Kingdom of Veirdan, 1592
They hanged her at dawn.
Elira Morvant's body swung from the ancient oak, neck snapped clean by the fall. The villagers had already fled — some in terror, others in reverence — leaving behind only the bitter wind and a snow-blanketed clearing.
Three days passed.
On the fourth morning, the noose frayed and snapped. Elira's eyes opened.
She coughed, blood mingling with frost on her lips, and with a slow, deliberate movement, tore the rope free. She was alive — cursed to be so.
Whispers followed her like shadows.
"Unkillable."
"Daughter of death."
"Witch born of betrayal."
But Elira knew none of it was true.
Her life was a prison of memories half-remembered and secrets buried too deep. She was not born of death — she was born from it.
Her family was murdered decades ago, burned and butchered by vampire lords, or so the stories said. Her curse was punishment, or so she had believed. But questions lingered, like scars beneath her skin.
Why did the silver pendant she wore, etched with a winged wolf, burn her palm when she tried to cast it aside? Why did the half-whispered prophecy return in her dreams?
"The blood that cannot die remembers what the night forgets ."
Her name was whispered in fear and hope across lands riddled with darkness.
And somewhere, watching from the shadows, the vampire who should have killed her remained—
Caelum Virellian.