Elara did not sleep after Calderon left.
She sat by the narrow window, staring out over the valley as mist curled over the trees like pale serpents. Somewhere in the monastery, a bell tolled the third hour. A cold breath of wind slid through the stone slit in the wall and touched the back of her neck—soft, but deliberate.
She flinched.
And then, she heard him.
"Little flame..."
A whisper. Velvet-wrapped, ancient, warm with something dangerously familiar. The voice coiled around her spine like a caress, and for a moment, it was as if her heart no longer beat on its own—but in answer to something else. Something deeper.
Elara rose on trembling legs. The mark behind her ear burned—not sharp, not painful, but like something had awakened inside her and now wanted out.
She pressed her fingers to the stone window frame, grounding herself.
> "Do not fear what remembers you."
She spun around. No one. The room was empty.
But she felt it—him—everywhere. Not a presence, not a ghost, but a current in her blood. Like he had been waiting for her to hear him again, as if the dream was never meant to end.
---
At dawn, Calderon summoned her to the atrium, a circular hall of stained glass and runed columns. Pale light spilled in from above, painting the cold floor in hues of violet and crimson.
There were more monks now. Silent. Still. Watching.
"Elara," Calderon said, his tone careful, "the Council of Thorns wishes to see you."
"Why?"
"They believe the Seal has begun to unravel. And that your presence may be… accelerating it."
Elara stared at him. "So they brought me here just to blame me for something you couldn't stop?"
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The doors opened.
Six monks waited within the chamber beyond. Each wore a bone-white mask carved with animal features,wolf, owl, serpent, lion, stag, and bat. They sat in high-backed chairs in a ring around a pit of glowing coals. When Elara stepped forward, the coals pulsed,red to black and back again.
The one with the owl mask spoke.
"You dream of him," the voice was feminine, brittle with age. "We can feel it in your aura."
Elara's skin prickled. "What does that mean?"
"It means," said the lion-masked figure, "you are no longer just dreaming. You are remembering."
The bat-masked monk leaned forward. "Do you still deny you are Izolda reborn?"
Elara hesitated. "Even if I am, what does it change?"
The pit flared suddenly. The serpent-mask monk hissed, "It changes everything."
---
After the council released her, Calderon took her to the Hall of Echoes.
It was a long corridor beneath the monastery, where the walls shimmered like running water and every footstep rang as if it had been struck from glass. Along the hall were alcoves, each holding relics wrapped in cloth and chain, whispering faintly if one stood close.
Calderon stopped before one of the alcoves and removed the cloth.
Inside rested a dagger, black as night, its blade curved like a fang. The air around it rippled faintly, as if resisting its own presence.
"This is Thorn. The blade Izolda used when she cut Dracula's heart from his body."
Elara's breath caught.
"She sacrificed herself," Calderon said, "to wound him. Not kill. He could not die. But the blood—your blood—was the key to severing his will from his essence."
"And now?" she asked.
Calderon looked at her. "The wound is healing."
-----
That night, Elara lay awake again.
When the whisper returned, it no longer came from the shadows
It came from within.
> "You are not their prisoner, beloved. You are the gate."
And the mark behind her ear opened.
She cried out. Her fingers came away wet with blood.
But she wasn't in her room anymore.
She was standing in a great hall of black stone and candlelight. Banners of crimson and gold hung from the rafters. A throne, jagged and obsidian, stood at the far end.
And in it, he sat.
Red armor. Eyes like dying suns.
He rose slowly.
"Welcome home, Elara."