The Eclipse Moon hung low in the sky, its blood-red glow spilling across the jagged peaks of the Ironblood Citadel. The ceremonial courtyard was silent, but for the hiss of torches and the drip of blood pooling into cracks in the stone floor.
She knelt in the center, her wrists bound with chains of black iron, the cold biting through her skin. The Alpha Tyrant of Ironblood, her father, stood atop the grand dais, draped in robes darker than midnight, eyes burning with unnatural fire. This was supposed to be her final moment, the moment that would grant him power over gods.
He raised the obsidian dagger high. The symbols etched into the blade pulsed, resonating with ancient magic older than the moon itself.
"Do you understand your purpose, daughter?" His voice was cold, sharp as shattered glass. "You are not a child. You are my weapon, my offering, my key to eternity."
Her pulse thumped in her ears, each beat screaming the truth she could not voice. She had always known her life was a tool, but this-this was worse than death. It was erasure.
She raised her gaze, meeting her father's, unflinching. A single thought carried her through: I will not be his weapon forever.
The dagger descended.
Pain exploded. Darkness swallowed her.
And yet…
Her eyes snapped open.
The world was quiet. Too quiet. The scent of iron and death lingered faintly, but her chains were gone. Her wrists flexed; her muscles moved as if waking from a century-long sleep. The Eclipse Moon no longer hung blood-red, but pale, fragile in the night sky.
She was alive. Alive. And she remembered everything.
The betrayal. The dagger. The screams. The ritual.
And she remembered her father's final words: "Without you, my plan is incomplete."
A bitter laugh escaped her lips, dry and ragged. He had underestimated her. Always.
She pushed herself to her feet, testing the shadows. Duskwatch Village lay quiet below, a crooked labyrinth of alleys and hidden corners. It had been only a week since she first arrived, fleeing through the wilderness like a ghost, but every instinct screamed danger.
She had a new name now. A new face, disguised beneath the twisted curves of a hunchback she had crafted from alchemy and illusion. No one would know her. No one would recognize the daughter of the Alpha Tyrant.
And if they did… they would regret it.
Her path was clear. Survive. Hide. Build power quietly, without interference. And never… ever… trust anyone again.
The Ink Hollow.
The shop's sign hung crooked, carved from aged oak, its letters curling in the way that only shadow magic could etch. Inside, the air smelled of ink, blood, and herbs, a mixture so potent it cleared the mind while clouding the heart.
This was her domain now. Her sanctuary. Her trap.
She ran a tattoo shop for criminals, witches, vampires, fae, and fugitives all those who had escaped their masters or the law, all those who knew what it was to live with death close at hand.
Each tattoo she drew carried a fragment of power, bound to her soul, whispered in echoes only she could hear. They were more than marks on skin,they were declarations. Warnings. Curses. Graves.
And each one reminded her of who she had been. Who she could be again.
She ran her fingers along the bottles of ink, black as night, crimson as blood, green as fae envy. Her tattoos were her revenge, her currency, her shield. And tonight, she would need them more than ever.
The bell above the door jingled softly.
She froze. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to stretch, tendrils of awareness rising.
No one had ever dared enter uninvited.
And yet… someone had.
A man stepped inside. Tall. Broad. Commanding without speaking. Every inch of him radiated danger, authority, and obsession. Even in the dim light, she could feel it. A predator among prey.
He stopped at the threshold, eyes scanning the room, lingering on her silhouette beneath the hunchback. There was recognition there or something deeper, older. A pull that made her chest tighten, despite herself.
She didn't move. Didn't blink. Only waited, letting him see what she wanted: a shadow of her former self, a ghost of the woman he might remember or fear.
"Evening," he said, voice low, calm, yet carrying an edge that cut through the room. "I've heard whispers about this place."
The faintest smile curved her lips. Not enough to reveal teeth. Not enough to show emotion. Enough to say, I am here. I am alive. I am dangerous.
"You shouldn't be here," she said softly. Her words carried the weight of blades. "This is not a place for the living or the curious."
He stepped closer, unafraid. "Curiosity didn't bring me here," he said. "Necessity did. And perhaps… fate."
Her pulse flickered. Something in the cadence of his voice, the subtle strength in his presence, tugged at a memory she hadn't wanted to face. A memory of blood, fire, and betrayal. A memory of a kiss that had tasted of poison and obsession.
Her hands itched for the needle, for the ink, for the weapon she carried in her art and her soul.
The man's gaze softened or perhaps it was a mirage. Something dangerous lay beneath, waiting to devour, to claim, to destroy.
"You're… different," he said. "But the feeling is still here. The same. I know you."
She felt the weight of those words press against her chest, a hammer striking fear and desire in equal measure.
He knows.
But she wouldn't let him touch her. Not yet. Not while she still held the power of rebirth, of survival, of the inked soul that bound the dead to her.
"Perhaps," she said, finally. "But you don't know who I am anymore."
He smiled, dark, knowing, dangerous.
"Oh, I know exactly who you are. And I've come for what's mine."
And with that, the bell above the door rang again softly, ominously echoing the truth she had already felt in her bones.
Their war had begun.