Eldemire was a city built on bones.
Its streets coiled like veins through the carcass of an empire long forgotten, humming with the remnants of ancient magics and unspoken curses. No sun rose over Eldemire. It hadn't for centuries. Instead, the sky remained a permanent bruise, a purple-black smear that bled moonlight and rain.
Lyra ran but
She didn't stop.
Not when the night watch bells rang out across the city.
Not when the silver hounds howled two streets away.
And not when her heartbeat began to stutter with the echo of magic-old, hungry, and pulling her forward.
The Vault was closed.
She could feel it.
She wasn't like the others who prowled the city's underbelly. She wasn't noble, or chosen, or powerful. She was just a half-breed-neither wolf nor vampire, neither shadow nor flame. Her blood was mud, her past a ruin. She had nothing.
Except the key.
And a plan to steal the Crimson Pact.
The Cathedral Vault was carved into the ribs of the Old Temple-a place older than Eldermire itself. It crouched at the heart of the city like a buried god, wrapped in black stone and cursed hymns. The door was a jagged circle of obsidian inscribed with runes that pulsed like veins.
Lyra dropped from the roof onto the rear balcony, landing in a crouch.
She waited.
Silence.
She reached into her coat, fingers closing around a shard of moonsteel etched with sigils. The key. Not the original, but close enough. It had cost her three months of planning, a betrayal, and the last friend she trusted. Worth it.
She pressed the shard to the lock and whispered, "Blood remembers."
The door shuddered.
The runes flared red.
And then it opened.
Inside, the air was thick and cold, like she'd stepped into someone else's lungs. Statues lined the narrow corridor-hooded things with outstretched hands and hollow eyes. She moved between them silently, her fingers brushing the hilt of her blade. Just in case.
The Vault room was circular, sunken, and empty-except for the dagger floating above the altar at its center.
The Crimson Pact.
It was smaller than she imagined. Sleek. Curved. Its blade shimmered darkly, a liquid crimson edge that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. The hilt was wrapped in something pale and slick-was it... skin?
Lyra swallowed.
She stepped forward.
Her fingers brushed the blade-and the world vanished.
She wasn't in the Vault anymore.
She was falling, tumbling through smoke and fire and whispers. Voices echoed through her skull-some ancient, some hers.
Blood to bind. Bone to seal. Soul to rule.
Pain exploded behind her eyes.
Something entered her. Not a presence, not a being-an awareness. It wrapped around her bones like a second skeleton, curled under her skin, stitched itself to her breath.
The Pact had chosen her.
No. Claimed her.
She screamed as she hit the floor.
The Vault was still there. The statues, the altar, the cold. But now the dagger lay in her hand-no longer floating, no longer passive. It had slithered into her grip like a serpent coming home.
The air shifted.
Boots on stone.
Lyra's heart seized.
She turned-and came face-to-face with the last person she wanted to see.
Tall. Silver eyes. Wolf blood.
Prince Kael.
He stared at her like she'd just killed his god.
"You don't know what you've done," he growled, stepping forward, the light catching on the clawed rings he wore across his knuckles.
"I do," Lyra whispered, lifting the blade. "I ended your war."
His eyes narrowed. "You started another."
She ran.
Again.
This time, Kael didn't chase-he lunged.
They crashed through the Vault's side door, metal and flesh and fury colliding in a blur of fists and growls. Lyra slashed at him with the blade, but he caught her wrist, twisted, and slammed her against the wall.
His breath was hot against her ear.
"You smell like blood and betrayal."
"Good," she hissed, driving her knee into his ribs.
He stumbled. Just enough.
She slipped free, vaulted over a railing, and vanished into the fog of Eldemire once more.
The city swallowed her whole.
She ran through the under layers, the echo chambers beneath the market, the sewers where old vampires slept in brine and bone. Her body burned, but the dagger was silent now-resting against her spine like a dormant heart.
She didn't stop until she reached her safehouse.
An attic above a crumbling bookshop, warded with wolfsbane and deadman's ash.
She locked the door, collapsed against the wall, and stared at the dagger.
It stared back.
And then-
A voice. Inside her.
"Now we begin."
That night, she didn't sleep.
She dreamt.
Of fire and fangs.
Of a vampire lord with eyes like winter.
Of Kael's hands around her throat-and his lips against her skin.
Of herself, crowned in blood.
And the city is burning.
Always burning.