heat around her swirled inward, pulled toward her fiery gaze, before vanishing into silence.
Serena tilted her head slightly, her expression inscrutable as her lips curved into the faintest smile. “Alyona,” she said softly, the name rolling from her tongue with quiet reverence.
“From this day forth,” she continued, her voice measured and deliberate, “I bestow upon you a name worthy of the flames that now burn within you. You shall be known as Alyona, the Princess of Flames.”
The name carried weight, as if it had been carved from stone and handed down through generations. Alira, or now Alyona, blinked slowly, the flickering light in her eyes intensifying for a moment. Her breathing steadied, though the residual heat in the room still pulsed faintly around her like a living presence.
Alyona struggled to find her voice, her throat dry and raw from the heat that had consumed her moments ago. “Why... Alyona?” she managed, her voice cracking but steadying as the words left her lips.
Serena’s faint smile deepened, though her expression remained enigmatic. She raised a hand, gesturing lightly toward the flame mark now etched onto Alyona’s forehead.
“That name,” Serena said, her tone thoughtful, “reflects the power you now carry. Alyona, the flame reborn. It was passed down from generation to generation in my clan. A symbol of destruction and creation. It will command fear in your enemies and respect among those wise enough to understand”
Alyona’s fingers instinctively brushed against the mark on her forehead. The skin beneath was warm, tingling faintly with the echo of the fire that had burned it into place. She looked down at her hands, at the faint shimmer that lingered on her skin, as if the flames still lived beneath the surface.
Serena turned, her movements deliberate as she strode toward the window. The moonlight framed her silhouette, her gown catching the faint glow of the outside world.
“You are the third,” Serena said, her voice calm, yet each word struck like a hammer on steel. Her gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the blood-red clouds still churned in the distance. “The third of this generation to carry the bloodline of the Guardian Dragons. Each of you carries their legacy, amplified by my own.”
“What do you mean? How can it be different than magic that others wield?” Alyona asked, her voice steadying as she spoke.
Serena turned slightly, just enough for the light to catch her crimson eyes. They seemed to glow with unspoken knowledge. “Magic,” she began, her tone one of both disdain and reverence, “is a discipline the world has twisted. Those who wield it with wands have bound themselves to mediocrity. Their power comes from the world around them, drawn and stored in their fragile bodies. It was meant to bring them closer to this magical world, to give everyone a chance to wield magic with little effort. But that was never the way for those like you or my kind.”
Her gaze flicked to the flame mark on Alyona’s forehead. “The blood of dragons holds its own energy, boundless and raw. You will not need chants, nor will you need wands. Your will is your weapon, and your blood is the fuel. But this power is untamed. Dangerous. You will learn to command it, or it will consume you.”
Alyona rose slowly to her feet, her legs unsteady but her resolve firm. The name lingered in her mind, its weight settling over her like a mantle. She watched Serena’s back, the otherworldly grace of her movements and the unshakable authority in her voice.
Alyona hesitated, her lips parting to speak, but she faltered. She drew a breath and took a step forward, her words spilling out in a rush. “Lady Serena, I... I have a brother. Older than me. He wields such magic. Thunder. If there’s a chance... I want to meet him. Let him know I’m... somewhat safe, I think.”
Serena froze, the barest flicker of surprise flashing across her features before she hid it behind her usual calm. “Thunder, you say?” Her voice was colder now, sharp like steel. “That can’t be possible. There are no living descendants of that bloodline. The House of Bloodrose, which carried that traitor’s blood, was destroyed long ago. Every last descendant was wiped out. Raknor, the Guardian of Storms. He refused the call of our king for his descendants. I see to it that his every last descendant paid for that price.”
Alyona stiffened. “But—”
Serena’s gaze silenced her. It wasn’t anger but more of a warning, quiet and absolute.
After a long pause, Serena sighed and waved a hand dismissively. “Forget it. I will send someone to find him. You may write him a letter. But remember this, Alyona.” She stepped closer, her voice lowering to a whisper. “You are no longer Alira Leonhart. Do not let him distract you. Promise me you will dedicate yourself wholly to learning magic. And I see to it that your brother lives his life with the head still untacked.”
The threat lingered in the air like smoke, heavy and suffocating.
Alyona swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you, Lady Serena. I promise I will learn... with all my heart.” Her voice was stronger now, though a flicker of uncertainty still lingered in her tone. “What will happen to me now?” She asked.
Serena’s expression softened slightly, though her eyes remained sharp as ever. “Now,” she said, her voice soft yet filled with authority, “you will learn. You will master the flames you have been given. Alongside the other two individuals like you. You will become something the world has not seen in centuries, far stronger, far better, far more dangerous.”
She turned fully, the crimson clouds reflected in her eyes as if they burned within her soul. “I will teach you to command not just fire, but dragons themselves. The world seems to have forgotten them, buried them in tales and myths. But they are real, and their return will shake the very bones of this land.”
Serena’s smile returned, a flicker of something almost playful crossing her features. “In a few months, we will go on a little adventure. But first, you must prove you are worthy of the name you now carry.”
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