Chapter III: Gathering
The mist clung to Nathaniel's throat like a noose.
He stood rooted to the slick cobblestones, the fog thick and cold, wrapping itself around his legs, his chest, as though conspiring to keep him still. The world had narrowed to one vision: the figures that emerged from the veil of white.
Eris Gravenholt stood at the center, her silver hair catching what little light the gas lamps gave, her crimson gaze gleaming with an unholy delight. But it was not just her anymore.
They flanked her like sentinels.
To her left was a tall man, broad-shouldered, dressed in black velvet that swallowed the dim light. His jaw was sharp as a blade, his hair swept back in a cascade of raven darkness. His eyes—pale and glacial—cut through Nathaniel with a predator's patience. When he inhaled, the fog seemed to move with his breath.
To her right was a woman, slender, poised, her gown flowing like midnight ink spilled across the earth. She was beautiful, not in the way of youth, but with an ageless poise, her features carved with aristocratic grace. Her lips were curved faintly, yet her eyes—violet and bottomless—held the weight of centuries.
Behind them, half-hidden in the shadows, lingered another. A presence less defined, more sinister. Tall, cloaked, faceless in the mist. His silence was more oppressive than any words could have been.
The Gravenholt clan.
Eris stepped forward, her smile sweet, almost tender, but it cut Nathaniel to the bone.
"Darling," she breathed, "you've been hiding long enough. It's time you came home."
His voice broke out, sharp and trembling. "This isn't my home."
The tall man to her left chuckled, a sound low and mirthless. "Defiance," he murmured. "How quaint. He has your fire, Eris. That tongue, that resistance. Almost admirable."
Eris glanced at him with amusement. "Donovan, don't tease him. He's still... adjusting."
The name echoed in Nathaniel's mind. Donovan. A brother, perhaps? Or something worse.
The woman spoke next, her voice smooth as silk poured over steel. "Adjusting, yes. But his blood sings already. I can hear it." She tilted her head, eyes fixed on Nathaniel as though he were a piece of music to be studied. "The mark has begun its work."
Eris's gaze softened, though her smile never faltered. "You feel it too, don't you, Nathaniel? The warmth in your veins when the night deepens. The hunger you don't understand. That scar is not a wound. It's a door. And soon... it will open."
Nathaniel's throat constricted. His father's words returned—they do not release what they claim.
"I don't want this," he rasped. "I didn't choose this."
Eris's expression flickered—hurt, anger, longing—all in the space of a heartbeat. Then it hardened into something colder. "Choice is a luxury, Nathaniel. Not for people like us. Blood decides."
The cloaked figure in the back finally moved. The fog thickened, bending toward him as if bowing. When he spoke, his voice was a rasp of old stone, a whisper older than the city itself.
"Bring him."
Two words. Nothing more. But they carried the weight of command, of inevitability.
Eris stepped closer, her hand outstretched. "Come, Nathaniel. Do not make this harder than it must be."
Every instinct in him screamed to run. His muscles tensed, his breath ragged. The fog pressed close, suffocating.
And then—
"Stay away from him!"
The shout cracked the night.
Nathaniel's head snapped toward the sound. A figure burst from the mist—his father. Daniel Cross, lantern in one hand, iron poker in the other, his eyes burning with something fierce, desperate, unyielding.
The clan turned.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Then Donovan laughed. A cruel, booming sound that made the air itself tremble. "An iron stick and a trembling flame? Is this the best humanity can muster?"
Daniel's grip tightened, his stance firm. "I don't care what you are. You will not take my son."
Eris's eyes darkened, her smile vanishing. "You cannot protect him, Daniel. Not from us. Not from himself."
But Daniel did not flinch. He planted himself between Nathaniel and the clan, iron poker raised like a sword. The lantern's flame danced wildly in the mist, casting fleeting light across monstrous shadows.
"Then you'll have to go through me."
The cloaked figure's voice slithered through the fog again. "So be it."
The air shattered.
Donovan moved first, faster than the eye could follow. One heartbeat he stood ten paces away, the next he was upon Daniel, striking with inhuman speed. The iron poker met his blow with a screech of metal, sparks flying. Daniel staggered but held his ground, teeth gritted.
The violet-eyed woman glided forward, whispering words Nathaniel could not understand. The fog curled tighter, shapes shifting within it—faces, claws, whispers. They reached for Nathaniel, cold and hungry.
Eris alone did not move. She watched, crimson eyes locked on Nathaniel, her expression unreadable.
Nathaniel's chest burned. His scar seared like molten fire. He gasped, collapsing to his knees. His veins pulsed black beneath his skin, throbbing with every beat of his heart.
The woman's voice grew louder. The whispers clawed at his mind.
And then—something broke.
A surge of heat tore through him, violent, unbearable. He screamed, clutching his chest. The fog recoiled. The whispers faltered. His scar blazed with unnatural light, crimson and alive.
The clan stilled.
Donovan's smile widened. "Ah. There it is."
Eris stepped forward at last, her eyes blazing with triumph and sorrow entwined.
"You see, Nathaniel?" she whispered. "You cannot deny what you are becoming."
Daniel's voice roared above the chaos. "Fight it, son! Fight them!"
But Nathaniel could barely hear. His body convulsed, the world spinning, torn between his father's call and Eris's promise, between the light of the lantern and the hunger of the dark.
The cloaked figure raised one pale hand. The fog thickened again, swallowing the world.
And Nathaniel's scream was lost to the night.
When he awoke, he was no longer in London.
He lay on a bed of black velvet, beneath a ceiling carved with ancient runes. The air was cold, dry, thick with the scent of stone and blood. Shadows clung to the walls like living things.
The Gravenholt manor.
Eris sat at his bedside, her hand resting lightly on his. Her smile was gentle now, almost human.
"Welcome home, Nathaniel," she whispered.