The throne room of the Obsidian Keep was made of bones.
Polished femurs lined the columns. Ribcages hung like chandeliers. The floor itself was marble-veined with bloodstone, and the air smelled faintly of iron and old incense. Raven had never liked it.
He stood beside the throne—not on it. That was for his father, King Dareth, who sat hunched like a corpse kept alive by anger alone. His crown was fused to his skull, his eyes milky with centuries of rot and rule.
"The witch signs are spreading," growled one of the high lords, a vampire named Talek. "Sigils burned into the outer forests. Moon-blooded animals turning toward the east. We should send a patrol."
"Or a warband," another hissed. "End this before it begins."
Raven said nothing. He was watching the shadows at the far end of the hall.
Someone had entered unnoticed.
A hooded figure, cloaked in grey, moved like smoke through the court's gathered nobles, untouched, unseen—except by him.
No heartbeat.
No scent.
Yet… alive.
He stepped forward instinctively, hand brushing the hilt of his blade.
The figure stopped. Turned.
And for a heartbeat—just one—Raven saw golden eyes beneath the hood.
Not vampire.
Not human.
Not anything he recognized.
The figure bowed low, voice like silk stretched thin.
"I bring a message from the in-between."
The court stirred.
"Who are you to speak in riddles here?" Valen demanded, stepping forward. "Name yourself."
But the figure only looked at Raven.
"The dreamer's heart has stirred," it said. "And the veil is thinning."
Raven's own heart thudded—louder this time, sharp as a hammer against glass. He staggered slightly, clutching his chest.
The room fell into chaos.
Guards moved. The king rose with a snarl. Valen barked orders. But by the time blades were drawn, the figure was gone—vanished like smoke.
And in its place, a single petal floated down.
Black rose. Silver veins. Still warm.
---
That night, Raven sat in his chambers with a vial of blood untouched at his table. His fingers trembled. The petal sat beside him, pulsing faintly.
He didn't understand it.
Why now?
Why her?
He remembered the voice in the sealed hall. The dream he didn't remember having. And for the first time in his long, undead life...
He felt afraid.
---
Meanwhile, deep within the Wraithpine Forest, Lyra sat in a hidden glade, sketching the man from her dreams in charcoal.
She didn't realize her eyes had begun to glow.
Or that the roots beneath her feet were shifting—reaching.
Listening.
And somewhere between their realms, in a place where time folds, the silver-eyed prince whispered her name without knowing why.
"Lyra."