Valkhara
The doors to the arena didn't open , they cracked.
Stone shrieked against metal as ancient enchantments groaned awake, resisting the command like even the magic knew I didn't belong here.
Or maybe it knew I did.
The crowd above went silent as the gateway peeled open, unveiling me in its center like the last secret they tried to bury.
No chains. No escort. No trembling hands.
Just me.
Barefoot, bloodstained, and walking into their sacred vampire arena like it was my execution… or my coronation. I hadn't decided yet.
Each step I took echoed. The ground beneath me was black stone, old and scorched, said to be carved from the remains of the first fallen vampire god. I could feel the magic humming in the floor thrumming against the soles of my feet, licking up my spine like a warning.
It didn't scare me.
Nothing scared me anymore.
Not after they burned my home.
Not after they tried to erase my name.
Not after I watched the last of the Emberborn scream as the fire took them and lived.
I walked to the center of the arena in silence, my crimson cloak dragging behind me like a trail of dried blood. It was torn at the hem, the edges burned to ash, revealing tight leather beneath. No armor. Just scars and fire-forged muscle. My hair, bright as flame, whipped around my shoulders as the cold wind swept across the killing floor.
Above me, the nobles gathered in their balconies—vampires draped in silk, bone jewelry glinting in the torchlight, faces painted like death. I felt their eyes slither across my skin.
Some looked bored.
Some looked curious.
Some looked hungry.
I hoped they were.
Because I wasn't here to entertain them.
I was here to remind them why their ancestors tried to kill mine.
I reached the center of the arena and stopped. My heart didn't race. My hands didn't shake. All I felt was the steady throb of something ancient in my blood, the low burn of wrath that had never gone out. I could taste the air metallic, thick with magic, tainted by the stench of old blood and fresh expectation.
Let them expect something soft.
Let them pray for weakness.
I would bury them in the aftermath of their disappointment.
A booming voice shattered the silence from the upper altar.
"Kneel."
I didn't. This whole place could fucking burn before I kneeled for these blood sucking fuckers.
My head turned slowly toward the source an officiant robed in crimson, face painted white with a vertical slash of black through one eye. Blood Priest. One of the Eternal Court's lapdogs. He stood above the arena with a brand in his hand, glowing orange at the tip. The mark of entry. The test of obedience. Every competitor received it. It burned into skin and soul alike.
I said nothing.
"Kneel," he repeated, louder this time. "Face the flame. Submit, and be recognized by the Court."
I tilted my head, eyes narrowing slightly.
"You want me to kneel?"
A flicker of discomfort passed through his expression. Just a flicker. He hadn't expected a voice like mine. Sharp. Calm. Like a dagger laid gently on silk.
"I said kneel," he snapped.
I walked forward instead.
Each step was slow. Measured. And when I reached the circle of ancient runes carved into the sand—meant to amplify the mark, to bind me with blood—I stepped right over them.
I didn't stop until I stood beneath the Blood Priest's altar.
Then I looked up at him.
"You want to put fire on my skin," I said softly. "What happens when it burns back?"
He faltered. Just a breath. But I saw it.
The brand in his hand flared. Reacting to me. To my blood. To the fact that I wasn't human. I wasn't vampire. I was other.
I was Emberborn.
Gasps stirred the balconies above.
"Impossible—"
"She should be dead—"
"The Burned Vale—wasn't it—"
Their whispers curled around me like smoke.
I smiled.
The Blood Priest raised the brand. I didn't flinch.
"Valkhara," I said before he could speak. "Of the Burned Vale. Last of the Emberborn."
The magic in the arena pulsed.
A visible ripple cracked through the ground beneath my feet, fine lines of glowing red bleeding across the runes like veins lighting up.
"I don't kneel," I said. "I burn."
The brand exploded in his hand.
Shards of molten metal shot outward, some embedding in the stone wall beside him. He screamed, stumbling back, hand blackened with fire. The crowd above erupted in chaos—some standing, some laughing, some stunned into silence.
I didn't move.
The heat rising off my skin curled the edges of my cloak.
Across the arena, a gate groaned open. Iron scraping rock. From the shadows behind it, something snarled.
The first Trial had begun.
And they still thought I was the one being tested.
The creature that emerged was massive—eight feet of clawed flesh and bone-plated armor. Its eyes glowed red. Not enchanted. Feral. Its teeth jutted sideways out of a maw designed to rip, not bite. It sniffed the air, its gaze snapping to me, nostrils flaring.
It smelled power. It smelled blood.
It wanted mine.
I didn't even blink.
My hands moved to the twin blades at my sides—obsidian-forged, curved, deadly. I'd carved the hilts with my own blood the night before I came here. I didn't name them. They weren't sacred. They were efficient.
The beast let out a roar that shook the arena. Dust spilled from the balconies. I heard nobles flinch. Someone screamed.
I ran straight toward it.
No hesitation. No waiting for orders.
Let the vampires see this clearly.
Let the court watch.
Let the blood flow early.
Because I wasn't here for their favor.
I wasn't here for mercy.
I came for blood.
And I never left survivors.