CHAPTER NINE

The war came faster than blood dries.

By the third dawn after the blood moon feast, the eastern horizon bristled with torches. Queen Isolde Valcour—mother to the dead princess, widow of a hundred battles—had not waited for confirmation. She had felt the bond sever, felt her daughter’s soul ripped from flesh, and she had answered with steel and starvation.

Ten thousand vampires marched under banners of black silk and bone. They moved only at night, vanishing into mist at sunrise, reappearing closer each twilight. Villages on the border woke to empty cradles and drained livestock. Messages carved into chapel doors read the same: RETURN WHAT WAS STOLEN.

Elara watched their advance from the highest tower, crown heavy on her brow, beast quiet but alert inside her chest.

Thorne stood beside her, face grim.

“They’ll reach the Ashen Ridge by the next new moon,” he said. “Our scouts say they bring siege weapons forged of star-iron. And something worse.”

“Worse?”

“Mirror-bearers. Priests who carry shards of the shattered palace glass. They say the shards scream when they near you.”

Elara’s fingers tightened on the stone parapet.

Seraphine.

The ghost had not been idle.

She turned to Thorne. “How many wolves answer our call?”

“Twenty thousand. More trickling in daily. But they’re fractured. Some packs still mourn Cassius. Others whisper you bewitched him. A few openly call you usurper.”

“And you?” she asked softly.

Thorne met her gaze. “I served the crown. The crown sits on your head now.”

Not an oath. Not yet.

But enough.

She nodded. “Prepare the defenses. Flood the ridge with silver traps. Burn the forests if you must. We’ll make them bleed for every mile.”

He bowed and left.

Alone, Elara pressed a hand to her stomach.

Still flat. Still empty.

But the beast coiled tighter each day, impatient.

Soon, it whispered. The vessel ripens. The heir must quicken.

She had no intention of bearing its child.

Not if she could find another way.

That night, she summoned the midwife.

The woman was ancient—even by Lycan standards—hunched and furred with age, eyes milky but sharp. Her name was Morven, and she had delivered every Blackthorn heir for three centuries.

They met in the ruined birthing chamber deep beneath the palace: a circular room of black stone, walls etched with fertility runes now cracked and bleeding.

Morven hobbled in, sniffed the air, wrinkled her muzzle.

“You smell of star-death, girl.”

“I smell of necessity,” Elara replied. “Can you do it?”

Morven set a leather satchel on the stone table. Opened it. Inside: vials of black blood, dried placentas, a silver speculum shaped like a wolf’s jaw.

“Separate a god-beast from its vessel?” The old wolf cackled. “Possible. Once. Long ago. Cost the queen her life and the child its soul.”

“I’m willing to pay.”

Morven studied her. “You carry nothing yet. The beast forces the quickening?”

“It tries.”

“Then we have time. But not much.” She drew out a parchment map of Elara’s body—veins inked in silver, organs marked with warnings. “The bonding mark is the anchor. Cut it out, and the beast loses its leash. But the heart stops too.”

Elara traced the inked heart. “There’s another way.”

Morven’s ears pricked. “Speak.”

“Transfer. Not severance. Move the beast to a new vessel. One strong enough to hold it. One willing.”

The midwife’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

Elara did not answer.

Not yet.

Instead she asked, “How long?”

“Three nights to brew the rite. One night to perform. The new moon is in five.”

“Then we have two nights to find the vessel.”

Morven gathered her things. “And if we fail?”

Elara smiled—cold, beautiful, terrible.

“Then the world burns anyway.”

The next day brought the first real battle.

Vampire skirmishers struck at dusk, slipping through the Ashen Ridge like smoke. They targeted supply lines, poisoned wells, left mirrors nailed to trees—each reflecting Seraphine’s furious face.

Thorne led the counterattack.

Elara watched from horseback at the rear, beast lending her sight beyond mortal limits.

She saw the vampires move—graceful, lethal, coordinated by Isolde’s ancient will.

And she saw something else.

In the heart of the enemy line, carried on a litter of bones, a single unbroken mirror.

Large. Ornate. Framed in vampire gold.

Inside it: Seraphine.

Not a reflection.

The ghost herself, solidifying.

Gaining strength with every shard collected.

Elara’s blood ran cold.

The ghost was building a body.

When the battle ended—Lycans victorious but bloodied—Thorne returned with prisoners.

Three vampires, bound in silver chains.

He dragged them before her throne in the ruined great hall.

One was young. One was old.

The third was a woman with eyes like Isolde’s.

Aunt, perhaps. Or sister.

She spat blood at Elara’s feet.

