The sky over the Atlantic didn't just storm; it bled. The year was 1692, and the air smelled of ozone, sea salt, and ancient, necrotic decay.
The Echoes of the Great Seal
The Vampire King, Malakor, stood at the center of a swirling vortex of shadow. His armor, forged from the bones of fallen kings, pulsed with a rhythmic, sickening crimson light. Opposing him were the Seven—warriors who looked less like men and more like avatars of divine wrath.
"The sun has forgotten this world!" Malakor roared, his voice a jagged blade of sound. "You offer your lives to gods who hide behind the clouds!"
The Sage, his saffron scarf whipping violently in the gale, stepped forward. He didn't shout; he didn't need to. His presence anchored the very earth.
"The sun never forgets," the Sage whispered, his eyes glowing like molten gold. "It only waits for those brave enough to carry its light."
With a synchronized strike, the Seven shattered the air. The Warrior of the Black Sea swung a trident that summoned a leviathan of pure water, while the Knight of the Frozen North carved a path of ice through the vampire legions.
"FOR THE ETERNAL DAWN!" the team bellowed, their voices harmonizing into a frequency that shattered the obsidian armor of the King.
As the Holy Stone fractured into seven jagged shards, a pillar of white fire erupted, dragging Malakor into the abyss of the Land of Hawk. The Bermuda Triangle folded in on itself, a geographic scar hidden by a veil of divine mist.
400 Years Later: Mumbai, 2026
The humid air of Mumbai clung to the skin like a wet shroud. The neon signs of Colaba flickered, casting long, rhythmic shadows that seemed to move independently of the people walking by.
Aryan, 19, adjusted his hoodie. He felt a familiar, rhythmic thrum against his finger. On his right hand sat a ring—a heavy, weathered band of silver holding a jagged, dull-grey pebble. At least, it looked dull to everyone else.
To the things lurking in the shadows, it was a lighthouse.
The Alley of Whispers
As Aryan turned into a narrow lane flanked by crumbling Victorian-era buildings and tangled power lines, the temperature plummeted.
•The Sensation: A prickly heat at the back of his neck.
•The Sound: The dry scraping of long fingernails against brick.
•The Sight: Figures, translucent and elongated, clung to the walls above him like oversized spiders.
"Look at it..." a voice hissed, sounding like dead leaves skittering on pavement. "The spark. The fragment of the Old Law."
A ghost, its face a distorted mask of grief and hunger, lunged from a balcony. Its fingers were inches from Aryan's throat.
Aryan didn't flinch. He didn't even break his stride.
"You're out past your curfew," he muttered, his voice cool and devoid of fear.
The ring suddenly flared. A vein of brilliant, celestial gold shot through the stone. The light didn't just illuminate the alley; it burned. The ghost shrieked, its form evaporating into ash before it could even touch his shadow.
The other spirits recoiled, hissing in the dark. Aryan looked down at the ring, the glow fading back into a low, steady pulse—a heartbeat of a war forgotten by history, but remembered by the blood.
"The seal is thinning," he whispered to the empty air.
He looked up at the moon, which seemed a little too red, a little too large. Far away, beneath the crushing depths of the Atlantic, something had just started to knock on the door.