Rain hammered Graveton.
Not a gentle drizzle, but a downpour that sounded like claws raking rooftops, tearing at centuries of stone and shadow. The gutters overflowed, the alleyways ran red with old water and older blood. But the city didn't sleep. Not anymore.
Jayden stood atop the broken bell tower of the ancient cathedral, watching the torches below as more refugees arrived—vampires, hybrids, even marked humans, all drawn by the same whisper:
There's a place that welcomes the forgotten.
He didn't move as Elira joined him. Her cloak was soaked through, hair plastered to her cheek.
"They're still coming," she said. "More than we expected."
"They're not soldiers," Jayden replied. "Not yet."
"They will be," Elira whispered. "If they have to."
Jayden clenched his fists. "They shouldn't have to."
Below them, the first embers of Graveton's new walls were being set—literal firelines, blessed and reinforced with blood sigils drawn from the Red Scriptures. Seraya and the older Night Council members had been preparing for this moment since the prophecy was confirmed.
But no one was ready for what came next.
It started with a howl. Not a wolf's. Deeper. Ancient. Then another. And another.
Jayden's eyes widened.
"They're here."
From the mist beyond the outer district, shapes emerged.
Not vampires.
Werewolves.
And not the twisted beasts the old Hollow used for sport. These walked on two legs, eyes bright with intelligence, and armor formed from bone and bark. Tribal tattoos glowed faint blue under the rain.
A hundred of them. Maybe more.
Their leader stepped forward, tall and silent.
Jayden descended the tower, cloak snapping behind him. He walked until there was only a breath between them.
The werewolf's voice rumbled like thunder contained in a cave.
"You are Jayden of the Third Path?"
"I am."
"You summoned all bloodlines. That includes ours."
Jayden met his eyes. "If you're here to fight me—"
"We are not." The wolf's voice softened. "We are here because he stirs."
"Ashkar."
The wolf nodded. "And the First Curse… is tied to him."
Jayden blinked. "You're not enemies?"
"We were once," the wolf said, "when we were all blind."
He turned and gestured to his pack.
"We offer alliance. Not servitude."
Jayden stepped closer. "And if I say no?"
"Then we vanish. And leave the world to burn without us."
Jayden looked around—at the soaked faces watching from the shadows, the torches behind walls, the wounded vampires leaning on human friends, the broken families, the terrified children, and the uncertain warriors.
"We need everyone," he said. "Even the ones we were told to fear."
He reached out.
The werewolf leader took his hand.
The crowd erupted—not in cheers, but in a rising chant:
"Blood. Fang. Fire. Free."
A new oath. A new banner. A new union.
But peace never comes easy.
Just as the chant echoed across the city, a scream cut through the air. One of the Night Council runners stumbled into the courtyard, drenched in something darker than rain.
"They've breached the southern fields!" he cried. "Ashkar's warbrood! They've sent a vanguard!"
Jayden turned to Elira.
"Ready the lines."
She nodded.
He turned to the werewolf leader.
"Let's see if the old world can bleed for a better one."
Then he leapt into the rain. And war began.