The air was cold that night—eerily still, like the world had paused in silence for something dreadful to unfold.
Alaric rode swiftly through the northern edge of the Vaelthorne woods, a path he often used alone when summoned by the shadow council. He had sensed something wrong from the beginning, a disturbance in the air—too still, too clean. As if even the animals had fled.
Then came the strike.
A flash of silver—a forbidden kind of blade—cut through the air. Alaric barely turned in time, but it slashed through his side, blood immediately pouring down. He growled, eyes flaring blue as another figure lunged from the trees, swift and cloaked in black. Magic pulsed from the attackers, masking scent and sound.
They came not to warn, not to threaten—but to kill.
Despite his strength, Alaric's vision blurred. There were three. No insignias. No scent trail. And their movements—too precise to be rogue. This was orchestrated.
He struck one down with a dagger glowing faintly with his family crest, but the other two did their damage. The last thing he remembered was collapsing onto the stone steps of the estate, blood seeping into the soil beneath him.
---
Vaelthorne Infirmary
The news hit Seraphine like a blade to the chest.
She had been reading in the library when the butler rushed in, pale and shaking.
"My lady—His Grace... He's been injured."
Her heart stopped. Her hands trembled as she dropped the book. "W-what? Where is he?"
"They brought him to the infirmary. Lord Caveen is with him now, but—he's lost a great deal of blood."
She didn't wait to hear more. The halls blurred as she sprinted through them, her slippers barely touching the marble. Every corridor she passed whispered the same dread: he might die.
She burst into the Vaelthorne infirmary, where the scent of blood lingered heavy and cruel. Alaric lay on a velvet-lined gurney, his shirt torn, bandages wrapped tightly around his chest and abdomen. His skin was pale—far too pale for someone as fierce and strong as him.
"Alaric!" Her voice cracked.
Caveen turned, his brows furrowed with concern. "He needs blood. A lot of it. We've given him everything we had on reserve. It's not enough. His body's slowing down."
"Take mine," Seraphine said without hesitation.
Caveen blinked. "Seraphine—"
"Take it!" she snapped. "I don't care what it takes. If my blood can save him, then take every drop."
The medics hesitated, unsure of the risks.
"He's not just a duke to me," Seraphine added, tears slipping down her cheeks. "He's my home."
That was enough.
They prepared the transfusion quickly. As the silver needle entered her arm, Seraphine sat beside him, cradling his hand in hers. Her warmth traveled through the bond, her blood now mingling with his.
"Please come back," she whispered, her voice catching. "Don't leave me. Not when I've only just found you."
She pressed her forehead against the back of his hand, her tears dampening his skin. The room dimmed, and time seemed to still.
---
Caveen's Search
Later that night, Caveen left the estate. His eyes were sharp, his stride furious.
Whoever did this knew how to hide. No tracks. No magic traces. Not even a scent. Too clean. Too planned.
He followed the direction Alaric had ridden. No broken twigs, no blood trails. Almost like someone erased the evidence. Not even elemental magic could do this without help.
Caveen clenched his jaw.
Only one organization had the ability and power to cover tracks so well.
The Elite Council.
But why would they try to eliminate Alaric now? Unless… unless they knew something.
He returned with no answers—but stronger suspicions.
Three Days Later – Recovery
For three days, Seraphine remained at Alaric's side. She barely slept, refusing to eat unless forced. The servants brought warm towels, fresh clothes, tea she didn't drink. None of it mattered.
She watched him—monitored his breath, the weak rise and fall of his chest. She memorized his face, the lines of strength and pain. Her fingers brushed his knuckles every hour just to feel that he was real.
On the third day, at dusk, he stirred.
His fingers twitched. Then his eyes opened—groggy, half-lidded, but unmistakably awake.
"Seraphine," he rasped, voice hoarse like gravel.
Her breath caught. She rushed forward, her tears streaming freely now.
"You're awake…" she whispered, grabbing his hand with both of hers. "Thank the stars…"
His gaze softened just slightly. "You stayed."
"Of course I did," she said, smiling through tears. "You scared me to death, Alaric."
He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You gave me your blood."
She nodded. "I would've given more if they'd let me."
He exhaled, voice low. "That's dangerous. You don't know what it might awaken in you."
Seraphine blinked. "What do you mean—"
But before she could finish, Caveen stepped in. "Glad to see you up, Vaelthorne."
