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The Relic Hunters

Author: Tyson Roy
last update Last Updated: 2025-06-28 02:45:17

Stories fade.

Stone remembers.

And in the hush that followed the end of prophecy, when fire settled into ash and peace flowed gentle as the rivers through Sanctum, the land itself began to reach upward, unfurling truths for those willing to dig, to listen, to believe that what had been lost could be found again.

It happened on the twenty-first day of excavation at Virel’s Edge, a jagged black seam on the world’s skin, a faultline that split the wild Lycan territories from the vampire dominions. The history of Virel’s Edge was too old for memory, too sacred for maps. Here, the wind sang only in whispers. Even the crows circled high, unwilling to land.

Most expected nothing: shards of pottery, perhaps, or old bones tangled with roots. But as dawn slipped its pale hand across the dig, a cry rose, a scholar’s voice, shrill with awe and fear. Word rippled through the camp.

They did not find gold, nor relics of conquest.

They found glass. Not the fragile kind, but a living glass, buried dee
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  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Cloak of Dust

    Dust clung to the sanctum walls like the last memory of breath, a weight that never eased, a presence felt even in darkness. Here, under Iskhar’s bone-palace, where the light of day was forbidden and the faith of the Dustborn ran deeper than bone, Sirelia and Venn descended into a silence thick enough to bruise.Few in living memory had entered this passage. Fewer still returned unchanged. For centuries, even the blood-priests, who revered agony as the surest teacher, had forbidden its mention. Not from terror of some hex, but for what it might awaken: memory older and more vengeful than any spell. For in Iskhar, memory was not a comfort. It was a weapon, and weapons, left unattended, learned how to hunt.But Sirelia hunted memory with purpose.Her steps made no sound, but Venn’s boots sent echoes crawling ahead, as if warning whatever waited in the reliquary’s heart. The passage tightened, the air growing heavier, laced with scents of dry rot and scorched marrow. Runes curled up the

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Bloodstone Accord

    The vampire lands began where the soil turned red with memory.There were no borders marked, no flags, no stones. Only the earth’s color, the thickened air, and the pulse of unseen power humming beneath each step. These lands did not slumber. They breathed. They waited. They fed.Seren crossed their threshold, her cloak heavy with stormlight, her chest still echoing the seer’s final words. Around her, the Ashborn kept silent, weapons sheathed, eyes watchful. Lucien walked close, expression masked, his presence thinned as if something in him already understood what he would lose.At the pass’s summit, thorns like obsidian barbs twisted skyward, framing a gate of black stone streaked with slow, glowing crimson. It did not swing open.It inhaled.And in that single breath, the gate split apart, as if stirred by the soul it had long awaited.Lucien’s.The Bloodstone Court was no palace.It was a scar.Hollowed from cliffside, sealed with enchantments older than any Lycan line. The walls b

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Breaking of Vows

    The land changed first in colour, then in heart. Where Eldoria’s green gave way to the borders of the vampire lands, the earth itself bore testimony, red and rich, a tapestry woven from centuries of blood. Not simply spilled, but harvested, absorbed, and returned. Not clay, not iron, not the slow leeching of mineral time, but the quick, insistent pulse of sacrifice.There were no gates. No ramparts. The border was a silence that swallowed breath and echoed with a hunger older than language. The wind that carried storm scents elsewhere stopped, leaving air so still that even the smallest motion felt blasphemous.Seren crossed into that hush, boots sinking into soil that tried to remember every trespasser. Her cloak was heavy with the scent of storm, runes on her wrists smudged from the last binding ritual, her thoughts scattered by the seer’s warning that still clung to her ribs: The cost will bleed. The cost will always bleed.Her companions, the Ashborn escort, rode in tight formatio

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Nightfall Siege

    Dusk came with no warning. No call to arms, no trembling in the ground, no bray of horns or war drums. Only a silence that pressed its weight into the bones of Emberhold, as if the city itself was waiting for its eulogy. That silence pooled in every corner, stretched across the ramparts, slipped beneath doors and between ribs. It wasn’t the hush before violence. It was something older, an absence so complete that it hollowed out the world.Seren stood on the eastern tower’s scorched edge, eyes cast into a sky that had forgotten how to shine. Her cloak, once bright with the red and gold sigils of the Ashborn, hung heavy with ash, marked by too many nights spent waiting for prophecies to turn cruel. Her hands rested on the parapet, fingers twitching. The flame inside her did not roar. It pulsed, quiet, familiar, like breath that persists even after hope has been buried.Below her, watchfires flickered along the city’s outer ring, tiny resistances in the dark.One by one, they went out.

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   Sirelia’s Poisoned Dream

    It began as a pulse, a warmth that should not have been.In the dead hours, when even the bravest priests tiptoed the halls with incense and whispered prayers, and the torches guttered low as if to make themselves small, something moved beneath the Dustborn citadel. At first, it was easy to explain: a change in the pipes, perhaps, or an unseasonable humidity, or the restless shifting of old stones. But soon the warmth thickened. The flagstones underfoot grew hot, then slick, as if sweat beaded up from the marrow of the world.The servants whispered, first in jest, then in fear. Something wrong, they murmured, something not ours. Something hungry.Down in the sanctum, the carved sigils flared, red at first, then a sickly gold, crawling from pillar to pillar like veins. A low hum, just at the edge of hearing, vibrated through every bench and bowl. The altar cloth, always pristine, yellowed as if time had sped up around it.Sirelia sat at the centre, utterly still. The Bone Throne rose u

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Storm Pact

    The storm did not come as storms do, not as a warning, not as a build, not even as an arrival. It was simply there, unannounced, replacing the clear sky above Emberhold with a darkness so sudden, so absolute, it felt as if memory itself had failed to recall the sun. One moment, the city gleamed with the newness of hope, fresh banners, the laughter of children, the clatter of forge and market.The next it was cast in shadow, light swallowed as ink devours paper, the horizon erased, the world suspended in something more primal than fear.Seren stood alone on the western ridge, the highest place near the city’s edge, where the wind could speak in its language. She clutched Ansel’s journal to her chest, knuckles white. She had read the last entry hours ago. She had read it again and again, as if understanding would come by sheer force of will, or perhaps by exhaustion.But understanding did not come.Only the slow, sick churn of history. Of secrets, oaths, sacrifices, and the feeling that

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