(Part 1 of 2)
The road to Nocturnis Vale wound downward into perpetual dusk.
Here the sun was a rumor and the moon a sovereign: an endless twilight where crimson mist pooled among black cedars, and the air smelled faintly of iron and rain.
Balerion had heard tales of the Vale since childhood — a land where night never fully lifted, where vampires walked openly under the silver glow, and the stones themselves drank spilled blood to remember who had ruled.
Now, as he and Selene rode through the outer gates, he understood why mortals called it beautiful and terrible in the same breath.
The architecture was vertical — spires rising like frozen screams, bridges arching between them, every surface carved with veins of faintly glowing script. The glyphs were alive, pulsing in time with the heartbeat of the city.
At the gate, a herald knelt as their mounts stopped. "Lady Valeria, welcome home. And…" — his voice hesitated — "His Highness, the Prince Drakmor Vantheus. The Council awaits you in the Hall of Glass."
Selene's mouth tightened. "Of course they do."
She leaned toward Balerion. "Smile politely, say little, and don't incinerate anyone, no matter how much they deserve it."
"I'll try," he murmured. "No promises."
The Hall of Glass was exactly what its name implied: a cathedral of translucent stone that reflected torchlight into crimson fractals.
The elders of House Valeria sat upon thrones suspended by chains from the ceiling, like judges who had forgotten gravity. Their robes bled color into the air; their eyes burned with controlled hunger.
"Granddaughter," said the eldest, Marcellus Valeria, his voice carrying centuries of disapproval. "You return with the half-breed whose awakening shook heaven. Do you bring salvation, or doom?"
Selene bowed shallowly. "Knowledge. The House Drakmor seeks truth. I intend to find it in our archives."
"Those records are sealed," Marcellus said. "By decree of the Concord itself."
"Then unseal them," she replied. "Or I'll ask the Dominion to audit which of our pacts remain…valid."
A ripple of outrage swept the suspended thrones. Balerion felt the temperature drop; shadows coiled like serpents around his boots.
He stepped forward once, and the shadows froze. No overt aura — just presence, quiet and absolute.
"My mother teaches restraint," he said softly. "But I'm told patience has limits."
The air held its breath.
Marcellus studied him, unreadable. "Very well. You may enter the archives. But you go without escort. If what sleeps there wakes, you face it alone."
Selene inclined her head. "Accepted."
They descended through stairways carved into the mountain's heart. Each level grew colder, older. The torches burned blue; the walls shimmered with protective runes so ancient even Selene's blood recognized them only as family.
At the fifth gate, the guards stopped. "Beyond here lies the Eidolon Archive," one said. "No light endures long. If you speak, speak truth; if you bleed, hide it."
The doors opened without sound.
Inside was darkness — not absence of light, but presence of memory. Columns rose like ribs into the black. Between them floated shards of crystal, each holding an image: a frozen moment, a memory caught at death.
Selene whispered, "These are blood-echoes. My ancestors bound their recollections here. Each crystal is a life."
Balerion moved carefully, the echoes brushing against him with whispers: laughter, battle cries, sobs. The air tasted of old iron.
He reached one that pulsed faintly red. Within, a scene flickered — a dragon of obsidian and a figure cloaked in night entwined mid-sky, not fighting but merging, their forms dissolving into a storm of black-crimson light.
"Selene," he said.
She turned — saw it — and went still. "That isn't supposed to exist."
The crystal pulsed faster as if recognizing her bloodline. Words rippled across its surface in ancient script.
Balerion reached out; the runes flared and rearranged into a single phrase he could read:
"Draconyric Genesis — Erased by Order of Balance."
The light shattered.
He staggered back as fragments dissolved into mist, searing through his arm. Images bled into his mind: gods descending, wings torn from dragons, rivers of silver fire washing away records, voices chanting erase the crown of devouring.
Selene caught his shoulder. "Balerion! What did you see?"
He looked up. His pupils were slit and glowing faintly crimson-gold. "Proof," he said. "They tried this before. And they killed it."
Somewhere above, the Vale trembled — chandeliers swaying, candles guttering. The eldest Valeria glanced up from his throne, unease prickling his immortal nerves.
In the depth below, the two intruders stood amid drifting motes of shattered memory.
Selene's hand still gripped his arm; her expression was caught between awe and fear. "If the Balance erased it once, they'll try again."
"They already are," Balerion said quietly. "Kaelith was only the first."
From the darkness deeper within the archive came a sound: a heartbeat echoing against stone, vast and distant — like something sleeping under the mountain had just rolled over in its dream.
Selene whispered, "That wasn't us."
"No," Balerion said. "It's what they left behind."
The torches flickered out.