Deep within the impenetrable heart of Blackthorn Forest, where even the stars seemed reluctant to shine, a hidden cottage crouched beneath layers of ancient wards. To the outside world it was nothing more than a tumble of moss-covered stones. Inside, ten hooded figures—three women and six men—sat in a tense circle around a scarred oak table, the only light coming from a low fire that painted their faces in shifting orange and shadow.
"He is awake," announced Morwen, the eldest, a heavy woman whose hood could not conceal the deep lines etched into her face by time and hatred. "Returned to his throne as though the five centuries were a fleeting dream."
A ripple of unease passed through the circle.
"We knew the curse allowed for awakening," said a scarred man to her left. "But it also promised finality. Only the blood of the last true descendant of the slayer bloodline can bind him back into eternal sleep—this time forever."
Morwen's gnarled fingers tightened around her staff. "Then we find her before he secures his power."
The door burst open without ceremony. A young servant stumbled in, breathless and pale.
"My lords, my ladies—news from the palace! Lord Primus is preparing a grand banquet in three nights to celebrate his return. He intends to present his bride to the court."
Ten hooded heads snapped toward the messenger. The fire crackled louder in the sudden silence.
"His bride?" Morwen hissed. "He has never taken a consort."
"We cannot allow the union," the scarred man declared. "A wedding will bind allies to him anew. We stop it."
Morwen's eyes gleamed beneath her hood. "Summon every scryer, every wizard still loyal to the Order. Turn every seeing stone toward the palace and toward this unknown woman. Discover her name, her face, her blood. If she is ordinary, remove her quietly. If she is the descendant we seek…" Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Take her alive if possible. Kill her if necessary. But she does not reach that altar."
The servant bowed and fled into the night to relay the orders.
Meanwhile, many miles away in the sunlit halls of Willowmere Manor, storm clouds of a different kind gathered.
Duke Denzel stood in his study, the sealed letter from Lord Primus of House Noctis crushed in his fist. The blood-red wax seal lay broken on his desk like a wound. Across from him stood his eldest natural daughter, Naomi—beautiful, golden-haired, and utterly unafraid to speak her mind.
"Father, why hesitate?" Naomi said, examining her nails with practiced nonchalance. "Just send her to them. She is not your true daughter anyway. And you cannot refuse a creature like Primus. Think of the consequences."
The duke's face darkened. "Do not speak of her that way, Naomi. Hazel is my daughter in every way that matters. I raised her. I gave her my name."
Naomi lifted an elegant shoulder. "You kept her hidden like a shameful secret. No suitors, no balls, no debut. Everyone whispers she is strange—those unnatural eyes, that pale skin. Perhaps this vampire lord is the only one who wants her."
Denzel turned away, staring out the window at the manicured gardens where Hazel so often wandered alone. He had never been an openly affectionate father to her—too aware of the oddness that clung to the babe left on his chapel steps, too frightened by the crimson rune on her swaddling cloth that matched forbidden texts in his locked library. He had protected her the only way he knew: by keeping her out of sight, away from the world that might recognize what she was.
And now the very monster those texts warned against had come claiming her.
Humans and vampires had never been allies. Tales of Primus were the stuff of nightmares—ruthless, ancient, merciless. Yet the letter had been impeccably courteous, the request formal, the threat unspoken but unmistakable.
How did the vampire even know of Hazel's existence? Denzel had guarded her so carefully.
He rubbed a weary hand over his face. "I cannot simply hand her over to a monster."
Naomi's voice softened, but only slightly. "You may not have a choice, Father. Refuse, and he will come take her anyway—and perhaps the rest of us with her."
Silence stretched heavy between them.
Upstairs in her quiet chamber, Hazel sat by the window, unaware of the letter or the argument below. She traced idle patterns on the fogged glass, her thoughts far away in a shadowed palace with crimson eyes and a voice that called her little rabbit.
Three nights.
In three nights everything would change—she felt it in her blood like a tide pulling at the moon.