Chapter 1

Vespera, Year of Crimson Eclipse

Blood. It ran like a river through the marbled halls of the Black Citadel.

Queen Seraphina knelt at the edge of her throne room, her white gown soaked in red, her crown shattered beside her like splintered bone. She could barely lift her head, but her gaze held fire — the kind of fire only born immortals carried. Purebloods. True vampires.

"Mercy is beneath you, Luscius," she spat through blood-stained lips. "So don't pretend to offer it."

The man who stood before her was not yet a legend. He was not the cold strategist the world would one day come to fear. No, not yet.

He was merely Luscius Vesper, son of the King's second wife, cast in steel and shadow. The youngest general to lead the Vampire Council's army, and the executioner of his own kin.

He stared down at the fallen queen — not with hatred, but with something far worse: calculation.

"You were warned, Seraphina," he said, voice smooth as moonlight on a blade. "The prophecy forbade the birth of your bloodline. You defied the order. Now the balance must be restored."

Seraphina laughed, bitter and sharp. "The order? That council of cowards?" She coughed, dark crimson spilling down her chin. "They only fear what they cannot control."

Luscius stepped forward, his black boots echoing across the ruined hall. All around them, vampire corpses lay twisted in death — her loyalists, her lovers, her guards. The scent of silver and fire lingered in the air.

"You were not supposed to exist," he said. "Your blood burns. It speaks to the old magic. To the sleeping god beneath the citadel. Your daughter—"

"She's already gone," Seraphina interrupted, her voice fierce again, even as her strength faded. "You won't find her."

Silence.

Then, Luscius crouched beside her, his face expressionless, though something flickered in his pale eyes.

"You hid her well, then," he said quietly. "But we will find her. If not her, then her daughter. Or her daughter's daughter."

"She will return," Seraphina whispered. "She will awaken the throne, and you will kneel before her, Luscius. You... and every self-righteous traitor who bound themselves to the old blood laws."

He stared at her for a long moment, and then—softly—he reached forward and closed her eyes.

When he rose, he turned to the silent Council standing behind him.

"She is dead," he declared. "The curse has been broken."

But even as the words left his lips, the flames behind him surged — wild and unnatural — as if the very throne rejected the lie.

⸻

Beneath the Citadel, in chambers untouched by light, the blood wards pulsed. Somewhere in the distant shadows, a forgotten cradle sat still, empty. On the stone floor, inlaid with sigils long banned from vampire law, a single name burned into the darkness:

Sanguine.

And far above, in the sky, the blood moon flared once more — and then went black.

⸻

Three centuries later...

The fog rolled in early that night, curling like smoke around the cobblestone streets of Viremoor Hollow. Lanterns flickered against the mist, casting halos of dim orange light that did little to warm the cold bite of the wind. It was a quiet place—too quiet, Tatiana thought—as she made her way home from the apothecary, basket swinging lightly in her gloved hand.

She liked the quiet. Or at least, she had told herself she did. But lately, it had begun to feel less like peace and more like suffocation.

Viremoor was the kind of town where secrets were buried deeper than the graves that lined the northern ridge. The townsfolk were polite, distant, and never out past nightfall. They smiled with closed lips and spoke in whispers near the chapel. And everyone—everyone—pretended not to notice that she didn't bleed.

Tatiana pulled her hood tighter. Her skin, pale as bone, shimmered faintly in the moonlight like frosted glass. She didn't remember her parents. She didn't remember being found—only the stories the Matron told her of a fevered girl on a stormy night, curled on the church steps, too quiet to cry.

She had always felt... other.

The ache in her chest wasn't sadness. It was something older. Hungrier.

A low sound stirred the night. Not wind. Not the usual groaning of branches. A voice—soft, masculine, wrapped in velvet shadow.

"Walking alone this late, little dove?"

Tatiana stopped.

Her pulse didn't quicken. It never did. But something in her gut curled tight as she turned, slowly, to face the man emerging from the alley.

He was tall. Pale. Dressed in long black sleeves and an open coat that moved like smoke. His hair was dark as spilled ink, and his eyes... they weren't human. Not with that glint of molten garnet in their depths.

"You're not from Viremoor," she said, evenly.

He smiled. Sharp. Beautiful. Dangerous.

"No," he replied. "But I've been looking for someone."

