The morning fog rolled in like a pale, creeping tide, swallowing Blackthorn's crooked streets and muffling the world into silence. It was the kind of morning where even the birds chose not to sing.
Elian sat at the small desk in his rented room, fingers tracing absent circles on the wooden surface as he stared at the leather-bound book laid open before him. The runes on the page shifted ever so slightly under his gaze — fluid, alive, ancient.
The text wasn't meant for mortal eyes.
But Elian wasn't exactly mortal anymore.
He turned another page, scanning the incantations, the diagrams of old bloodlines, binding circles, and wards. This wasn't light reading—it was preparation. The appearance of the Lesser Shade confirmed what he suspected: the old ones were waking again.
And Blackthorn sat directly over one of their sealed gates.
I should've come sooner, he thought.
A soft knock interrupted his focus.
"Come in," he called without looking up.
Marla entered, her movements cautious, like someone approaching a sleeping predator.
"I brought breakfast," she said, setting a tray of eggs and toast on the table. Her eyes darted toward the book. "You're still here."
"I am."
"You burned your phone."
"I did."
She lingered for a moment, biting her lip. Then, softly: "You're not just passing through, are you?"
Elian closed the book and met her gaze. "No. I came because this town is about to become very dangerous, very quickly."
A long pause.
"You're talking about the old pact," she whispered. "Aren't you?"
That made him raise an eyebrow. "You know about the Blackthorn Pact?"
"My grandmother used to tell stories." She glanced around, lowering her voice further. "That long ago, the founders of this town made… arrangements. To keep things contained. The bloodlines were supposed to guard the seal. But most of us—most of them—forgot. Or chose to forget."
"They didn't forget," Elian said coldly. "They abandoned it."
Marla flinched. "Why would anyone do that?"
He sighed. "Because guarding the seal requires sacrifice. And sacrifice is never convenient."
Marla hugged her arms around herself. "You're one of the original line, aren't you?"
Elian didn't answer.
Instead, he stood and moved to the window, where the fog was beginning to thin. The woods beyond the town stirred faintly—old trees bending in unnatural ways. Shadows moved where there should've been none.
"I need to find the others," he said. "If any are left."
Marla hesitated, voice shaky: "There are rumors. The Morrows still hold power, though they're not like your kind anymore. And… there's him."
Elian turned sharply. "Who?"
Marla swallowed. "The Warlock of Hawthorn Hill."
A chill ran through the room at the name. Elian's fists clenched involuntarily.
He's still alive?
"That changes things."
Marla backed up toward the door. "If you go up there, you won't come back."
Elian's voice dropped low. "If I don't go up there, none of us come back."
By afternoon, the fog had lifted just enough to reveal the outskirts of Blackthorn, where the old dirt road coiled like a serpent toward Hawthorn Hill. The forest flanked him on both sides as Elian walked, his long coat billowing behind him in the autumn wind.
The trees whispered.
Old trees.
Hungry trees.
Every step forward felt like entering a world untouched by time. The branches above curled together, blotting out the sky, casting everything into a muted green twilight.
At the summit sat the Warlock's estate—a crumbling stone manor with jagged spires that reached like claws into the sky. The windows were dark. But Elian knew better. The house breathed.
He crossed the rotted front porch and raised his fist to knock.
The door creaked open before he touched it.
"Elian."
The voice was smooth, almost melodic.
Out of the darkness stepped a tall man dressed in a tailored midnight suit. His skin pale, his eyes sharp and colorless. And yet, beneath that perfect exterior, Elian could sense it—the immense coiled power. Like standing before a bomb waiting to go off.
"Malrek," Elian greeted flatly. "You've aged well."
The Warlock smiled, exposing sharp canines. "You haven't aged at all. Immortality suits you."
"I didn't come here for small talk."
Malrek chuckled softly, stepping aside to gesture him in. "Of course you didn't."
The inside of the manor smelled of burnt herbs and old parchment. The walls pulsed faintly with protective wards — some ancient, some disturbingly modern.
"You feel it too, I assume," Malrek said, pouring himself a dark amber drink. "The stirring beneath the seal."
"They're trying to breach."
Malrek nodded. "Yes. And this time, the Council won't intervene. They've grown... complacent." He sipped. "If the gate breaks, we're looking at full collapse. You know that."
Elian studied him carefully. "And what are you planning to do about it?"
Malrek's smile widened. "Me? Nothing." His eyes gleamed with dangerous amusement. "But you… you might still believe in playing hero."
Elian's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "I'm not here to save the world, Malrek. I'm here to clean up the mess your generation left behind."
A beat of tense silence.
Then Malrek's expression sobered. "The others won't help you. The bloodlines are broken. The pacts are fractured. Most of your kin are dead or hiding. You're alone in this."
"I've been alone before."
Malrek's gaze sharpened. "You can't stop them, Elian. Not alone."
"I don't intend to be alone for long."
Elian turned to leave, but Malrek's voice followed him like a snake slithering through grass.
"They know you're here already. The moment you stepped back into Blackthorn… they marked you."
Elian paused at the door.
"Let them come," he said. "I'll bury every last one of them."
And with that, he vanished into the shadows of the hill, as the first signs of night bled across the horizon.