November 11, 1918, 10:47 a.m.
The air on the streets of Paris was a tangled mix: sharp fizz from popped champagne corks, cheap cigarette smoke, sweat-soaked wool military uniforms, and vomit left uncleaned in alley corners.
But no one cared about the damned stench now. The entire city roared with celebration—cheers powerful enough to tear the sky rolled in like a tide from the Arc de Triomphe, slamming against the granite walls of Line Bank.
Kane pressed himself into the shadow of the bank's side alley, counting the seconds on his pocket watch.
On the thirty-seventh count, the bells of Sacré-Cœur Basilica rang out in the distance.
Eleven chimes.
The moment the Armistice took effect.
Boot splashed through puddles at the alley mouth.
His subordinate Eric slipped in, fine rain dusting his shoulders.
"It's done," he whispered. "The vault guards' shift gap is only eight minutes. The steam ducts in the underground corridor will muffle any sound."
Kane closed his watch. The wolf fang set into the silver lid hummed faintly warm.
The moon power was warning him.
"Victor's informant said the Bloodstone is being moved today," Eric checked the magazine of his Colt pistol. "Princess Seraphina is escorting it personally."
Kane said nothing.
He could smell it—cutting through the champagne and rain, a faint wisp of cedar wood tangled with old paper.
Tch.
The scent of those pretentious aristocrats.
He gestured.
Five dark shapes dropped from the eaves in different directions, their leather shoes scraping softly against the wet cobblestones.
The underground vault was seven degrees colder than the surface.
Seraphina de Line's footsteps echoed crisply through the arcade.
The tap of her stiletto heels against marble kept the exact rhythm of the dance she had learned 132 years ago at the Palace of Versailles.
She halted before the third hydraulic door, pale fingers hovering over the combination dial.
The space behind the door was not the "securities storage room" listed in the bank's ledgers.
Runes etched into the bronze door glowed dim crimson under the yellow gaslight, like slow-flowing blood vessels.
"Princess Seraphina," the old butler behind her murmured a reminder. "The Elder Council demands it be done by noon—"
"The world won't end if they wait a little longer."
Seraphina cut him off, her voice soft as if discussing tea pastries.
She turned the dial.
There was a tiny irregularity in the grind of gears—the third click caught half a beat slower than usual.
Someone had tampered with the lock.
Seraphina's golden eyes glinted faintly in the shadow.
Her movement to push the door open never faltered, but her left hand slipped into the folds of her evening gown, fingertips brushing the ivory hilt of her concealed dagger.
The vault's interior resembled a small chapel.
Its seven-meter-high vaulted ceiling was painted with a star chart, but the constellations matched no human astronomical records.
Twelve obsidian pillars supported the space, each base piled with tin-bound crates.
In the center of the room stood a single Renaissance-style bronze table.
Only a velvet lining rested on it.
The lining was empty.
Seraphina stood three feet from the table, the silver satin of her gown flowing like liquid mercury under the gaslight.
She did not touch the table, only tilted her head slightly.
"When did filthy beasts learn patience?"
Seraphina's clear voice echoed between the stone pillars.
The silence did not last long.
Then, from the shadow of the farthest pillar, came the sharp metallic click of a bullet being chambered.
Kane stepped out, his Lee-Enfield rifle pointed downward.
He wore a modified French Army officer's coat, its hem cut short for mobility. A shrapnel scar sliced across his left cheek, like a faded totem in the dim light.
"I thought vampires only had a nose for blood," he said.
"I have a nose for ill manners," Seraphina turned, "Verdun mud, cheap tobacco, and… silver. A truly primitive choice of weapon."
Her gaze swept past Kane. Five soldiers fanned out, rifles raised, but fingers off the triggers.
Disciplined professional soldiers.
"Where is the Bloodstone?" Kane asked.
"Somewhere you will never find it," Seraphina smiled, revealing just the tip of her fangs. "And I am curious, Mr. Kane. You launch a raid on Armistice Day? Do you want humans to hear gunfire and guess what's happening underground?"
"Humans won't hear a thing today."
At his words, a high-pitched screech burst from the steam ducts in the distance. Thirty seconds of wailing would drown out every sound here.
Seraphina's smile vanished.
"Beastly cunning."
She moved.
Not toward Kane, but drifting backward, her silver skirt blooming like a reversed night-blooming cereus.
At the same time, her right hand slashed out—striking the gas lamp bracket to her left.
The light died.
The room plunged into instant darkness.
But Kane did not flinch. Werewolves possessed innate night vision.
He saw Seraphina retreat behind the third pillar, drawing a slim rapier from a hidden compartment in her crinoline. The blade glowed faint blue—silver-tipped.
He raised his rifle and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot was swallowed by the steam screech.
The bullet struck the pillar, sending stone chips flying.
But Seraphina was no longer there.
She appeared five meters away in mid-air, as if hung by invisible threads, the rapier aimed straight for Eric's throat.
Kane hurled his rifle.
The stock spun and slammed into the blade; the deflected tip only sliced open the flesh of Eric's shoulder.
The scent of blood exploded in the air.
The werewolves growled as they shifted partially.
Fingers stretched into claws, pupils contracting into golden slits in the dark.
None shifted fully, though—the space was too cramped.
Seraphina landed as light as a falling leaf.
She glanced at the blood on her blade, then flicked her tongue quickly over her lower lip.
"Verdun survivor," she said to Kane. "I've read your file. Captain Kane of the 137th Infantry Regiment. February 1916—you woke up in a pile of corpses and found yourself gnawing on your comrade's—"
Kane lunged.
His coat streamed straight behind him as he charged, claws bursting from his fingertips, tearing through his leather gloves.
Seraphina blocked.
