The gates of Velmoria stood tall and blackened—wrought from obsidian mined during the Dominion's golden era. Even without banners, without the crimson sigil once etched in blood above them, they exuded power. A power that hadn't died with the Council.
Seraphina dismounted at the threshold, her hood up against the cold winds that swept the bridge. The guards eyed her with equal parts awe and unease. One bowed stiffly.
"Lady Seraphina," he said, voice taut. "You've been summoned by order of the Provisional Triumvirate."
Her lips curled faintly. "Summoned? That's new."
The guard didn't respond. Just stepped aside.
Velmoria had changed.
Gone were the blood-streaked statues of the old High Lords. In their place: gray flags bearing no crest, but coiled serpents—a new symbol for a new regime. The city pulsed with cautious life. Vampires strolled through the open markets. Dhampirs manned stalls. Humans walked—some freely, some leashed.
Peace, it seemed, was just rebranded control.
A robed courier met her at the inner gates and escorted her through the corridors of the Tower Hall. Gold chandeliers still hung from the ceilings, though many were cracked. She passed portraits whose faces had been burned out. The Council had been wiped from record, but the walls still whispered.
At the high chamber, three figures waited.
The Provisional Triumvirate.
At their center stood Lord Malrec, tall, silver-haired, his face sharp and unyielding. Flanking him were Lady Veyla, draped in sapphire silks, and General Korrin, armored even in court.
Malrec stepped forward. "Seraphina of the Broken Flame," he said smoothly. "Velmoria owes you a debt. But debts, as you know, are dangerous things."
Seraphina remained still. "You didn't summon me for pleasantries."
Veyla smiled, though her eyes were serpentine. "We summoned you because the world is watching. You ended the war, and now every faction waits to see if you'll start the next."
"Rumors travel fast," Seraphina said. "Let me guess—the disappearances in the borderlands have reached your ears."
Malrec nodded. "They're not isolated. Twelve villages across the old dominion lines. Not just missing villagers—missing nobles."
That gave her pause. "Vampires?"
"Turned inside out," Korrin said bluntly. "No bite marks. Just magic. Old magic."
Seraphina folded her arms. "And you think I'm the cause."
"No," Malrec replied. "We think you're the only one capable of stopping whoever is."
A tension hung in the room, coiled and silent.
Seraphina stepped forward. "You want my help."
Korrin scoffed. "We're offering cooperation."
"I don't need your offer," she said, turning toward the door. "But I'll find out who's behind it. With or without your support."
Malrec's voice followed her. "Then begin with the Archivist. The answers you seek are buried in history's grave."
The Tower of Memory sat on the edge of Velmoria's highest tier. Its spires reached the clouds, crowned with wind-worn gargoyles. Only one man lived inside—The Archivist, keeper of every scroll, tome, and forbidden whisper the Dominion once hoarded.
He met her at the entrance, his robes dust-colored, eyes sunk deep like he hadn't slept in a century.
"I knew you'd come," he rasped, his voice like pages turning.
Seraphina followed him into the maze of shelves and vaults.
"You knew I'd be summoned," she said. "Or you saw it?"
"Both. Prophecies don't lie… but they omit."
He led her into a chamber lit only by violet witchfire. Symbols etched into the floor glowed faintly.
"What is this place?"
"The original Council chamber. Before the nobles carved their own throne rooms. The roots of Velmoria lie here—buried beneath years of curated memory."
He reached into a drawer beneath the altar and pulled out a scroll. It was torn in half.
"This was erased from the official records," he said. "Only fragments remain."
Seraphina unrolled it carefully.
The words were jagged. Disjointed.
"The vessel of flame shall rise… born not of blood, but purpose… shaped by war… guided not by fate, but by the hand unseen."
Her brow furrowed. "This isn't the prophecy I was told."
The Archivist nodded. "That's because the version you received was incomplete. Sanitized. You were never meant to survive the war."
Seraphina looked up sharply. "What?"
"They chose you," he said. "Not the gods. Not fate. The Council. They planned your rise and your fall. The vial, the visions, the rebellion—it was all orchestrated to unite the people, and then remove you before you became a threat."
She backed away, her breath catching. "But I destroyed them."
"Yes," he whispered. "And that wasn't part of the plan."