It was midnight in Frostgrave — the northern vampire dominion, built beneath the frozen bones of a forgotten mountain.
The city didn't breathe. It pulsed.
Red lanterns floated on cursed mist, the air thick with blood-scent and silk. Vampires didn't walk here. They glided. Silent, regal, cruel. At the heart of the city stood the Blood Tower, rising like a fang from the ice.
Inside, the Council gathered.
Thirteen chairs. Twelve filled.
The one left empty belonged to Luceron the Pale, Lord of the Firstblood — vanished for months after a rumored encounter in the Ashveil borderlands.
No body had been found.
Only a tire mark etched in fire.
"He's back."
The voice belonged to Lady Yasha, the Crimson Enchantress. Her nails bled spell-runes as she pressed a vial of black ash onto the table.
"Confirmed by seers and three shadow familiars. The Rider has awakened."
Murmurs swelled like rising plague.
"Impossible."
"He died with the old war."
"The Soul Engine was shattered."
"Then explain this," Yasha hissed.
She waved her hand. The ashes flared — forming the outline of a motorcycle engine carved with lunar runes. At its center: the mark of Smith McAll.
Burned in fresh.
From the shadows, General Vexion, a hybrid warlord, growled.
"Riders are myths."
"And you'll be ash if you treat them like campfire stories," said the last to speak — a cold voice from a throne of bones.
The Tribrid Queen had arrived.
She walked barefoot over frost and blood alike. Hair of black fire. Eyes of violet flame. A face that could charm death and a presence that made even Elder Vampires kneel.
"I once watched a Rider tear down an entire army of hybrids with a single roar," she said, circling the room. "That was Smith. He's gone."
"But now…" she paused, smiling darkly, "there's another."
"A new name is rising. Zane Kyro. Black Fang."
She stepped onto the map etched into the floor.
Her foot burned a single word into the center:
Ashveil.
"I want him dead," she said. "I want his Soul Engine broken. I want the people to fear his silence again."
"And what of the packs?" asked one of the lesser Lords.
"Let them beg the moon for mercy," she smiled. "Because this time, not even the Alphas can save them."
"This time... the Riders will burn."
Far away, in the ruins of a forgotten Rider's cathedral, Zane stared into the growing city lights — a storm already brewing behind his eyes.
He felt it.
The world was moving again.
And it was moving toward war.