The moon hung low and heavy over Valemont Estate, its pale light slipping through the tall, iron-framed windows like spectral fingers. Dahlia sat motionless, the shadows of the night crawling along the walls, merging with the weight of secrets that clung to the ancient halls. Her mind replayed the stranger's warning again and again—the Hollow Order was closing in. The truth felt like a blade pressed against her throat, sharp and unrelenting.
Damon paced the length of the chamber, boots silent against cold marble. His jaw clenched, eyes darkening with a storm that mirrored the chaos brewing inside Dahlia's chest. "We can't stay here," he finally growled, voice rough with tension. "They'll find us soon, and when they do, there won't be mercy."
She looked up, the glow of her silver mark faint beneath her skin but burning with unseen power. "Then what? Run? Hide in the shadows like frightened prey?"
"No," he said, stopping to face her. "We fight back. But first, we need allies." His voice dropped, almost a whisper. "And answers."
Dahlia's fingers curled into a fist. "The Red Dragon bloodline... if it's our only hope, where do we start?"
Damon's eyes flicked to the map again. The scrolls bore sigils of fire and ancient glyphs that hummed faintly under their touch, whispering of forgotten realms and lost battles. "There's a place. A sanctuary hidden from time itself. If the legends are true, it's where the last descendants hide—waiting for the day the world needs them."
Before they could plan their next move, the chamber door burst open. Armed guards flooded the room, shadows under cloaks, eyes cold and merciless. "The Hollow Order," Damon snarled, already shifting into his wolf form, muscles rippling beneath obsidian fur. Dahlia's heart slammed as she summoned every shred of courage and power within her.
The fight erupted—steel clashed, magic sparked, and the mansion trembled with the fury of battle. Dahlia's hands glowed silver, throwing arcs of energy that slammed into the enemy, but their numbers were overwhelming. Damon tore through foes with savage precision, but the tide was relentless.
In the chaos, a sharp blade found its way to Dahlia's side. She gasped, pain blooming like fire, and stumbled back into the shadows. The world spun. This was only the beginning.
Blood slicked the marble floor, reflecting the moonlight in broken patterns. Dahlia pressed her palm against her side, fingers wet and sticky. Her breaths came in short bursts, but her focus narrowed—she would not fall. The air shimmered around her as ancient sigils flared to life across her skin, reacting to the strike, to the danger, to the truth buried in her bloodline.
She rose slowly, eyes blazing. The nearest Hollow agent lunged, sword raised, but she didn't flinch. Her hand shot forward and with a single screamless command, the glyphs exploded in a concussive burst. The man flew backward and shattered a column on impact. Damon whirled in his wolf form beside her, blood-matted fur and rage in his eyes.
"Behind you!" Dahlia yelled.
Damon spun, catching a glaive with his bare claws. His snarl echoed like thunder, and with a vicious twist, he crushed the attacker's windpipe. More cloaked figures swarmed the chamber, some climbing the walls like spiders, others weaving spells from cursed tomes. They were here to take her back.
But something shifted in the air—a hum, low and ancient. The ground beneath their feet trembled. From the shattered ceiling, embers began to drift down like snowfall, glowing faintly as they touched her skin. Dahlia looked up, and her pulse thundered—the altar mural above the grand staircase was glowing, its painted chains cracking apart, revealing the hidden glyphs beneath. She didn't know what it meant, but her soul screamed: run.
"Damon!" she shouted, pointing. "The mural—something's changing."
He turned just as the chandelier above detonated in a burst of shadow and fire. A new figure dropped from the ceiling, cloaked in smoke and burning feathers. Unlike the Hollow Order, this one didn't attack—he knelt, right in front of Dahlia.
"Red Daughter," the figure rasped, head bowed. "It's time."
"Time for what?" she asked, breathless.
"To awaken the Gate of Embers."
Before she could speak, the ground split with a thunderous crack, opening a spiral stairway below the shattered altar. Damon, bleeding and bruised, growled at the figure. "Who the hell are you?"
But Dahlia already knew. Not from memory—but from the nightmares. "He's a Bloodbound. A watcher of the Last Flame."
Dahlia stared at the spiral descent yawning beneath the altar, its obsidian steps pulsing with emberlight. Each step beat like a drum—a call, a warning, a promise. The Bloodbound figure remained on one knee, flames licking the edge of his hood. Damon stepped between them instinctively, his arm shielding her as he glared down the stranger.
"No one touches her," Damon growled.
"I don't need protection from him," Dahlia said softly, stepping forward. Her voice trembled, not from fear but the unbearable weight of recognition. This wasn't their first meeting—it was their first reminder. "You were in the dream."
The Bloodbound nodded. "You remember."
"I remember the Gate of Embers," she whispered. "I remember the wolves burning. I remember the gods falling."
