The crimson hue of the blood moon still bled faintly through the clouds as Kieran and Morlith returned to the Fallowridge estate. The silence between them felt heavier than any words could bear. Every step they took echoed with the ghosts of the slaughtered coven—ash still clinging to Morlith's attire, the scent of smoke lingering on Kieran's armor.
Inside, the flickering candlelight threw distorted shadows across the walls. Kieran locked the doors behind them out of habit, then turned toward Morlith. "You should rest," he said quietly. "You're drained."
"I do not sleep easily after blood has been spilled," Morlith replied, voice low, eyes hollow. "Especially by my own hand."
Kieran hesitated, then approached him. "You did what you had to. They would've killed you."
Morlith's lips curved faintly, humorless. "And I would've let them—once." His gaze drifted toward the window where the moonlight still burned red. "But not now. The blood moon binds what was dormant. It feeds both the living and the damned."
Kieran crossed the room, pulling a heavy book from one of the shelves—its leather cracked, pages yellowed with age. "Maybe there's something here that tells us what's coming next," he muttered, flipping through the fragile pages. "The old Fallowridge archives have more secrets than prayers."
Morlith turned his head, curiosity stirring. "Thy bloodline always sought to control what it feared. You hoarded knowledge as if ignorance were sin."
"Maybe it is," Kieran said, scanning the runes until his finger stopped on a symbol—a sigil like an inverted crown, surrounded by black ink that refused to fade. His eyes widened. "This isn't Fallowridge. It's Morvane."
Morlith froze. "Show me."
He stepped closer, fingers brushing the parchment. The ink shimmered faintly under his touch, responding to the bloodline that shared its mark. "This… is my father's seal," he whispered. "Morvane's hidden cathedral. I thought it lost."
"What's inside?" Kieran asked.
"Relics," Morlith said softly, reverent and distant. "Armor, weapons, tomes. Tools forged for those born of both bloods. It may yet hold something I can use to protect us."
Kieran looked up at him. "Then we go there."
Morlith's amber eyes glimmered faintly red. "At dusk. The moon will wane, but its curse will linger. We must tread carefully."
Kieran nodded. "Then we rest for now. But we leave the moment the sun dies."
By nightfall, the estate was silent again. Morlith stood before the door, fully dressed in his dark attire, his presence more shadow than man. Kieran joined him, armor gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
As they stepped into the forest, the wind carried whispers through the trees—strange sounds, almost like laughter fading in and out of earshot.
The cathedral wasn't far. Its spires broke through the treetops, crooked and blackened by time. The air grew heavier as they neared the ruins; even the moonlight seemed afraid to touch it.
Morlith's pace slowed. "The forest remembers me," he murmured. "Even after centuries."
Kieran scanned the trees, hand hovering near his sword. "Then we're not the only ones who came looking."
A branch cracked behind them. Then another.
Morlith's head snapped up. His eyes glowed faintly gold. "Stay still," he whispered. "Say nothing. Let me become unseen."
The air around him warped as shadows crept along his body, consuming him. His outline blurred, his figure dissolving into the dark until nothing of him remained.
Kieran turned just as three figures emerged from the treeline—cloaked in white-gray armor marked with the Fallowridge mark. The moonlight glinted off silvered blades and crossbows etched with holy runes.
"Kieran Fallowridge," the lead hunter said coldly. "You wear your father's armor and yet walk with the stench of vampire blood. Explain yourself."
Kieran's pulse thudded in his ears. "I'm not explaining anything to you."
One of them smirked. "You consort with filth now? You've betrayed your family."
Another raised his weapon. "Step aside. We'll cleanse you and whatever you've brought back."
Kieran's jaw clenched. "Try it."
The first arrow flew. Kieran moved on instinct—steel hissed as his blade met it mid-air, the bolt splintering into sparks. He lunged forward, closing the distance before they could reload.
