Beneath the world of men, hidden in the bones of the Blackridge Mountains, there lay a court older than memory—The Crimson Veil, seat of the Nocturne Clan.
It was a kingdom carved in shadow.
Vaulted halls of obsidian glass reflected flickers of bloodlight. The air was thick with incense and decay, sweet and cloying, the scent of old rites performed under moonless skies. Mirrors hung on every wall—but none reflected a single soul.
Because no living thing dared walk here.
The Nocturne did not suffer the warm-blooded to tread their sanctum.
Only the dead—and those who had transcended death.
And above all of them, watching from a throne spun of iron roots and ancient marrow, sat the ruling council's heart:
The Crimson Circle.
Six lords.
One queen.
And a pact that bound them all to something far darker than death.
At the center of the circular chamber, the Well of Anima pulsed with crimson mist. A basin of glass filled with stolen lifeblood—where all Clan secrets were poured and seen. Above it, skeletal runes floated, whispering in a language not heard since the first eclipse.
"He awakens."
The voice belonged to Lady Irelia, the Speaker. Hair like frozen silk, lips stained wine-red, her hands moved with grace too sharp for mortals.
"He fought the Devourer. And lived."
Gasps echoed around the room—half in reverence, half in dread.
"Then the Accord is strained," murmured Vaerith the Pale, master of the blade. His teeth shone like wet ivory. "The Lich disrupts the balance. He threatens the old oaths."
The queen had not spoken yet.
She sat perfectly still. Head tilted. Listening.
Her name was spoken only in hushed tones: Valanya.
Wreathed in shadows. Eyes black with silver crescents. Her presence carried the silence of tombs—and the allure of moons reflected in pools of blood.
At her feet lay a leash.
And at the end of that leash, a thing that shivered.
Chained in fetters forged of bone and star-iron, crouched the Devourer's Avatar—a half-formed shape, eyeless, whispering in a tongue known only to the damned. It twitched each time Xerces's name was spoken.
A pet.
A weapon.
A god-fed thing.
"The Lich fights like a king," Valanya said finally, voice soft as spider silk. "But he has no throne."
She looked down at the chained avatar. It whimpered.
"Does he remember the war? The betrayal? The ash we gave him?"
A murmur.
Vaerith stepped forward. "It would be wise to end him now, before he learns to wear his death as a crown again."
But Irelia raised a finger.
"No. The Devourer has marked the girl."
That silenced the room.
All eyes turned toward the mist again. A vision rippled into form—Mira, asleep beneath the roots of a black elm. Her skin shimmered faintly with corruption. A taint that had not yet awakened.
"It festers in her blood," Irelia whispered. "When she bleeds again, it will bloom. And she will open the gate."
Valanya rose from her throne like smoke curling upward. Her gown swept across the floor like flowing ink.
"Then we wait," she said.
"But not idly."
Later that night, as the court dispersed, Valanya stood alone before a mirror that did not reflect her. Her fingers traced the edge of it thoughtfully.
Behind her, the Devourer's Avatar stirred in its sleep, twitching like a dreamer caught in a nightmare.
"You were drawn to him, weren't you?" she whispered.
"Old soul. Hollow vessel. Magic thick with grief."
She smiled faintly, cruelly.
"He's not ready for what we are."
Far below the Crimson Veil, deep in the roots of the mountain where sun had never touched stone, a temple of flesh pulsed.
It was not built. It had grown.
Walls of bone and cartilage. A heart that beat once every hour.
And at its center, a vault.
Within, there waited a second Devourer—smaller, younger, starving. Fed only on the blood of marked vessels. Its shrieks were muffled by wards older than nations.
And scrawled on the wall above its prison, etched by forgotten gods, were the words:
Let them believe in heroes. Let them birth one. It will only make the fall sweeter.