"The memory returns because your blood burns again. You are the Moonblood Reborn, and they know. The Hollow Order seeks to use you, bind you, sacrifice you. But there are worse forces than them waiting at the Gate."
Damon gritted his teeth. "You speak in riddles. Try again in plain damn language."
The Bloodbound stood, towering now, his face still hidden beneath a scorched veil. "A war older than this realm is waking. Dahlia is not just your Omega, Valemont. She is a vessel, a prison and a key."
"To what?" Damon asked.
"To a god that should never rise again."
The flames around the staircase brightened. Below, echoes of chains clinked softly, like whispers from the deep. Dahlia felt something pulling at her—not her body, but her soul. A piece of her long dormant was being summoned, and it wasn't asking permission.
"I have to go down there," she said, voice steady.
"You're hurt," Damon snapped.
"She's healing," the Bloodbound said. "Look at her skin."
Damon's eyes widened. The gash in her side had closed almost entirely, leaving behind only glowing lines like molten cracks in marble. Her breath no longer rattled, her spine stood straighter, her aura flared. Damon had seen countless shifts in his time as Alpha, but nothing like this. This wasn't a simple Omega awakening—this was divine blood stirring.
Dahlia took a step toward the staircase.
"You go down there, there's no going back," Damon warned, stepping beside her. "We walk that path together—or not at all."
She looked up at him, eyes fierce and soft all at once. "Then follow me, Alpha. But know this—you won't like what we find."
Without another word, she descended. Damon hesitated, then followed. The Bloodbound vanished into smoke.
Behind them, the altar resealed.
The descent twisted like a serpent's spine, each step dragging them deeper into heat and shadow. The walls pulsed with ancient sigils—draconic, celestial, infernal—all layered in languages long dead. Dahlia's fingertips brushed one symbol etched into the stone. Her pupils dilated. A memory—a crown of bone, a sword of flame, blood running down her hands—flashed before vanishing.
"Do you feel that?" she asked.
Damon exhaled. "Like the air itself wants to swallow us."
When they reached the bottom, the tunnel opened into a vast circular chamber. At its center, a pit. Around it, chained statues—twelve in all. Titans carved from blackened bone, heads bowed in eternal agony. One bore a broken crown. Another held a spear forged from petrified lightning.
A deep hum echoed. From the pit, smoke coiled upward, slow and intelligent, curling like fingers.
Dahlia approached it. "This is where it happened."
"Where what happened?" Damon's voice echoed across the stone.
She turned, eyes glowing faintly silver now. "Where they bound him. The First Dragon. The False God. The one they sacrificed the Moonblood to cage."
Damon's eyes narrowed. "The Hollow Order?"
"No." Her voice cracked. "My kind. The original Moonbloods. We offered one of our own every hundred years to keep the beast asleep. The last offering never reached the altar. That's why he stirs now."
A voice slithered out of the pit, ancient and soft. "You are late, Seraphina."
Dahlia gasped. "That's not my name."
"You've had many names," the voice whispered, smoke brushing her cheek like a lover's caress. "But you were Seraphina when you betrayed me."
Damon grabbed her wrist. "What is this thing?"
"Not a thing," the voice corrected. "A god. Forgotten. Chained. Your mate before wolves ever howled."
Dahlia recoiled. "You lie."
A laugh echoed, shaking the chamber. "You bled for me. You died for me."
The statues began to move, chains rattling. The air shifted, thicker than magic.
Damon stepped forward, shifting partially—eyes glowing, teeth sharpening. "Touch her again, and I'll burn this whole damn pit down."
"Oh, Alpha," the voice sighed. "You are already too late."
A tendril of smoke surged upward, coiling around Dahlia's ankle. She screamed as a brand seared into her skin—a dragon devouring the moon. Damon roared and leapt forward, slicing the tendril with claws of burning silver. The smoke recoiled with a hiss.
Dahlia collapsed. Her skin shimmered, symbols racing across her collarbone like lightning. The chamber shuddered. One of the chained statues cracked down the center. From the fissure, red light poured.
Damon caught her. "Stay with me, Dahlia. Don't you dare fall now."
She looked up, lips bloodied. "He remembers me. And now—I remember him."
Above, the ceiling split. Moonlight fell like a blade into the center of the pit. The red light pulsed once, twice, then went still.
The voice retreated. "We are not done, my bride."
The smoke vanished.
Silence fell like ash.
Dahlia trembled in Damon's arms, her breath ragged. "He won't stop."
Damon lifted her. "Then we make him."
He looked at the cracked statue, then back at her. "This ends before it begins."
"No," she whispered. "This began long before us. But maybe—we can be the ones to finish it."
As they turned to leave, one of the titan statues slowly raised its head.
Eyes of flame opened.