The first crack appeared at dawn.
Not in the sky. Not in the earth. But in the air—just above the Bloodfire Shrine, where the runes still glowed faintly with the memory of fire and blood. I was there alone, standing at the edge of the altar, my fingers brushing the carved name of my mother, when I felt it. A shift. Not in the wind. Not in the magic. In the world.
And then—
A tear.
Thin. Jagged. Like a spiderweb of black lightning splitting the morning light. It didn’t make a sound. Didn’t ripple. Just hung there, suspended in the air, pulsing with something ancient and hungry. I stepped back, my dagger in hand, my breath steady. The bond hummed beneath my skin—warm, alive, watchful—but Lysander wasn’t here. He was in Geneva, presiding over the final Council audit. Elara was at school. Mira was tracking a rogue thrall in Prague.
I was alone.
And the Veil was breaking.
---
I didn’t call for help.
Not yet.
Just watched as the crack widened—slow, deliberate, like a mouth opening to speak. The runes on the shrine flared—gold, then crimson, then black—and the whisper came. Not in words. Not in sound.
In memory.
“Cordelia…”
My breath caught.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
It was her voice. My mother’s. But not as I remembered it—soft, warm, laced with the scent of sage and ink. This was colder. Sharper. Older. Like it had been dragged through centuries of silence.
“Mother?” I whispered.
The crack pulsed.
And then—
A hand.
Pale. Translucent. Veined with dark magic. It reached through the tear, fingers curling like smoke, reaching for me. I didn’t move. Just tightened my grip on the dagger, my storm-gray eyes locked onto the apparition.
“You’re not her,” I said.
The hand stilled.
And then—
A laugh. Hollow. Cold. Not human. Not fae. Not vampire. Something else.
“No,” the voice agreed. “But I remember her. I remember her scream. I remember her blood on the stone. And I remember the child who lived.”
My fangs lengthened.
Not from hunger.
From fury.
“You were there,” I said. “You watched them kill her.”
“I did,” the voice said. “And I waited. For decades. For centuries. Until the bond between you and the vampire lord was strong enough. Until the Accord was fragile. Until the Veil was thin.”
“And now?”
“Now,” the voice said, “I come through.”
The hand lunged.
I dodged—fast, instinctive, my body twisting as the dagger slashed through the air. The blade passed through the hand like smoke, but the runes on the steel flared, and the creature howled—a sound that wasn’t sound, but a pressure in the skull, a vibration in the bones.
The crack shuddered.
And then—
It began to close.
Not slowly. Not gracefully. Like a wound sealing itself, the edges of the tear pulling inward, the black lightning fading into the air. The hand vanished. The voice silenced. And the whisper—
Was gone.
I stood there, my chest rising and falling, my dagger still in hand, my magic flaring. The grimoire in my cloak pulsed—once, twice—its pages shifting as if in warning. And then—
I ran.
Not to the spire.
To the Chamber of Echoes.
---
The descent was a blur.
Stone steps slick with condensation. Torches flickering with blue fire. The scent of old magic and damp earth thick in the air. I didn’t slow. Didn’t pause. Just ran—my boots silent on the stone, my breath steady, my mind racing. The Veil wasn’t just thin. It was breaking. And if something had already reached through—
Then others would follow.
The Chamber of Echoes loomed ahead—its black stone walls slick with moisture, the runes on the floor pulsing in shifting waves of gold and crimson. The Contract Stone stood at the center, dark and silent, its surface cracked from our last ritual. I stepped forward, my fingers brushing the sigil beneath my feet.
“Show me,” I whispered. “Show me what’s coming.”
Nothing happened.
Just silence.
And then—
A pulse.
Not from the stone.
From the bond.
Lysander.
He was coming.
---
I didn’t wait.
Just knelt, my palms pressing to the sigil, my magic reaching into the stone. The runes flared—gold, then crimson, then black—light pulsing through the chamber, the air crackling with power. And then—
Visions tore through the air.
