Two nights later.
The full moon rode high over the Embercrag Mountains, painting the cliffs in silver and bone. Winds howled between the rocks like wolves in mourning.
Varek knelt before a stone cairn, built from charred bones and obsidian shards.
He pressed his palm to it and whispered a name.
Elira.
His mother.
The blood that damned him. The blood that gave him strength.
Selene stood at a distance, watching him in silence. The moonlight touched her skin like a lover, her silver-blonde hair whipping in the wind. She wasn't armored tonight. Just wrapped in a deep-gray cloak and her own tension.
Varek rose, turning toward her.
"She died here," he said. "Saving me."
Selene stepped closer. "The cairn is old. Someone maintained it?"
Varek nodded. "A witch. My old guardian—Brytha. She kept me hidden in the caves nearby. Trained me. Warned me never to return to this mountain."
"But you did."
He gave a bitter smile. "I'm not very good at obedience."
Selene quirked an eyebrow. "No, you're not."
They fell into step beside each other, walking a narrow ridge that overlooked the valley.
"We can't outrun this," Selene said. "Not the prophecy. Not the bloodlines. And not Alaric."
Varek sighed. "So what do we do?"
"We hunt him," she said. "Start with his lieutenants. Cut away his reach. Disrupt his command."
"Assassination?"
She nodded.
"And along the way," she added, "we dig into that prophecy of yours."
"Ours." Varek stopped walking. "You're in this now."
Selene met his gaze.
"I know. And I'm not running."
Varek looked at her for a long moment, then stepped closer.
"I don't want to lose you."
"You haven't," she said.
Then she kissed him—slow, but hard, as though sealing a pact neither of them fully understood.
Later that night, they descended into the ruins of Brytha's caves.
Varek lit the way with bloodfire—an eerie violet glow summoned from the runes etched into his forearms. Selene followed close, her glaive sheathed on her back, hand resting on the hilt out of habit.
The air smelled like herbs, ash, and something older—time.
Brytha was waiting.
Still cloaked in raven feathers, her eyes were darker than the void.
"You brought her," she said, without surprise.
Varek bowed his head slightly. "She saved my life."
Brytha circled Selene slowly.
"She smells like moonlight and violence."
Selene kept her expression neutral. "You must be Brytha."
"And you must be mad," Brytha replied, "to walk willingly into the web of fate with him."
"I've been called worse."
Brytha smiled. "Good. You'll need that fire."
She turned to Varek.
"Why are you here?"
"Alaric is preparing something. Bigger than before. Villages are being burned in a pattern. He's using blood sigils. Ritual signs."
"Necromancy?" Brytha asked.
"Something worse."
Brytha stiffened. "The Cradle."
Varek's blood ran cold. "You told me that was a myth."
Brytha shook her head slowly. "I told you it should have been."
Selene frowned. "What is it?"
Brytha turned to her. "The Cradle of Red Night. A vampire war ritual. Older than the Great Sundering. It requires the blood of a soul-bonded pair—one vampire, one wolf."
Selene's face went pale.
"Oh."
"Exactly."
Brytha continued, "If Alaric gathers enough of the right blood, he can rip the veil between worlds. Wake the Old Ones. Gods who should have stayed buried."
Varek whispered, "He wants to remake the world in his image."
"And he'll succeed," Brytha added, "if he gets your blood."
Selene stepped between them. "Then we hit first."
Three days later, they tracked the first lieutenant to a fortress on the border of vampire territory.
Lord Fenric Vale.
Cruel. Old. A blood-shaper who could bend flesh and bone into weapons. He'd once turned an entire garrison of soldiers into feral thralls with no minds of their own.
Varek and Selene approached under nightfall.
The fortress was built into the mountainside—gray stone, high towers, guard patrols on repeat.
Selene scanned it from the ridge above. "Too many for a full frontal assault."
Varek nodded. "But not too many for shadows."
They descended like phantoms.
Inside the fortress, the scent of old blood clung to the air like a curse.
Varek moved like a ghost through the corridors, cloak wrapped tight around him. Selene was always one step ahead, slipping through slitted shadows, silent as death.
They killed only when they had to.
Quick. Clean.
No screams.
Then they reached the central hall.
Lord Fenric stood at the altar of bone, his back to them, blood circling in crimson sigils mid-air.
He turned when they entered, lips curled in amusement.
"Ah. The mongrel prince. And his lovely bitch."
Selene snarled and lunged.
Fenric caught her glaive mid-swing and threw her across the room with a flick of his fingers.
Varek rushed in, blades drawn, a roar in his throat.
The battle was brutal.
Fenric conjured blood-spikes from the floor, bone-serpents from the walls. He fought like a demon, laughing all the while.
But Varek was stronger than he remembered.
Faster.
Fueled by fury—and by Selene.
Together, they struck as one—Selene's glaive pinning Fenric's right arm, Varek's blade severing the left.
Then Varek whispered something in the old tongue.
And drove his clawed hand through Fenric's chest.
The vampire lord's scream echoed through the fortress like the death wail of the world.
When it was over, the blood sigils shattered.
The Cradle's mark glowed once—then winked out.
Outside, in the cold moonlight, Varek and Selene stood over the cliff, staring at the burning fortress.
"That's one," Selene said.
Varek nodded. "And more to come."
Then she turned to him.
"You said something before you killed him. What was it?"
Varek hesitated, then spoke softly.
"Ashes reclaim you."
Selene reached for him.
And under that moon, their hands met.
Bound.
Nightbound.
Together.
Far below, unseen, a shadow broke from the cliffside.
Red eyes glinted in the dark.
A whisper carried on the wind:
"The hunt begins…"