The red moon sank lower, but its light clung to Elena like a stain.
She did not sleep.
When dawn came, pale and brittle, she was still awake, still clutching the dagger as if letting go meant surrendering something far greater than her life. Her father's weapon lay heavy across her knees, its tarnished edge whispering of battles she had never seen.
By daylight, Corvain was a husk of a village. Houses leaned with tired bones, shutters hung loose, and the streets lay quiet, as though the villagers feared to speak of what walked in the night. But Elena could feel it—eyes watching her, whispers darting from door to door. They knew something. They always had.
At the edge of the square, the old chapel stood in ruins. She had avoided it for years, ever since her father's burial. But now, Lucien's words gnawed at her: The blood in your veins belongs to me.
The chapel's doors groaned as she pushed them open. Dust swirled in beams of light that broke through shattered stained glass, painting her in shards of crimson and gold. She crossed to the altar, where the stones were cracked and blackened—as though fire had once tried to erase what lay beneath.
Her hand trembled as she touched the dagger to the stone. Something stirred.
Not a sound, but a memory—
Her father's voice, faint and broken: "Elena, if the red moon returns, you must not seek the truth… the Draegor blood is a chain, not a gift."
The echo faded, leaving her cold. She had never heard him speak that name before, yet it slid against her bones as though it had always been there.
And then—footsteps behind her.
"Elena," whispered a rasping voice. Not Lucien's, but another. Older. Familiar.
She turned—and found the village priest, Father Renwick, standing in the broken doorway, his eyes hollow with secrets.
"You should not be here," he said, his voice thin with dread. "If you value your soul, child, you will leave that dagger where it lies. For your father was not the man you believed.