The night she was born.
The night Vee was born, the moon bled silver.
It hung low in the sky, swollen and unnatural, casting a pale glow that shimmered like frost over the rooftops of the quiet village. The air was thick—too still, too silent. Even the crickets had gone mute, as if nature itself held its breath.
Inside a candlelit room, her mother screamed once, then fell silent. The midwife, cloaked in shadow and herbs, caught the child in her arms and gasped. The baby's eyes were closed, but her skin glowed faintly, and on her wrist bloomed a mark no one could explain: a crescent wrapped in thorns, pulsing with light.
"She's not ordinary," the midwife whispered, her voice low and reverent. "She's marked."
But the midwife was no ordinary woman. Her name was Maera, and she had lived for over a hundred years, hidden among mortals, watching for signs. She had seen omens in the stars, heard whispers in the wind, and now, the prophecy had arrived in her hands.
Without a word, Maera drew a circle of salt and ash around the newborn. She chanted in a forgotten tongue, her fingers weaving symbols into the air. The mark on Vee's wrist flared once, then dimmed, vanishing beneath her skin like a secret swallowed whole.
"Let her live free," Maera murmured, "until the moon calls her name again. Let the seal hold until her eighteenth year."
Outside, the wind shifted.
Far beneath the earth, in a crypt sealed by blood magic and forgotten by time, the Vampire Prince stirred. His coffin, carved from obsidian and bound in silver chains, cracked open with a hiss. Dust swirled as he sat up, eyes gleaming crimson in the dark.
He had been asleep for centuries, buried to keep the world safe from his hunger. But now, something had changed. A pulse. A call. A birth.
"She's here," he murmured, voice like broken glass. "The blood has awakened."
In the northern wilds, under the canopy of the Blackpine Forest, a lone werewolf raised his head and howled. The sound echoed through the trees, mournful and raw. The pack stirred, restless. Elders whispered of omens and ancient prophecies. The Alpha's eyes turned toward the south, where the moon glowed unnaturally bright.
"She is born," he growled. "The one who walks between."
Back in the village, the newborn girl lay quiet in her mother's arms. Her name was spoken for the first time—Vee. A name simple, soft, but destined to echo through realms both mortal and divine.
The candles flickered.
The seal held.
And somewhere, in a realm untouched by time, a book turned its own page. Her name etched itself into prophecy, into legend, into war.
She was the beginning.
She was the curse.
She was the girl marked by moonlight and blood.