The night reeked of iron.
Elena Veyra pressed her back against the crumbling stone wall of the graveyard, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The moon, swollen and red as a bleeding eye, hung above the village of Corvain, painting the crooked streets in shades of rust and shadow. It had risen like this only once before in her lifetime, and the elders whispered that such a moon was a herald of blood.
She clutched the silver dagger her father had left her—a relic dulled with age but warm in her hand, as if it remembered the blood it had spilled.
Something moved beyond the graves.
A tall figure, cloaked in black, glided between the headstones. It moved too smoothly to be human, and its shadow bent unnaturally along the ground. Elena froze. She knew the stories—the forbidden ones—the tales of a lineage cursed with a hunger that never died.
The figure stopped.
"Elena Veyra," it said, its voice deep, almost tender. "You carry your father's weapon. Do you even know whose blood stains its edge?"
Her grip tightened on the dagger. "Stay back."
The figure stepped into the moonlight, and the world seemed to recoil. His eyes glowed with a crimson light, not the soft glow of life but the fierce burn of hunger. His smile revealed the faint gleam of fangs.
"My name is Lucien Draegor," he said. "The blood in your veins belongs to me."
Elena's heart hammered in her chest, not just with fear—but with the chilling certainty that somewhere, deep in her blood, a memory stirred.
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