Steel clashed. A dagger slashed across his arm; he retaliated with a punch to the throat, following with a kick that sent one crashing into a tree. The other two advanced.
He fought like a man who had been born into war—movements swift, efficient, merciless. But the numbers pressed him. A blade grazed his side; another struck his shoulder, biting through silver. He staggered back, breath harsh, but refused to yield.
The lead hunter sneered. "Still think you can stand alone?"
Kieran spat blood. "I'm a Fallowridge. We never stand alone."
From the darkness behind them, a voice answered—smooth and cold as water.
"No," Morlith said. "He does not."
The hunters turned—too late. Shadows erupted from the ground, coiling around their legs like serpents. Morlith stepped out from the black, eyes burning with twin lights of gold and red.
He raised a hand, and the shadows lifted the hunters from the ground, choking the air from their throats.
"Do not kill them!" Kieran shouted—but Morlith was already moving.
His expression was calm. Almost serene. "I do not seek their blood," he said. "Only what lies deeper."
The first hunter screamed as Morlith pressed his palm against his chest. A crimson glow pulsed between them—veins blackened under the man's skin, eyes rolling back. His scream turned into a choked gurgle as his soul tore free, spiraling into Morlith's hand like a wisp of burning smoke.
The second tried to crawl away, dragging his broken leg. Morlith appeared beside him in a blink, crouched low, whispering softly in the ancient tongue. The man's body convulsed, then stiffened as his soul was drawn out in luminous threads of white-gold, each one snapping with a hiss. His flesh shriveled instantly, turning gray and paper-thin.
The third hunter, still alive, struggled to raise his weapon. His eyes wide with horror. "You… you're not a vampire… you're—"
Morlith's gaze cut him short. "I am what your God abandoned."
He seized the man's face in one hand, forcing his eyes open as shadows poured into his mouth, devouring what remained of his essence. The air filled with a low hum, like a heartbeat gone wrong. The hunter's body trembled, then collapsed—nothing left but an empty shell, skin drawn tight over bone.
When it was done, Morlith stood over them, chest rising and falling, faint tendrils of smoke curling from his fingertips. His eyes glowed brighter now—gold ringed with burning red. The faint aura of divinity clung to him, radiant yet terrible.
Kieran stared, frozen. "What did you do?"
"I fed," Morlith said simply, voice calm but heavy. "Not on their blood… but on the spark that gave them life."
Kieran swallowed hard. "Their souls."
Morlith nodded slowly. "Their deaths strengthen me. It is not mercy—but necessity."
Kieran looked down at the three husks, their faces twisted in silent terror, flesh cracked and gray. "They were still my kin," he said quietly.
"They came to kill thee," Morlith replied, turning toward him. "Had I not intervened, their blades would have found thy heart."
He stepped closer, shadows curling from his cloak like smoke. "Fear me if thou must, but know this, Kieran Fallowridge—while I still breathe, no blade, no angel, no kin shall touch thee."
Kieran looked up at him. The glow in Morlith's eyes made his chest tighten—not from fear, but from something harder to name.
"Then promise me," he said softly. "You'll never use that power on me."
Morlith's expression flickered, caught between sorrow and defiance. "If thou ever raise thy hand to slay me, I will take thy soul with a kiss."
Kieran didn't respond. He simply sheathed his blade, the silence between them thick as fog.
Morlith turned toward the great cathedral gates looming ahead. The doors were massive, carved with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly as he approached. The air seemed to breathe around them, whispering in long-forgotten tongues.
He placed his palm against the cold stone. The sigils flared to life—blood-red and gold, divine and damned in equal measure.
"Morvane," he whispered. "Father."
The doors began to open, groaning as if protesting the centuries of silence that had kept them shut.
Behind him, Kieran stepped closer, his voice low. "You think he's waiting for you in there?"
Morlith's eyes never left the threshold. "I think something is."
The wind stilled. The air thickened with ancient power.
And together, they stepped into the darkness beyond.