Tatiana didn't run. Instinct told her it wouldn't matter. Besides, part of her—the part she hated admitting existed—wanted to know what he meant.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked.

The man raised a brow. "Why would I kill my Queen?"

Silence fell between them like snow.

She laughed, cold and disbelieving. "You've mistaken me."

"Have I?" he murmured, stepping closer. The mist parted like it feared him. "You've felt it, haven't you? The thirst that never slakes. The way your skin doesn't warm. The dreams—oh yes, I know about the dreams."

Tatiana flinched.

She had dreamed. Of blood. Of thrones wrapped in thorns. Of a name whispered on the wind—Sanguine.

"You need only one thing to awaken," he said gently, raising a gloved hand. "Let me give it to you."

"You're mad."

"Perhaps." He stepped into her space, eyes locked to hers. "But if I'm right, you'll thank me in a hundred years."

Before she could move, he leaned in—and bit her.

Pain lanced through her neck, sharp and searing, but it wasn't the pain that made her scream.

It was the fire.

It burned through her veins like molten silver. Her vision swam. The world tilted sideways. She fell to her knees, gasping, clutching at her chest as something ancient and buried surged awake inside her.

The man—no, the vampire—pulled back, licking blood from his lips with something like reverence.

"You were never human, Tatiana," he whispered. "You were sleeping. Now... wake."

And then he was gone, vanishing into the mist like a dream unraveling.

She lay there, shivering, eyes wide as the stars stared down from the sky above. Her fingers dug into the dirt. Her teeth ached. Her heart—beat.

For the first time in her life, she felt alive.

And hungry.

⸻

Tatiana didn't remember how she got home.

She only knew the cold stone floor of her cottage kissed her cheek when she awoke hours later, her clothes damp with dew and her basket missing. The fire had gone out. The shutters were closed. And still, the chill would not leave her bones.

Her hand drifted to her neck. The puncture wounds were gone.

But something else pulsed there—beneath the skin. A heartbeat not her own. A rhythm older than anything she had ever known.

She pushed herself up, shaky, breath ragged. The mirror above the hearth beckoned. Her feet moved before her mind caught up.

And what she saw nearly made her stagger.

Her eyes, once a soft gray-blue, now shimmered with the faintest crimson ring around the irises. Her pupils were slightly narrowed, catlike. Her skin had lost all trace of mortal warmth; now it gleamed, pale and luminous, like candle wax in the dark.

But it was more than that.

She didn't feel like Tatiana anymore.

The silence in her head—the familiar emptiness she had mistaken for peace—was gone. Replaced by a thousand whispers, pulsing through her veins like an ancestral chant just out of reach.

You are not hers. You are ours. You are not broken. You are bound.

She gripped the table to steady herself. The dream she'd dismissed for years returned in flashes—petals soaked in blood, a woman crowned in bone, hands reaching toward a burning sky.

What had the stranger called her?

Queen.

A knock startled her. Three soft raps. Then another two, sharper.

Tatiana turned, heart hammering. Not from fear—but anticipation. Some part of her already knew who stood on the other side.

She opened the door slowly.

It wasn't him.

It was Mother Agatha, the matron of Viremoor's chapel, wrapped in a shawl and holding a candle that did nothing to soften the harsh lines of her face.

"Tati," the old woman said sharply, eyes narrowing. "You've been touched."

The words struck like a slap.

Tatiana said nothing. She couldn't. Her throat felt raw.

Mother Agatha stepped inside without invitation, muttering a prayer under her breath as she passed through the doorway.

"You've felt it, haven't you?" she said. "The hunger. The waking. You reek of old blood and shadow." Her gaze landed on Tatiana's face. "The bite was only a key. The door was always inside you."

"You knew." Tatiana's voice cracked. "All this time... you knew."

Agatha's lips thinned. "I knew enough to be afraid."

Tatiana clenched her fists. "Then why not tell me?"

"Because truth is a curse when it comes too early." The matron stepped closer. "You are not one of them, Tatiana. You are something older. Something they buried with iron and fire. Something they'll kill again if they learn you've awakened."

"What am I?" she whispered.

Agatha lowered her candle. For the first time, her voice softened. "You are a Sanguine. Last of the line that ruled before the Seven. The blood in your veins was feared so deeply they rewrote the histories just to forget your name."

Tatiana's breath hitched. She remembered the voice in the mist.

You were never human.

