The first time it happened, she was alone.
Seraphina stood in the marble bath chamber of House D'Argent, steam curling around her like a living thing. The tub overflowed with crimson water—infused with herbs and a few whispered words from a servant who'd vanished before she could ask why it smelled faintly of iron.
She sank into the warmth, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow.
Lucien hadn't returned since the night he claimed her again. No note. No whisper in her head. But she felt him—always, like a tether between their bodies had been stitched with blood and sin.
Her heart beat differently now. Slower. More deliberate. Her skin no longer chilled in the castle's endless night. In fact, she felt hot. Like something was burning just beneath the surface.
When she submerged herself completely beneath the water, something inside her snapped.
A memory.
Not hers.
Fire. Screams. Blades. A great stone cathedral collapsing under moonlight. A woman—the same one she'd seen in her vision—standing amid the carnage, her eyes weeping black tears as fire poured from her hands.
Seraphina surfaced, gasping.
The water hissed around her, steaming hotter. A nearby candle exploded with flame, licking high up the stone wall.
She stood, drenched, breathing hard.
Then the mirror shattered.
With no one touching it.
That night, she found Lucien in the castle's oldest wing—a library filled with crumbling scrolls and sealed tomes bound in leather darker than any she'd seen before.
He sat at a massive desk, bare-chested, deep in thought, reading something in a language her mind should not have understood.
But she did.
It wasn't spoken in words. It sang in her bones.
"You're bleeding," she said quietly.
Lucien looked up.
Long gashes ran down his shoulder, not fully healed—odd, for someone like him.
"I went hunting," he said simply. "Not all prey dies easy."
"You left without telling me."
"I had to feed."
"You could've fed from me."
Lucien stood, the shadows catching the hard lines of his body. "Don't tempt me, Seraphina. You don't know what you're offering."
She stepped closer. "Then explain it."
He stared at her a long moment, then gestured to an ancient painting on the wall—a portrait of the woman Seraphina had seen in her dreams.
Her face was hers. Almost.
"Her name was Isolde," he said. "She ruled the last Blood Court before it was burned to ash. She wasn't just a vampire. She was something else. A hybrid. A flameborn. A devourer of kings."
Seraphina swallowed. "And I'm descended from her."
"Yes. Which means your power will keep awakening—through dreams, through hunger, through desire. And when it does, others will feel it."
"Others like...?"
He looked grim.
"The Crimson Vow."
She frowned. "Who are they?"
Lucien walked past her to a locked chest. He opened it slowly, revealing a map drawn in dried blood and stitched skin. On it, dozens of marks burned like old scars.
"They're the last remaining bloodline loyal to the throne Isolde destroyed. They've been in hiding for centuries, waiting for her heir to resurface so they can kill her again."
"And they think I'm her?"
"They know you carry her fire."
His voice turned low, dangerous. "They'll come for you. Try to bind you. Breed you. Or break you."
Her throat dried at the venom in his voice.
She stepped closer. "Then stop pretending I'm a weakness. Train me."
Lucien raised an eyebrow.
"Do you know what you're asking?"
"I'm asking you to make me strong enough to kill anything that tries to take me."
His expression shifted. He moved in one fluid step, pinning her against the stone bookshelf.
"You're not weak," he growled. "You're just unawakened. But once you rise—truly—you'll be a god among monsters."
His hand closed around her throat—not tight, just enough to tilt her chin up.
"And gods are dangerous. Even to those who love them."
Seraphina's breath hitched. Her eyes glowed faintly in the candlelight.
"I'm not afraid of you," she whispered.
"Good," he murmured. "Because after tonight, I'll give you a reason to be."
They started in the garden at midnight, surrounded by pale roses that fed on moonlight and thorns sharp enough to draw blood from stone.
Lucien taught her to listen—not with ears, but with instinct.
"Your blood remembers war," he said. "You don't need to learn. You just need to unlock."
He moved behind her, guiding her arms into a stance, his breath hot against her ear. She could feel the tension in his chest, the restraint in his fingers. He touched her like a man trying not to set off an explosion.
Hours passed.
She began to move faster. Strike harder. Hear things before they made sound.
And then—she lit the sky.
A burst of fire shot from her palm, searing a line across the stone. Not just heat. Hellfire. The kind that burned through dimensions.
Lucien stared at it, silent.
Seraphina panted. "That... wasn't on purpose."
He looked at her like a man both afraid and in awe.
"No," he said. "It was a warning."
He turned slowly.
"They'll have felt that."
Far away—in a ruined cathedral buried in frost and bone—a dozen figures stirred from ancient slumber.
The fire Seraphina unleashed crackled across the bloodlines.
"She's awakened," a voice said from the shadows.
"She has her protector."
A deeper voice answered. "Then we must send ours."
From the coffin at the altar, something moved.
A pale hand, clawed and veined with obsidian, rose from the darkness.