Born of Ash and Night

Prologue Pt. 1

The night she was conceived, the moon was wrong.

It hung too low over the borderlands—too full, too bright—silver light bleeding into the black forests where the vampire realm ended and wolf territory began. No treaties held after dusk. No laws crossed the treeline.

The Vampire Queen stood at the edge of her lands, armor discarded, silk darkened by blood she had not bothered to clean away. She had come alone. That was her first mistake.

The Werewolf Warlord smelled her before he saw her—iron, night-blooming flowers, old power. Hunger twisted through him, sharp and furious, but he did not shift. He never did when it mattered.

They were enemies by history.

They were royalty by birth.

They were tired of pretending the war hadn’t already hollowed them out.

Neither spoke of desire.

They spoke of borders. Of casualties. Of exhaustion.

When he stepped closer, the moon dragged at his blood.

When she lifted her chin, the night answered her call.

What passed between them was inevitable, not gentle, not kind—two predators meeting in the dark and choosing, just once, to stop resisting what they were.

By dawn, they parted without promises.

They believed that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

The Queen knew first.

Vampires did not conceive easily—bloodlines were rigid, magic precise. But weeks later, during a blood rite meant to strengthen her court, the ritual broke. The magic recoiled from her body as if repelled.

Her seer went pale.

“There is another heartbeat,” the woman whispered. “And it does not belong to our kind alone.”

The Queen said nothing.

She already knew whose blood burned beneath her skin.

The Warlord felt it nights later, when the moon called him to shift and his body refused.

His wolf snarled—not in rage, but in recognition.

He dropped to one knee in the forest, breath tearing from his lungs as something ancient and impossible snapped into place.

Life.

New life.

Not pack-born. Not wolf-born alone.

He laughed once—low and disbelieving—then went silent.

“She carries it,” he murmured to the trees.

“Doesn’t she.”

The forest did not deny it.

They met again in secret, beneath the same ruined moon.

No guards. 

No crowns.

Just the truth.

The Queen’s hand rested against her abdomen—not possessive, but wary, as if the thing growing inside her might already bite.

“If either court learns of this,” she said calmly,

“They will call it an abomination.”

The Warlord’s jaw tightened.

“They’ll call it a weapon,” he replied.

“Or a threat. Or an excuse to burn the world.”

Silence stretched between them—thick, heavy, final.

What they had created was not a child in the eyes of their people.

It was a sin.

A prophecy waiting to be written.

The Queen straightened, already retreating into herself.

“No one can know,” she said.

“Not the covens. Not the packs. Not even—”

“I know,” he cut in.

Their eyes met—fang to claw, night to moon.

For the first time, fear passed between two rulers who had never feared death.

Not for themselves.

But for what would be born of them.

Prologue Pt. 2

The child chose to be born on a night when the moon and darkness collided.

The Vampire Queen labored beneath black stone arches deep in the catacombs, where no courtier would dare enter without permission. The torches burned low, refusing to flare—fire had never liked her much.

She was beautiful in the way only ancient things could be.

Her skin was pale, almost luminous, as if moonlight lived beneath it. Long black hair spilled loose down her back, threaded with silver rings she had torn from her crown. Her eyes—normally cold crimson—burned darker now, wine-deep and feral. Blood magic etched faint veins of red light along her arms, pulsing in time with the pain she refused to cry out.

She did not scream.

Queens of her line never did.

But when the final contraction tore through her, her fangs lengthened involuntarily—and somewhere aboveground, wolves howled in answer.

The Werewolf Warlord stood at the threshold, massive and unmoving.

He had not been invited.

He had not been forbidden.

He was tall even for his kind, broad-shouldered, built like something meant for war. His skin was sun-bronzed and scarred, marked with claw-lines and old burns. Long ash-brown hair was bound at the nape of his neck, but loose strands clung to his face with sweat. His eyes—golden, sharp, unmistakably wolf—never left the Queen.

He smelled blood before he heard the child.

His wolf strained against his ribs, frantic and reverent.

Mine, it whispered.

Ours.

When the midwife lifted the baby from the Queen’s body, the chamber went silent.

Too silent.

The infant did not cry at first.

She was small—but wrong in ways that made the air tremble.

Her skin held the pale undertone of a vampire, but it was warmed by a faint flush of life. Wisps of dark hair already crowned her head, thick and soft, darker than night. Her eyes opened slowly—far too aware for a newborn.

One eye shimmered deep crimson.

The other glowed molten gold.

A breath left the Warlord’s chest that was half a growl.

The baby finally cried—not the thin wail of an infant, but a sharp, piercing sound that carried power with it. The torches flared. Stone cracked. Somewhere, a wolf shifted mid-run.

The Queen reached out with shaking hands and took the child.

The moment her fingers brushed the baby’s skin, blood magic surged—and howled.

The child quieted instantly.

Her tiny fingers curled, gripping her mother’s thumb with impossible strength.

The Queen stared down at her daughter, something dangerously close to fear crossing her face.

“She’s alive,” she whispered.

“Too alive.”

The Warlord stepped forward despite himself.

The baby turned her head at the sound of him—eyes locking onto his without confusion.

Her pupils narrowed.

Recognition.

His knees nearly hit the stone.

“Moon take me,” he breathed.

“She knows me.”

The Queen looked up sharply.

“Do not imprint,” she warned.

“Not yet.”

But it was already done.

The child’s scent shifted—blood and night threaded with wild earth and silver. A hybrid signature 

that should not exist. That could not be hidden.

The Queen pulled the baby closer to her chest, baring her fangs instinctively—not in threat, but in protection.

“They will kill her,” she said softly. “If they find her.”

The Warlord’s jaw tightened, his claws biting into his palms.

“Then they will have to go through me.”

Their eyes met again—ancient enemies bound now by something far older than war.

Between them lay a child who should not have been born.

A girl with a vampire’s stillness and a wolf’s hunger.

A future written in blood and prophecy.

And as the moon reached its peak overhead, the baby yawned—

revealing tiny fangs already breaking through her gums.

The Queen laughed once, breathless and broken.

“Gods help us,” she murmured.

“She’s perfect.”