---
A forest of black trees, their branches twisted like bones, their roots feeding on blood. A throne of skulls. A crown of thorns. A figure seated upon it—tall, gaunt, its eyes like voids, its skin stretched too tight over too many bones. It wears a cloak stitched with screaming faces, and in its hand—
A vial.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
---
Then—
A city in ruins. Geneva. The Obsidian Spire cracked down the middle, its towers leaning like broken teeth. The moonlit garden choked with black roses. The Council Hall silent, its doors hanging open, its seats empty. And in the war room—
Elara.
Bound. Gagged. Her storm-gray eyes wide with terror. And standing over her—
Lysander.
But not him.
His eyes are black. His fangs too long. His voice a chorus of whispers. And around his wrist—
A vial.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
---
Then—
Me.
Kneeling before the throne of skulls. My dagger at my throat. My grimoire open, its pages burning. And the figure—its hand on my head, its voice in my mind: “You were never meant to win. You were meant to open the door.”
And then—
The vial.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
---
I gasped, collapsing to my knees, my breath coming fast, my magic flaring. The visions faded, the runes dimming, the chamber falling back into silence. But the truth—
It stayed.
Something was coming. Something ancient. Something that had used Seraphine. Something that had waited for the bond between Lysander and me to grow strong enough to weaken the Veil.
And it wanted the vial.
---
The door burst open.
Boots echoed on stone. A presence—storm-wrapped, lethal—filled the chamber. And then—
Lysander.
He stepped inside, his crimson eyes burning, his coat open, his dagger drawn. His gaze swept the room—cold, calculating—before landing on me.
“You summoned me,” he said, his voice low.
“No,” I said, pushing to my feet. “The bond did.”
He didn’t argue. Just crossed the room in three strides, his hand finding mine, his fingers interlacing with mine, his thumb brushing the pulse at my wrist. “You’re shaking,” he said.
“It’s not the magic,” I said. “It’s the Veil. It’s breaking. And something’s coming through.”
He didn’t flinch. Just studied me—his gaze sharp, his breath unsteady. “Show me.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Just pulled him to the sigil, our hands pressing to the stone together. The runes flared—gold, then crimson, then black—light pulsing through the chamber, the air crackling with power. And then—
The visions returned.
---
The forest of black trees. The throne of skulls. The figure. The vial.
The ruined city. Elara bound. Lysander possessed. The vial.
Me, kneeling. The voice: “You were meant to open the door.” The vial.
---
We both gasped, stumbling back, our hands still linked. Lysander’s fangs lengthened, his aura flaring crimson. “That’s not possible,” he said. “The Veil Between Worlds hasn’t been breached in over a thousand years.”
“It’s happening now,” I said. “And it’s using the vial. Using her.”
“Seraphine?”
“No,” I said. “Not her. Something that wore her. Something that fed on her ambition. Her desire for power. And now—” I looked at him—“it wants us.”
He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me into his arms, his body a wall, his breath warm against my neck. The bond flared—heat, awareness, need—and I didn’t pull away. Just leaned into him, my fingers fisting in his coat, my breath unsteady.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmured.
“I’m not,” I said. “I have you. I have Elara. I have us.”
He kissed my temple—soft, reverent, real—and then let me go.
“Then we stop it,” he said. “Before it takes her. Before it takes you. Before it takes everything.”
---
We left the Chamber of Echoes at dusk.
The city was alive—lanterns flickering in the undercity, music drifting from the moonlit garden, the scent of spiced tea and bloodwine curling through the air. The war room was quiet, the maps rolled, the scrying mirrors dark. And then—
We felt it.
Not a sound. Not a sight.
A shift.
In the air. In the magic. In the bond.
And then—
Elara.
She stood in the doorway, her journal in hand, her storm-gray eyes wide. “You’re back,” she said. “But you’re not alone.”
I didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, my fingers brushing her cheek. “We’re never alone,” I said. “Not anymore.”
She didn’t smile. Just looked at me—really looked at me—and I saw it.
Not fear.
Trust.
“Then tell me,” she said. “What’s coming?”
I didn’t lie.
Just told her the truth.
---
Later, as the moon rose over the spire, as the stars pierced the sky, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of his coat—a vial of blood.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
He’d lied.
Again.
But this time—
I wasn’t afraid.
Because the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that I wasn’t losing.
I was winning.
And if he thought I wouldn’t find the truth—
He didn’t know me at all.
But I knew him.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.