The church bell rang—once, hollow and distorted. Elian ducked beneath a lunging corpse, dragging Vlad toward the shattered gate. Smoke curled around the edges of the graveyard, thick and unnatural, reeking of myrrh and death.
"We can't outrun them!" Vlad shouted.
"We don't need to," Elian said, eyes darting to the edge of the forest. "We need to get to the Ash Tree."
The Ash Tree.
The same twisted sentinel where generations of his bloodline had bled.
Legends said it grew from the heart of the first cursed son—a boy sacrificed in place of a demon prince. Every seventh son since had been tethered to it. Elian's father. His brother. And now… him.
As they reached the tree, the world seemed to bend. The moon pulsed overhead, red and enormous. The corpses halted at the tree line, as if afraid.
Luka appeared through the mist, robes torn, hands glowing faintly with blood magic.
"You came," he said. "The pact still lives."
Elian didn't reply. He stared up at the ash tree, then placed his palm against its bark. It burned, the heat sinking deep into his bones. Whispers filled his ears.
*Offer. Sacrifice. Bind.*
"What does it want?" Vlad whispered.
"A choice," Elian muttered.
From behind them, the corpses began to shriek.
Luka raised a dagger. "Only your blood can seal them. Offer it to the tree and end the curse."
Elian reached for the blade—then froze.
In the ash's bark, he saw a reflection not his own: a boy, younger than him, with his eyes. His brother. Alaric.
"No," Elian whispered. "There's another way."
He stepped back from the tree. "This tree was planted in blood. It won't end with more of it."
The ground trembled. The corpses howled. Luka screamed in rage. "Then they will never stop!"
Elian looked up.
"If they want the seventh son… then I'll rewrite what that means."
And he raised the crucifix—glowing now, with a light not of this world.
—