The Fang of Shadow outpost stood grim and imposing on the jagged edge of Despair Peak, its Gothic spires of obsidian rising like a cluster of fangs against the blood-moon sky. Tattered storm clouds did little to obscure the silver-red light, which spilled over the weather-worn stone walls of the fortress—ancient, interlaced runes etched into their surface pulsed faintly, breathing in the night. Below the cliff, the howl of the wind tangled with the distant shrieks of harpies, a symphony of despair that had echoed through this part of the Blackwood for centuries.
Lynn leaned against a section of twisted iron railing, the sole of his boot grinding gravel mixed with desiccated bat wings into a fine, gritty dust. He had been observing for an hour, memorizing the patrol patterns: three vampire thralls clad in rusted chainmail, their eyes glowing with a sickly yellow light, made a circuit every seven minutes; while at the main gate post stood a higher vampire, his skin smooth as marble, idly twirling a curved blade.
Since his encounter with the Shadow-Heart in the labyrinth, Lynn's connection to the Nightwell had deepened to something almost tangible. He no longer just sensed the darkness; he resonated with it. It hummed within his veins like a living thing: quickening its rhythm at the approach of danger, softening to a murmur near artifacts of similar nature. Three days ago, that hum had erupted into a roar. He had been meditating in the tower of an ancient ruin, the Nightwell Codex open before him, when a powerful resonance struck his consciousness—fervent, urgent, and strangely familiar. This pull had drawn him north, through thorn-choked thickets and venomous swamps, until the spires of the Fang of Shadow pierced the horizon. For the next two nights, under the cover of his Shadowmeld, he had scouted the outpost's periphery. The thralls' dull senses failed to detect him, and he finally pinpointed the source of the resonance: a vaulted storeroom beneath the western wing, its entrance marked by a rune identical to the one on the Codex's cover.
The moment the marble-skinned sentry turned to spit over the cliff's edge, Lynn moved. He flowed out like smoke, his body shrinking into the shadow cast by a gargoyle's outstretched wing. Since the labyrinth, his Shadowmeld had refined—no longer limited to blending with existing shadows, he could now weave a thin veil of darkness around himself, even in the faint moonlight. A thrall passed close enough for its stench of decay to wash over Lynn's arm, but its eyes never even flickered. Lynn slipped through a narrow archway, ducked beneath a tapestry depicting a battle between vampires and shadow wraiths, and descended a spiral staircase hewn from black stone. The steps were slick with condensation, the air growing colder with each descent, a biting chill that pricked his skin but could not penetrate him—the Nightwell in his veins warmed in response, creating a quiet equilibrium.
At the bottom, a heavy iron-banded oak door barred his path. Carved into it was a wolf's head, its fangs clamped around a moonstone. Lynn pressed his palm against the gem, willing the Nightwell to flow, seeping into the runes encircling the wolf's eyes. With a low groan, the door swung inward, raising dust that made him cough. The storeroom was vast and deep, its vaulted ceiling lost in darkness. Shelves lined the walls, laden with rusted weapons, shattered phials holding green, phosphorescent liquid, and leather-bound scrolls that crumbled to dust at the slightest touch. Thick, cloak-like cobwebs hung between racks, and the floor was carpeted in dust deep enough to swallow footprints. But his gaze instantly locked on the center of the room.
There, on a pedestal of black marble veined with silver, lay the source of the resonance—Shadow's Kiss. The dagger was shorter than his forearm, its hilt carved from a single piece of obsidian, faint smoky tendrils swirling within the stone like captured shadows. The crossguard took the form of two intertwined ravens, their beaks clutching an uncut gem that emitted the same familiar umbral glow as the Shadow-Heart. Even from ten paces away, Lynn felt its pull—a hungry, yet gentle tug, perfectly synchronized with his own heartbeat. He stepped forward, his boots scuffing the floor, and reached for it. The gem flared, washing his face in a stark, pale light.
"I wouldn't be so hasty, Nightborn."
The voice was low and melodious, like wind chimes made of bone. Lynn's hand froze an inch from the dagger. From the thickest pool of shadow in the corner—a darkness so deep it seemed to devour light—a figure emerged. It was a vampire, tall and slender, with waves of silver hair falling to his shoulders, streaked with a single lock of pure black. His skin held a faint golden hue, far from the sickly pallor of the thralls, and his eyes were slitted like a cat's, their irises a deep, burnished red-gold. He wore a cloak of midnight blue, trimmed with fur that seemed woven from shadow itself. His left hand turned a small silver locket over and over. His bow, when he gave it, was fluid.
"Kaelan Camilla," he said, straightening. "Once chief lieutenant to Lord Corvus Voss—your father."
Lynn's hand snapped to the hilt of his shortsword, the Nightwell coiling in his fist like a poised serpent. His father's name was a ghost, a memory present only in broken fragments: warm hands lifting him, a booming laugh, a face blurred by firelight. He had always believed Corvus Voss had perished in the raid that orphaned him. "Prove it," he growled, his voice low.
Kaelan offered a faint, sorrowful smile and opened the locket. Inside was a miniature ivory portrait: a man with the same jawline and chestnut hair as Lynn, beside a silver-eyed woman holding an infant. Beside the portrait was engraved the family crest—a raven perched upon a dagger, wings spread. Kaelan closed the locket and tossed it to Lynn. The metal was still warm in his palm, as if held recently. "Your father gave this to me the night the Cult attacked. He told me to find you when the time was right, to give you Shadow's Kiss... and the truth."
Lynn clenched the locket, his eyes darting to the dagger, then back to Kaelan. "He mentioned the seal on my bloodline."
"A necessary ward," Kaelan said. "Your father was a rare union—half-vampire, half-shadow wraith. This union made you a vessel for the purest Nightwell essence. The seal suppressed your power, preventing the Cult from detecting you. But now..." He gestured with his chin toward the dagger. "It is time to awaken it."
Lynn drew a sharp breath and reached out, closing his hand around the hilt of Shadow's Kiss. The touch was icy cold, but the moment his skin made contact, the cold erupted into a searing heat—a wave of scalding, familiar warmth flooding through him. The gem on the crossguard blazed, engulfing the entire storeroom in an umbral radiance. Fragments of memory, unbidden, stormed into his mind: his father chanting over a crucible, Kaelan at his side handing him a phial, the Cult launching their assault, flames engulfing the tower, his father shoving the locket into Kaelan's hand, roaring "Protect him!". These memories swirled, fused with the Nightwell, in a storm of light and shadow. When the storm subsided and Lynn opened his eyes, his pupils were no longer human—they were slitted like Kaelan's, swirling with the same umbral light as the dagger's gem.
He looked at Kaelan, and this time, he did not see a stranger, but a ghost from a past life. "Tell me," his voice was steady as stone, no longer a request but a command, "Tell me of the Cult. Tell me of my father. Tell me everything."