Moonlit clouds scudded low over Valemont Hill, their underbellies glowing red as firelight licked the broken parapets. Dahlia Moon stood barefoot atop the ruined grand stair, her moon-thread cloak soaked and fluttering at her ankles. Rain mingled with blood on the cold stone beneath her feet. Forty Hollow warlocks lay dead across the marble halls, their ashes drifting like gray snow. Yet the estate's wards still pulsed sickly violet, a sign of reinforcements closing fast. She clenched her palm, feeling fresh blood seep from the Oath-scar. Silver runes spidered beneath her skin, pulsing with the heartbeat of the Nullstone at her throat.
Damon Thorne Valemont approached, limping but unbroken, a gash running shoulder to hip. Three war-bands are forming past the northern ridge, he said. We've got an hour at most. Dahlia's eyes swept the ruined foyer—the mural of the altar shattered, the wolf's gaze cracked down the center. We can't hold the walls. We pull them into the catacombs and use the choke tunnels. The aethyr cores beneath the vault lines can bring the house down on their heads. Damon arched a brow. You saw the cores? During the tremors—four of them. Enough to erase a regiment. He gave a half-smirk. Blow my ancestral tomb? I like it.
They moved swiftly through torch-lit corridors, weaving past fallen pillars and scorched bodies. At each turn, the remains of Hollow agents smoked from her lunar fire. Damon paused long enough to rip a shard of silver from his flank. Dahlia pressed her glowing hand to the wound. Frost and lightning raced into his flesh. "Still alive," she muttered. "Still hurts," he replied. In the crypt, the first core glowed inside a crystalline casing. Damon set rune charges while Dahlia infused them with Moonfire delay. One after another, they prepped all four, passing statues of nameless wolves whose runes sparked at her blood's approach—ancient spirits recognizing a new oathkeeper.
While Damon armed the final charge, Dahlia's vision blurred. A flood of fractured memories hit: her mother's lullaby in a forgotten tongue, her infant body flooded with searing silver light, chains wrapped around her limbs, the voice of Sareth whispering, Storm born, storm bound. She staggered. Damon caught her. "Memory surge?" "Clones," she whispered. Every time I failed to obey, they killed that version. I was the first to escape. He handed her a wolf fang talisman wrapped in silver wire. Then you're the end of their experiment. Keep your focus—six minutes to go.
Outside, horns blared. Hollow knights in sable armor charged alongside rogue Alphas. Necromancer priests chanted. Rune-bolts rained down, exploding marble. Damon drew twin ash-steel swords. Dahlia's hands ignited in lunar flame. When the war-bands breached the gates, Damon met them head-on—blades whirling, silver arcs flashing. Dahlia stepped into the breach, spoke a star's name, and a dome of pure radiance burst outward, melting enchantments and warping steel. Warlocks screamed as their wards shattered. Each step she took carved burning sigils into the floor.
Lucan Valemont emerged from the chaos, eyes rotting black, halberd gleaming. Come back to the cage, little Omega, he sneered. Dahlia raised her bleeding palm. Come closer and burn. He lunged. Damon intercepted mid-strike, blades clashing with death-metal force. Dahlia turned to necromancers lashing soul-chains. She caught the strands, twisted, and reversed the spell—crushing their bones beneath their own bindings. Screams echoed through the hall.
Roderick descended next, red-haired and fire-eyed, sickles blazing. He danced circles around Damon, slashing deep. Dahlia flung a silver spear—he spun away, laughing. "Moonblood tastes like prophecy!" He lunged at her heart. She slapped his sickle wide, felt it scorch her arm, and spun—cloak stiffening into winged blades that sliced across his ribs. He staggered. Damon seized the moment, driving steel through his heart. Flame choked, and Roderick collapsed. Bells tolled inside the mansion—timer.
Fifteen seconds, Damon barked, grabbing her wrist. They sprinted to the courtyard well. Dahlia leapt, Moonfire blasting from her heels to launch her up the shaft. Damon climbed after, claws raking stone. At ground level they bolted across ruin as the first core detonated. Magic roared beneath them. The floor split. Hollow agents screamed as the earth opened. A second explosion chased the first, violet flames crowned in silver. The mansion buckled—pillars fell, stained glass shattered, entire wings swallowed into a growing crater.
Dahlia dove to the outer lawn as the third core ignited. Shockwaves slammed her sideways. Damon tackled her, shielding her body with his. Debris rained like stars gone mad. When the silence came, it was heavy, surreal. Dawn broke above clouds of dust. Damon rolled off her, bruised and breathing hard. "That was my bedroom wing." Dahlia coughed blood, smiled. "Worth it." He helped her up. They looked out over devastation—smoke, ash, fire. The Valemont Estate no longer stood.
The survivors will regroup, she said. Her silver eyes glowed. Then let them, Damon growled. Next stop's Hollow Citadel. We strike before they rally. Through the Iron Curtain gorge, she confirmed. We end what they began. "Storm and wolf." "Storm and wolf." Together they turned toward a narrow forest trail, their silhouettes long against the morning gold. Behind them, ash drifted in silence. A crater marked the grave of a bloodline. A promise burned in its place.
Far away, deep in forgotten catacombs, a cracked sarcophagus pulsed once. Ancient bones stirred. At the heart of a shadow-temple wreathed in flame, Sareth opened her eyes—black, endless. Her lips curved. She had felt the deaths. The oath. The surge of power in her veins. She stood slowly, eyes on a vision only she could see. "Let the Storm come," she whispered. "I have thunder waiting."