"You said they'd kill me." Her voice steadied. "Who are they?"

"The Vampire Council," Agatha spat. "The Seven Houses who destroyed your mother. Who burned her throne and banished your name to ash. They'll scent your blood soon. And when they do, they'll send one of their own to silence you."

A chill swept through the room.

Tatiana straightened slowly. "Then I'll be ready."

Agatha hesitated. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I know exactly what I'm saying." She turned back to the mirror. "They wanted me to stay asleep. But he woke me. And I will never close my eyes again."

In the reflection, something flickered behind her—a shimmer, like ghostlight. A second face. A memory. A woman with a crown of thorns and tears of blood.

Tatiana blinked—and the vision was gone.

But something had changed.

In the shadows just beyond her door, the fog stirred again.

Far away, in the heart of the Crimson Citadel, a sealed tome whispered open on its own. Blood ink bled from ancient parchment. A long-forgotten sigil—Sanguine—glowed faintly in red.

And miles beneath the earth, in the tomb of the Blood Queen, a single petal bloomed on a thorned vine.

⸻

The next day came wrapped in gray rain.

Tatiana sat by the cottage window, unmoving, as droplets traced paths down the glass like falling stars. Her skin itched under the weight of light—even cloud-filtered sunlight felt unnatural now, like it resented her presence.

The hunger had returned. Not for food, but something deeper. Sharper. Every heartbeat around her—birds, animals, people—sounded louder than before. Their scent carried on the wind like perfume.

She clenched her jaw and refused to listen.

She wasn't a monster. Not yet.

But part of her wondered how long she could keep pretending.

By midday, she could feel the change blooming in her veins. Her senses were sharper. The world was louder. Even colors looked wrong—too vivid, too alive. The very air vibrated with life she could not ignore.

And in the distance, someone was watching.

She couldn't see him. But she felt him. A presence. Cold, calculating. Male.

Tatiana stepped outside, rain soaking through her dress in seconds. The forest loomed nearby, whispering with voices she didn't recognize. Her eyes scanned the tree line, finding only shadows.

Then she saw the raven.

It perched on a stone marker, wings slicked against its sides, watching her with uncanny stillness. Its eyes were wrong—too bright. Too intelligent. It cocked its head when she met its gaze.

And then it bowed.

Tatiana's breath caught.

The raven opened its wings and took flight, vanishing into the woods like a wisp of smoke.

She didn't know why she followed. Only that she had to.

The forest swallowed her in silence. Branches reached like skeletal fingers. The scent of wet earth and ancient bark filled her nose, mingled with something else—iron. Blood. Faint, but fresh.

The raven circled above, guiding her deeper.

It led her to a clearing she didn't recognize, though something about it stirred memory—half-formed and aching. There, on a stone slab at the center, sat a bundle wrapped in black velvet.

Tatiana approached slowly.

When she peeled the cloth back, her hands trembled.

Inside lay a book. Bound in old leather, sealed in crimson wax. A symbol had been burned into the cover: a rose with thorns dripping blood.

Her family crest.

How it had found her, she didn't know.

But she knew it was hers.

She pressed her hand to the seal. It pulsed under her touch. The wax cracked and fell away.

The first page bled open with writing in a language she didn't know—but somehow understood.

She who drinks the blood of truth shall awaken memory lost and power buried.

She shall walk where queens have died, and rise where gods have fallen.

Sanguine reborn shall bring reckoning to the Seven.

Her knees nearly buckled.

A snap of a branch behind her made her whirl.

A man stood at the forest's edge. Cloaked in shadow, face unreadable. He didn't speak. Didn't move.

But something about him made her heart thrum in warning.

Not the vampire from the alley.

Someone else.

Older. Colder.

She clutched the book to her chest. "Who are you?"

His voice, when it came, was like iron on velvet. "A hunter."

"Did the Council send you?"

He stepped forward. "They sent many. I volunteered."

She didn't back down. "You're too late."

His head tilted slightly. "You haven't even begun."

His eyes gleamed—silver, not red. Not hunger. Judgment.

Tatiana felt her power stir, wild and unshaped. The forest seemed to hold its breath.

Then he vanished.

No sound. No wind. Gone as if he were never there.

Tatiana stood alone, heart pounding, as the rain began to fall harder—washing her tracks from the earth.

But the book in her arms was real.

And the warning was clear.

They were coming.