Chapter 4 The Blood Remembers

The scent of ancient blood lingered in the stone walls of the Crimson Spire. It clung to every banner, every polished floor, and every throne carved from obsidian. But it was not the scent that stirred Thorne from his meditation.

It was something else.

Something deeper.

Older.

Her.

The vampire king opened his eyes.

His chambers were silent. Shadows stretched like fingers across the marble, the torches on the walls flickering low, but inside Thorne's chest, a storm brewed- slow, electric, primal.

He rose from his throne of black bone, his midnight cloak trailing behind him as he strode to the massive arched window that overlooked the Deadlands. The night air was thick with fog, and the stars above flickered like dying embers. It was always night here. Eternal dusk. Just the way he preferred it.

But even the moon seemed restless tonight.

Thorne's jaw clenched as a ripple of something curled through his veins. A pull. Not like hunger. Worse. Deeper.

Fated.

He turned sharply just as a knock echoed on the chamber door.

"Enter," Thorne commanded, his voice like velvet laced with steel.

The door creaked open, and Cassian, his second-in-command and oldest friend, stepped in with a bow. His white hair was tied back in a knot, crimson armor gleaming. "You felt it too," he said without preamble.

Thorne didn't answer right away. His eyes, the color of spilled wine, were fixed on the horizon beyond the stone.

"A surge through the bloodline," Thorne finally said. "Something ancient... awakening."

Cassian nodded grimly. "Our seers are restless. They speak of prophecy. Of wolves howling beyond their lands. Of magic in the bones of the earth."

Thorne's lips curled. "Prophecies are always restless. That's what makes them worthless."

"Except this one carries your blood, my king."

Thorne stilled.

Cassian stepped forward. "The bloodline you sealed long ago, before the last war. The line you swore would never wake again."

Thorne's fangs pressed against his tongue. A taste of guilt. A memory of war. Of blood spilled for a kingdom, for peace that never came.

"They were supposed to die out," Thorne said lowly. "I buried that legacy. I buried her."

"But she lives," Cassian said. "The girl. Half-wolf, they say. Half-curse. The blood responds to her. It seeks her."

Thorne turned fully now, shadows rippling behind him. "Impossible."

"Do you deny the pull in your bones?" Cassian asked. "Because I feel it. Every noble bloodborn in the Spire does. She's calling, Thorne. Not with words. But with existence."

Thorne's claws elongated without thought.

He hadn't dreamed in centuries. And yet last night, he'd seen a face in his sleep wild silver hair, eyes like moonlight, a snarl on her lips as she stood over a broken vampire's corpse.

Her.

He didn't know her name.

Only that she was his.

Not by choice.

By divine cruelty.

***

Far from the Spire - In the Depths of the Blood Sanctum

Thorne descended into the catacombs alone. The torches dimmed as he passed, reacting to his presence like prey before a predator. The deeper he walked, the louder the voices of the dead became whispers in a thousand tongues.

At the heart of the sanctum stood the Blood Mirror, an ancient relic made of blackened glass and rimmed in silver carved with vampire scripture. Only kings could awaken it. Only fated bonds could reflect in it.

Thorne approached and bit into his palm.

Blood dripped onto the mirror.

It pulsed once.

Twice.

Then the surface shimmered.

Smoke curled within it like a breath, and then she appeared.

A girl, no older than nineteen. Barefoot. Drenched in mud and wolf blood. Silver hair matted to her face, her body lithe, strong, and scarred. Her eyes glowed with fury and power as she tore through a vampire in a single movement, shifting midair from wolf to human without hesitation.

Thorne's breath caught.

His heart dead for centuries slammed against his ribs.

His voice was a whisper, hoarse and reverent. "Mate."

The mirror shattered.

***

Back in the upper halls of the Crimson Spire, chaos unfolded.

"Your Majesty!" a voice shouted as Thorne emerged from the sanctum, blood still dripping from his hand. A young vampire noble bowed, wide-eyed. "There's been an attack. One of the border units was slaughtered. No survivors-except one scout. Says it was... a girl."

Thorne's voice was low and dangerous. "Where?"

"Blackfang Highlands, sire."

Of course.

The wolves.

The girl.

His mate.

Back in the forest, Lyra crouched over the stream, washing vampire blood from her hands.

She had no idea that far away, the most feared vampire in the world had just seen her in a vision.

No idea that her blood sang louder than prophecy.

No idea she'd been claimed.

But her wolf felt something. An ache. A sudden chill on her spine. She looked toward the mountains, heart racing.

Something was coming.

Someone.

In the Shadows of the Throne

Back at the Spire, another figure watched the broken mirror from the far corner of the chamber. Her face was masked, her scent laced with dark magic.

Selene, High Priestess of the Crimson Court, and Thorne's secret lover, watched the pieces of glass glimmer on the floor.

She had given Thorne her body, her power, and her loyalty.

But now, she was nothing but a shadow to the girl he hadn't even met.

Her lips curled into a venomous smile.

"If she comes near him," Selene whispered to herself, "I'll carve her heart out and feed it to the crows."