Sparks flew from the clash of rapier and claw, briefly illuminating two faces in the dark: one ferociously beastial, the other coldly calculating.
"Is this supposed to be anger, little dog?" she murmured, twisting her wrist. The blade slid down Kane's arm bone, leaving a trail of blood beads.
But Kane did not retreat.
He pressed forward against the blade, his right claw clamping around the steel.
The acrid stench of silver burning flesh mixed with the iron of blood.
"Bloodstone," he repeated through gritted teeth. "Hand it over."
"Why?" Seraphina did not pull the sword, but pushed it half an inch deeper. "What does a werewolf want with that cursed stone? It will only amplify your feral shift. Make you tear your own chest open on full moons—"
"To stop more Verduns."
Seraphina frowned.
At that moment, the room trembled.
Not from the steam ducts.
Something deeper, older—like a giant beast rolling over underground.
The runes on the obsidian pillars blazed scarlet all at once.
The star chart on the ceiling began to spin.
"No," Seraphina whispered, the first genuine emotion—fear—crossing her face.
Kane followed her gaze to the bronze table.
The tabletop was splitting open.
Not from damage, but rearranging itself like healing skin.
Dark golden light seeped through the cracks, and a fist-sized crystal rose slowly into the air.
It was irregular, like clotted blood, with silver and gray veins pulsing inside. With every beat, the air in the room grew heavier.
"The Prime Bloodstone…" Seraphina's voice tightened. "It shouldn't awaken now. The moon phase is wrong, the blood ritual hasn't begun—"
Before she finished, the nearest pillar's surface peeled away.
Not shattering, but the relief carving moving.
A curled humanoid creature stretched its limbs and bat wings from the stone, granite skin scraping with a harsh grind.
It opened its eyes—pupils like perfectly cut obsidian.
Then the second pillar, the third…
Six gargoyles stirred from slumber, wings folded behind them like stone cloaks. They ignored the werewolves and vampires, all their obsidian eyes fixed on the Bloodstone.
The lead gargoyle stepped forward. It stood a head taller than the others, its chest covered in flowing glowing runes.
"The balance has been broken."
Its voice sounded like two boulders grinding together. "By Article 7, Section 3 of the Ancient Pact, conflicting parties are forbidden from touching the Prime Sacred Relic."
Kane released the rapier and stepped back. "What are you?"
"Wardens." The gargoyle turned its gaze to Seraphina. "Heir to the Kiss of Night Clan, you know the ban. Why have you awakened the Bloodstone?"
"I didn't—" Seraphina stopped mid-sentence.
She looked down at her right hand.
A thin cut had appeared on her palm at some point, blood dripping along her lifeline.
From Kane's claw during the block?
No.
The wound was too clean, as if…
She snapped her gaze to Kane.
The werewolf stared at his left hand—same spot, same cut. Their blood dripped in perfect unison.
"A bond," the lead gargoyle's runes flared. "Forcibly forged without permission. A grave violation of the Laws of Balance."
It reached for the Bloodstone.
Kane and Seraphina moved at the same time.
No plan, just instinct—the werewolf lunged for the gargoyle's right, the vampire's rapier aimed for its left. For the first time in their lives, they fought side by side.
The gargoyle's wings burst open, blasting air thick with dust and gravel. But it was too late.
Kane's claw touched the Bloodstone.
Seraphina's fingertip brushed the crystal's surface in the very same millisecond.
Time froze.
Then the Bloodstone exploded from within.
No deafening boom, only a silent shockwave spreading outward. Where the wave passed, gas flames froze into blue ice crystals, flying stone chips hung suspended in mid-air, the gargoyle remained locked mid-flap.
Only Kane and Seraphina could still move.
Shards—sharp, warm crystal shards—pierced their chests. Not random spray, but burrowing toward their hearts as if alive.
Kane dropped to one knee, staring at three shards embedded in his chest. Across from him, Seraphina clutched her chest, her evening gown dyed deep crimson. Strangely, he felt no pain.
Only… warmth.
As if another heart beat beside his own, another set of senses overlaying his. He smelled the sweet richness of Seraphina's blood, heard her ragged breath, even felt the soft yet taut curve of her body.
Seraphina was staring at him too, red eyes wide, hand pressed to her wound.
Kane knew she was experiencing the same disorientation—smelling the acrid tang of silver burn on his wounds, hearing his racing heartbeat, feeling the coiled tension of his muscles.
The lead gargoyle moved.
It turned its head slowly, obsidian eyes reflecting their figures.
"The bond is sealed." For the first time, its voice held emotion—near sorrow. "The Children of the Night are linked once more. The Judgment has come early."
The freeze lifted.
Time flowed again. Suspended chips fell, gas flames flickered back to life. The werewolf and vampire subordinates stared blankly at their suddenly gravely wounded leaders.
But the gargoyles did not attack. They retreated to the pillars, their bodies turning to stone, reverting to relief carvings.
Only the leader left one final sentence:
"Go to the Alps. Before you kill each other."
It hardened into stone, the runes on its chest glowing one last time:
"The Abyss Gate shall open. The Eternal Gate shall open. The choice lies with the Children of the Night."
Kane tried to stand, but his legs would not obey.
He looked at Seraphina and saw she could not move either.
Their blood spread across the floor, merging into a small puddle. The puddle reflected the ceiling—somehow, the painted stars had shifted into a single, crimson full moon.
Both saw it.
Then darkness swallowed their consciousness.
Before blacking out completely, Kane heard Seraphina's last words, soft as a sigh:
"Let them wait a little longer."
Far above, Paris still roared with celebration.
No one heard the silence in the underground vault.
No one saw that, on the stone facade of the bank, every gargoyle relief had turned its head.
All at once, they stared east.
Toward the Alps.