The rain lashed the city like whips of glass. Elena Valemont ran barefoot through the wet streets, her heart ready to burst. The world around her was a distorted echo: flickering lampposts, halted cars, distant screams. But the only thing she could hear clearly were her own footsteps… and theirs.
She didn't know who they were. Men in dark robes, eyes glowing like coals, whispering words in impossible tongues. They had started by following her. Now, they were hunting her.
—"This can't be real…"—she gasped, glancing back.
And then she saw it. A silhouette before her, unmoving beneath the rain. She couldn't make out the face, but she saw the raised hand… and the glowing symbol floating in its palm.
The street filled with red light.
Elena screamed.
And the world vanished.
She awoke in silence.
There was no pain. No rain. Just a deep, warm darkness… as if the universe wrapped her in an embrace.
But it wasn't a dream.
Her eyelids opened slowly, revealing a black stone ceiling carved with softly pulsing symbols. The room was an ancient crypt, lit by blue flames that danced without consuming anything. Wilted flowers adorned the ends of an altar.
And she… lay upon it.
Elena sat up abruptly, her body light and agile. Too agile. Something felt wrong. Her breathing was shallow. Her heart… barely beat.
She slipped off the altar, her bare feet touching the cold marble. At the far end of the room stood an oval mirror, rising like a forgotten doorway. She approached it.
And what she saw froze her in place.
The woman in the mirror wasn't Elena. Or at least, not completely. Her reflection showed a young woman with skin so pale it looked sculpted from moonlight, with mismatched eyes: one red as spilled wine, the other violet like skies before a storm. Her hair fell in black and white waves, and two pointed ears peeked through the strands. But most striking… were the fangs that slightly showed when she parted her lips.
—"What… what did they do to me?"—she whispered, touching her face with trembling hands.
—"They returned you,"—murmured a voice behind her.
She turned. A figure floated in the air, wrapped in dancing shadows. Feminine in form, with ethereal wings and eyes as black as bottomless wells.
—"Who are you?"
—"A guide. A witness. A mistake… perhaps. Only this matters: you, Elena Valemont, have been reborn. You have been brought into this world… as Lyssara Duskveil."
Elena stepped back.
—"Lyssara…?"
—"The forbidden daughter of dark elven nobility and the oldest vampire bloodline. A being that should never have existed."
Silence shattered like glass.
—"That's not me…"
—"And yet… it is."
The figure vanished, leaving behind a cold breeze. Elena—or was it Lyssara?—fell to her knees. Hot tears streamed down a face that no longer felt like her own. Her human soul screamed. But in her chest… something dark was awakening.
She was not alive.
But neither was she dead.
She had been reborn.