đź“ś Chapter Two: The Crimson Accord
The scent of old parchment and burning sage lingered in the Council Hall—an ancient domed structure hidden beneath the shattered cathedral of Saint Armand. The hidden seat of the Veil Council.
Elara's boots echoed as she entered, guided by two hooded guards. Her fingers fidgeted at her sides, brushing against the old rune pendant that had begun to burn against her chest like a warning.
Before her, the five ruling factions of the Veil—Witches, Vampires, Werewolves, Humans, and Hunters—sat in silence. Each carried the burden of their bloodline. Each held a reason to fear the one seated beside them.
Duke Vaelen of the Crimson Fangs sat slouched in his throne, his red eyes glowing like coals. "You summoned her into the Circle?" His voice coiled like smoke. "She's not even Marked."
"She carries the legacy," rasped Elder Lysandra of the Witches. "And the blood of the First Pact. That makes her one of us."
Elara kept her eyes low. She could feel the weight of their judgments pressing down on her. One misstep and she'd be shredded—by claws, by politics, by prophecy.
"The Crimson Accord is breaking," said Lysandra. "And the girl stands at its heart."
A scroll was unrolled. Crimson ink bled across it like veins. The ancient pact that had once sealed the fragile peace now trembled with age. And the names signed in blood were beginning to fade.
Elara stepped forward. "What… do you want from me?"
"Not want," Lysandra corrected, her eyes glowing silver. "What fate demands of you."
And just like that, the hall fell silent.
Elara didn't know that outside the Council walls, a war pack was already hunting her name. That in the shadows of the New Church, a vampire prince had tasted her scent. And that in the woods, a werewolf would soon bleed for her.
The Crimson Accord had cracked. And the blood would spill in waves.