The flames of Hollowmere still clung to the wind, trailing the scent of charred wood, scorched steel, and burned flesh. Smoke crawled across the hills like a living thing, veiling the moon in gray sorrow.
Hollowmere was dying.
And Rael lay still beneath a mound of corpses.
His breath came slow. Shallow. Deliberate. If they thought he was dead, they would leave him. That was all he could hope for now.
The screams had long faded. The clash of swords, the roar of flames, even the whimpering of the dying had dissolved into the cold hush that follows devastation. Only the crackle of embers remained, like the last words of a world swallowed by silence.
The soldiers had come without warning. Cloaked in red and black, bearing the sigil of House Vire. Rael had seen them once before, when they came to demand tribute. But this was different. This wasn't a demand.
This was a message.
No one had been spared. Not the blacksmith. Not the baker's son. Not even the Elder, who had stood trembling with arms raised, begging them to stop.
Rael should have died too.
He didn't know why he hadn't. Maybe because he was overlooked. Maybe because he was buried. Maybe because something deep within him refused to die.
That was the first sign something was wrong.
He stirred, forcing himself up through the weight of the bodies. They were heavy. Still warm. His hands were slick with blood. Not his. Not yet.
When he finally pulled free, the night air struck him like a curse. Cold. Bitter. Too quiet.
He stumbled toward the well in the center of the village, every step echoing louder than it should have. He cupped water in trembling hands, but froze when he saw his reflection.
His eyes, once dull brown, now glowed faintly violet.
He staggered back, heart pounding.
No. That wasn't possible.
Unblooded do not awaken. Not without lineage.
He fell to his knees as a burning pain erupted in his chest. It wasn't the pain of a wound. It was deeper. As if his bones were being rewritten.
His breath came in ragged bursts. Heat surged beneath his skin.
And then the visions came.
A throne carved from marrow. Storms of ash tearing across the sky. Giants made of flame screaming as their bodies cracked apart.
Then a voice. Old. Terrible.
Bind it to the flesh. Seal it in the blood.
Rael cried out, clutching his head.
And then, silence.
Not unconsciousness. Something else.
He was aware now.
He could feel it, thrumming deep within his core. A rhythm. A pulse. Not of this world. Not from his mother. Not from anyone he had ever known.
A bloodline.
His blood.
And something had awakened.