Prologue
The Duskwither Prophecy
The moment it began, the Veil shuddered.
A silence fell across the Kingdom of Dusk and Fang — not the stillness of night, but the terrible quiet of something ancient remembering itself.
Somewhere deep in the blackened roots of the Mountains of Hollowbone, a forgotten altar cracked down the center.
In the ruins of an old moon-temple, long sealed in the ash-floods of Wyrmholt, runes flared with violet light — briefly, then vanished.
None saw it.
None heard.
But all felt.
---
In the Citadel of Night, where eternal candles cast shadows on stone, Kael Noctaryn stood in the Hall of Stars. His reflection wavered in the obsidian floor.
His heart — a thing long still — pulsed once.
Not a heartbeat. A calling.
He turned his crimson gaze to the northern sky. "Something stirs," he said aloud, though no one was there.
---
Far to the west, on the cliffs above the Shardwood Sea, Raen Wyrmholt froze mid-hunt.
Wolves at his side growled low. Wind carried no scent, and yet his hackles rose. A scent he could not name. A memory he had never lived.
He raised his head to the moon. It did not weep.
But it watched.
---
Deep in the veiled wilds, forgotten by war and power, stood an old estate swallowed by mist — Duskwither Hold.
Its family slept.
Its name no longer whispered.
Its blood unaware.
But beneath the foundations, in a tomb no one remembered was there, a stone cracked. Not with force, but recognition.
Dust shifted on the wall, revealing a single line, burned into ancient blackstone:
When dusk forgets its name,
The blood will wake the dark.
The realm did not scream. It waited.
The fangs of the vampires sharpened.
The wolves howled without understanding.
The sky seemed thinner, the moon lower, the wind heavier with meaning.
Somewhere beyond the veil of magic, across the divide between realms, a pulse echoed into the world of men.
Not a storm. Not yet.
Just a heartbeat.