“My queen sends a message,” the woman said. “Return the body of her daughter for burial, and the war ends. Refuse, and she will unmake you piece by piece.”

Elara leaned forward.

“Tell your queen the body is ash. The soul is forfeit. And the war has only begun.”

The woman laughed. “You think you control the beast? It uses you. When it tires of your womb, it will devour you from within.”

Elara rose.

Walked down the steps.

Drew the star-iron dagger.

Pressed it to the woman’s throat.

“Perhaps,” she whispered. “But I’ll take half the world with me.”

She cut the woman’s throat—not deep. Just enough to taste.

Then she drank.

The court watched in horrified silence.

Power surged—vampire memories, Isolde’s strategies, border weaknesses.

The beast purred.

When she pulled back, the woman was pale but alive.

“Take her back,” Elara commanded. “Let her deliver my answer in person.”

The prisoners were released at the border.

That night, the mirrors began to open.

It started small.

A hand reaching through glass in the servants’ quarters.

A face pressing against the inside of a window, mouthing silent screams.

By midnight, guards reported ghosts walking the halls—pale echoes of the dead from the feast, eyes fixed on the queen.

Seraphine was coming.

Elara barricaded the solar.

Lit circles of salt and silver.

Waited.

At the stroke of three, the largest mirror rippled.

Seraphine stepped through.

Not fully solid—translucent at the edges, but real enough to touch.

She wore the wedding gown, stained with old blood.

Face identical.

Voice full of hate.

“You promised we’d kill him together,” she said.

“We did.”

“You promised survival.”

“I survived.”

Seraphine circled her.

“The beast chose you. Why?”

“Because I was willing to become the monster.”

Seraphine lunged.

Hands passed through Elara’s throat—cold, burning.

“You stole my life. My face. My death.”

Elara did not flinch.

“I gave you vengeance.”

“I wanted more.”

Seraphine’s form solidified further.

She drew a shard of mirror like a blade.

“I’ll take it back. Starting with your heart.”

They fought.

Ghost against vessel.

Claws raked air. Starlight met shadow.

The beast rose in Elara, lending strength, but wary—Seraphine was dead. Untouchable in ways the living were not.

They crashed through the solar, shattering furniture, cracking walls.

Finally, Elara pinned the ghost against the bleeding mirror.

Pressed the star-iron dagger to her chest.

Seraphine smiled.

“You can’t kill what’s already dead.”

“No,” Elara agreed. “But I can bind you.”

She began the incantation—words Morven had taught her, old and ugly.

Silver chains of light snapped around Seraphine’s wrists, ankles, throat.

The ghost screamed.

Pulled her back toward the mirror.

“No—!”

“You’ll wait,” Elara said. “In the glass. Until I need you.”

Seraphine’s eyes widened with understanding.

“The vessel,” she whispered.

Elara nodded.

“You.”

The chains dragged her in.

The mirror sealed with a sound like breaking hearts.

Silence fell.

Elara sank to the floor, bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts that healed almost instantly.

The beast stirred uneasily.

It did not like the plan.

But it had no choice.

Not yet.

Dawn brought new tidings.

A rider from the north—feral wolves, unaffiliated with Cassius’s packs.

They brought a gift.

Chained.

Gagged.

A man.

No—something more.

Tall. Broad. Skin scarred with silver burns.

Eyes gold even in human form.

The last of Cassius’s bastard brothers.

Exiled years ago for challenging the throne.

Name: Riven Blackthorn.

He knelt before her, chains smoking against his skin.

The rider spoke.

“He offers himself. Says the beast calls to his blood. Says he will carry it if you will not.”

Elara studied him.

Felt the beast’s interest sharpen.

Strong vessel.

Willing.

Male.

The heir could quicken differently.

She dismissed the court.

Approached Riven alone.

Removed the gag.

“Why?” she asked.

He looked up.

Eyes met hers—unafraid.

“Because Cassius was weak,” he said. “He feared the beast. You command it. I want to see what a true Blackthorn can do with a god inside.”

She crouched.

Touched his face.

Felt the beast lean forward, tasting.

Possible.

Dangerous.

Perfect.

“Morven prepares the rite tomorrow night,” she said.

He smiled—slow, feral.

“Then let’s give the world a new king.”

Behind them, in the sealed mirror, Seraphine watched.

And planned.

The new moon rose black and hungry.

War drums echoed from the east.

And in the depths of the palace, three fates converged:

A queen who would not bear.

A bastard who would.

A ghost who would take everything.

The rite began at midnight.

And the mirrors began to crack again.

From the inside.