The Second Rebirth
The storm howled like a wounded god over the ruined spires of the Ivory Cathedral.
Once, it had been the highest temple in the Frostlands—its white towers gleaming with purity, its bells ringing across valleys. Now it was a hollow tomb of broken glass and silence, overtaken by snow and shadow.
Deep in its crypts, firelight danced around a circle of hooded figures. Their robes were etched with blood sigils, and the air buzzed with an unnatural chill. The Wraithbound stood at the edges of the chamber, their twisted forms twitching with anticipation.
In the center lay a body—bound by silver-threaded chains. A girl. Young. Barely fifteen.
"She is of the blood," the high priest intoned, "but untouched by the flame. A pure vessel."
Another voice answered from the darkness. Not human.
"Will she survive the flame?" the shadow asked. Its voice scraped like stone over bone.
"If she doesn't," the priest replied, "there are others."
The ritual began.
Blood dripped into a runed basin. The fire turned black. The girl screamed, her body convulsing as ancient symbols burned into her skin.
Outside, the clouds parted for a brief moment.
The moon turned red.
A second howl pierced the sky—higher, shriller than Alaric's. A new voice. A new presence.
She rose, gasping, her eyes glowing not gold, but a deep crimson.
The priest stepped back. "She lives."
The girl looked at her hands—clawed. Her teeth were fangs. But unlike Alaric's awakening, there was no confusion in her face.
Only hunger.
"She is perfect," the shadow hissed. "She will hunt the Moonborn. She will bring him to me."
The girl blinked, and the air shimmered around her.
"I remember," she said quietly. "Everything."
"Do you know who you are?" the priest asked.
Her voice was calm. Cold. Ageless.
"My name… is Seris. I was born to the flame. I will end what Fenraan began."
Then she smiled—and the shadows smiled with her.
---
Back in Vargfen, Alaric jolted upright in his sleep, chest burning.
Lyra rushed to his side. "What's wrong?"
Alaric's golden eyes gleamed in the dark.
"She's awake," he whispered. "Another reborn."
Lyra froze. "Friend or foe?"
Alaric rose, his breath fogging in the cold. "She's like me. But not. She remembers everything—before the fire, before the chains. And she's not alone."
He turned toward the mountains, sensing the distant echo of her presence.
"We're not the last, Lyra. But if I don't find her first…"
He didn't finish the thought.
He didn't have to.