The snow had stopped by the time they made it back to Windhollow, but the cold hadn't lifted.
Valen didn't speak on the ride back. His eyes stayed forward, unfocused, as if looking beyond the trail and the wind-bitten sky. Lyra rode behind him, silent but restless, the image of the Enforcer still carved into her thoughts.
What had it meant to nullify a Noble?
What kind of power could erase a being like Malrath Voss without a sound?
Even the strongest dhampirs in legend—Nightcleavers, Deathbloods, Ashborn—none had spoken of a force like that.
And yet… it had happened.
Windhollow was quieter than usual when they returned. Doors stayed shut. Curtains didn't flutter. It was as if the town had collectively held its breath—and never exhaled.
Valen dismounted outside Lyra's house. Taren burst out from within a moment later, face pale and tense.
"You're alive," he said, gripping his sister in a tight hug. "The whole town saw the lights from the hold. The sky turned red—then green—and then just went black."
Lyra hugged him back, but her eyes stayed fixed on Valen.
"We're not safe," she said softly. "Even with Malrath gone."
Valen nodded. "The Enforcer's presence means something is shifting. That kind of power doesn't move unless the Inner Sanctum is preparing for… recalibration."
Taren frowned. "Inner Sanctum?"
Valen's voice was calm, but heavy. "The highest caste. The origin of the bloodlines. The ones who forged the Covenant. They rule from the continent's hollow heart—deep beneath the Blackvale Mountains, where even sunlight won't trespass."
Taren blinked. "I thought those were myths."
"They are," Valen said. "Until they aren't."
That evening, the village elders called an emergency gathering in the Old Hollow, the root-chamber beneath the ancient tree where laws were still spoken aloud, as was tradition.
Valen sat to one side, arms crossed, his hat pulled low. Lyra stood nearby, flanked by Taren and old Mother Quenna, who ran the apothecary.
The mayor, a squat, sun-weathered man named Herrik, addressed the room.
"So," he said after clearing his throat for the fifth time. "The vampire lord is dead."
Murmurs spread. Some crossed themselves with silver-threaded fingers. Others spit into their hands for luck.
"And we have the young woman Lyra to thank," Herrik continued, gesturing. "And… this man. This hunter."
Valen didn't respond.
"But the problem," Herrik went on, "is what comes next. The vampire's territory will not remain unclaimed. Not for long. The nobles of the east or the warlords from the Bleeding Coast will come sniffing. Power never stays vacant."
More murmurs.
"And what if more of those things come?" asked a farmer in the back. "That—that thing from the clouds! That walked through stone and killed a monster like swatting a fly?"
Valen stood, slowly.
"If the Sanctum has taken notice of the frontier again, the entire balance is tipping. You cannot hide from it. You cannot reason with it. Your only choice is to prepare."
"Prepare?" barked another man. "With what? Hayforks and boiling oil?"
Valen didn't flinch.
"Exactly."
He turned and walked out, leaving the room to its panic.
Lyra found him on the ridge above Windhollow, where the graves of the old war were still marked with iron nails and burnt wood.
"You don't care what happens to them," she said softly, not accusing, just observing.
"I do," Valen said without turning. "But caring won't stop what's coming."
She stepped closer. "Then what will?"
He was silent.
"I don't know."
That scared her more than any monster.
After a while, he spoke again, quieter this time. "The mark on your neck—did it fade?"
She blinked. "What?"
He gestured. "The brand. Malrath's claim."
She touched her skin. It felt normal. Smooth. Untouched.
But as her fingers brushed the exact spot, a sudden flash burst through her skull—pain and fire and voices that weren't hers.
She gasped, staggering back.
Valen caught her.
"I thought so," he said grimly.
"What… what was that?"
"A tether," he said. "Not just a claim. He linked you to something older. A bloodline deeper than his."
"But he's dead."
Valen looked her in the eye. "Not everything that marks you needs to be alive to do so."
That night, Lyra tried to sleep. She didn't.
She saw dreams—or visions.
A hall of pillars made of bone. A woman with lips sewn shut standing in water that ran uphill. A throne of veins pulsing with red light.
She woke screaming, cold sweat clinging to her skin.
Outside, thunder cracked, though no storm followed.
In the distance, she saw black lights pulsing beyond the hills.
Down in the cellar of her home, Valen examined a silver box he hadn't opened in years.
Inside lay pages bound in leather made from a nightbeast's hide. A tome of lost dhampiric scripture.
Each page shimmered when touched, written in a script that twisted like tendrils under moonlight. He hadn't dared consult it before—but now…
He flipped to the passage on soul-echoes and binding rites.
The mark on Lyra wasn't just a blood claim.
It was a vessel.
Something—someone—was using her as a doorway.
And Malrath Voss had only been the first to step through.
At dawn, the town awoke to smoke on the horizon.
A caravan had been attacked two leagues east—traders heading toward the ruins of Morhal Crag. Survivors spoke of figures in white bone armor and a woman with a mouth of writhing tongues.
They left no bodies. Just symbols drawn in frost where fire once was.
Valen mounted Umbra before the noon sun even broke the mist.
Lyra stood by the stable gate, watching him with a look that mixed sorrow and resolve.
"Take me with you."
"No," he said.
"I'm part of this."
"I know."
"Then—"
"You're not ready."
She clenched her fists. "Then make me ready."
Valen paused.
Then he pulled from his saddlebag a blade wrapped in crimson cloth. It was shorter than his, lighter, and etched with protective runes.
"A soulforged dagger," he said. "Made from my own blood and alloyed with grave-silver. It will burn anything born of the old blood."
She took it, carefully. It felt warm in her hand.
"Then teach me to use it," she said.
He nodded once.
"Every morning. At dawn. Meet me on the ridge."
She held the blade tightly.
"And when I am ready?"
He swung into the saddle, his eyes cold and steady.
"Then we find the one who marked you."
Beyond the hills, past the reach of the fading sun, a council of shadows stirred in a place called Ebonspire—a city that did not exist on any map, yet had endured longer than any empire.
In its deepest chamber, beneath blackstone arches older than the moon, seven figures stood cloaked in silence.
One of them, the tallest, leaned forward over a pool of ink-like mist.
"She has awakened," said the figure.
"She was supposed to die," hissed another. "Malrath swore she would never reach the threshold."
"Malrath was a child," said the first. "And now, he is dust."
Another shadow stepped forward.
"And the Dhampir?"
"He interferes again. Just like his mother."
That caused silence.
"Then let us send a warning," one of them said.
The figure closest to the pool lifted a hand.
A flick of the wrist. A single word in a language not spoken since stars were young.
The surface of the pool rippled, then darkened—showing Lyra's sleeping form.
And above her bed, unseen by all but shadows, a new sigil began to burn, faintly glowing beneath her skin.
The mark had changed.
And the door was still open.