Alaric looked past Seraphine. "Anything?"
"No trail. No trace. Whoever attacked you covered their steps like ghosts."
Alaric's gaze hardened. "Then it's as I feared."
"You think it's the Council?"
"I know it is."
Caveen's jaw tightened. "Then we have to protect her. They know about her, Alaric."
Seraphine looked between the two men, her heart pounding. "What do you mean? Protect me from who?"
Alaric didn't answer. His gaze returned to her—no longer blank, but burning with something fierce.
He reached for her hand again. "We'll talk soon. For now… stay near me."
She nodded, her chest tight with emotions she didn't know how to name. Love? Fear? A bond deeper than anything she ever imagined?
Caveen glanced at them once more—then smiled faintly. "He fell," he murmured under his breath as he exited the room. "The cold Duke fell—for her."
Days Before the Ambush
The Vaelthorne manor stood silent in the late hours of the night. The moonlight barely touched the tall windows of Alaric's private study, casting long shadows on the shelves of ancient tomes and maps of forgotten empires. A single candle flickered on the oak desk, its flame dancing as the door creaked open.
Ezekiel stepped in, his long coat damp with mist, his expression grim. He moved without a word and laid a sealed parchment upon Alaric's desk. His eyes met Alaric's—no hesitation, only hard truth.
"This is what you've been waiting for," Ezekiel said quietly. "I traced it to the original archives… through a contact buried so deep the Council won't know he spoke until it's far too late."
Alaric broke the seal. His gloved hands trembled as he scanned the contents. The silence between them thickened.
Then—he froze.
Lines on the page named Seraphine Elira Vellaria, registered under a false name after an abduction from the Sanctum Ward of Santossa. Her lineage: Vellaria-Landon, the lost daughter of the noble triad house. Born of vampire, lycan, and witch ancestry—Nexus blood, as rare as myth.
She was never meant to vanish. But the Council had intervened at birth, sealing her powers and erasing her existence.
"She's his sister," Alaric breathed. "Caveen's younger sister."
Ezekiel nodded. "They abducted her at birth. Caveen was a male with no further access to the Carello dark magic… but Seraphine—Elira—she was a female. Bearing the Carello dark magic in her."
"And they sealed her powers?" Alaric murmured, his fingers tightening on the paper.
"Yes. Using the Council's own black sigils. Her Nexus magic is dormant. For now."
Alaric looked away, his jaw clenched. "And all this time… she thought she was a forgotten daughter of a traveling noble family."
"She's more than that. She's everything they fear." Ezekiel paused. "If she awakens... if the blood calls... they'll hunt her."
Alaric stood up abruptly, the candle's flame casting sharp angles on his face. "Then we make sure that never happens. Not until she's ready."
Within the hidden wing of the estate, Alaric found Caveen pacing restlessly by the training hall. His sword lay on the bench, forgotten.
"Caveen," Alaric said, stepping forward, voice grave.
Caveen turned. "What is it?"
Alaric handed him the sealed parchment without a word.
Caveen took it, scanned it—and froze.
He read it once.
Twice.
And then the paper shook in his hands.
"Elira…" His voice cracked. "Seraphine… Elira is my sister."
"Yes," Alaric confirmed softly.
Caveen stumbled back, fury and grief fighting in his eyes. "They took her from me. From us. All these years I thought… she was dead."
"They sealed her power," Alaric continued. "Erased her lineage. Gave her to a family across the sea to bury the truth."
Rage surged through Caveen like a storm. "I'll tear the Council apart—"
"No." Alaric stepped in front of him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "If we act now, they'll know we've discovered the truth. Seraphine is still vulnerable. Her powers haven't awakened."
"But they will," Caveen growled. "You know it. Nexus blood doesn't stay buried forever."
"That's why we lie low," Alaric said. "We protect her. Prepare her. And when the time is right… we strike."
Caveen's fists tightened, trembling. "They took everything from me."
"I know," Alaric said, his voice soft. "They took everything from her too. But we'll get it back. Not with vengeance... but with precision."
A long silence passed between them. Finally, Caveen nodded. "We hide her truth. Until she's strong enough to reclaim it."
Alaric looked toward the manor, where the soft light of Seraphine's chamber window glowed.
"Yes," he murmured. "Until then… we guard her with our lives."