The magic within

The first thing Killian smelled was smoke.

It curled through the narrow stone streets of Vaelor’s low quarter, carrying the sharp tang of burning wood… and the sweeter, darker scent of blood.

His boots splashed through puddles as he moved toward it, his black coat blending with the shadows. The moon hung low and red — an omen, the old ones would have said. But Killian didn’t believe in omens. He believed in the sound of steel drawn in the dark.

Two streets ahead, the fire lit up the night: a carriage overturned, its horses gone, its driver lying in the gutter with his throat half-torn. Three figures moved around the wreckage, their armor glinting silver in the flames.

Wardens.

Killian’s jaw clenched. Their mirrored masks caught the firelight, each face an unbroken sheet of metal — no eyes, no mouth, just the reflection of death. The sight of them was enough to pull him back to another night, another fire… and his parents lying pale and still, drained to the last drop.

They had taken them for their blood. The Vael bloodline. His bloodline.

He turned to leave — and froze.

From inside the wrecked carriage came a sound: a muffled cough, then a gasp. Someone was still alive.

The Wardens heard it too. One gestured, and another reached inside. The survivor was dragged out — a young woman, struggling weakly against the silver manacles they snapped onto her wrists.

Her head lifted just enough for Killian to see her face.

Not human. Vampire. Her eyes burned with that same otherworldly glow he’d seen in his own reflection a thousand times.

He should have walked away. Getting involved meant attention, and attention meant death. But the chains around her wrists shimmered with runes — the kind meant for harvesting.

Killian stepped into the street.

The nearest Warden turned toward him. “Walk away,” the metallic voice said.

Killian smiled without warmth. “You first.”

The fight was quick, brutal. One bolt of magic — black shadow lashing like a whip — tore the first Warden off his feet. The second swung a silver-edged axe; Killian caught the haft with one hand, the edge with the other, letting the silver burn into his palm as he snapped the weapon in half. The third managed to fire a crossbow bolt that buried itself in his shoulder before Killian’s magic crushed his chest with a sound like breaking stone.

When it was done, the street was silent except for the fire’s crackle.

The woman was staring at him, her lips parted in shock.

“They’ll come for you now,” she said.

“They were already coming,” Killian replied, pulling the manacles off her wrists. “Run.”

She didn’t. Instead, she stepped closer. “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

And before he could ask what she meant, she pressed something into his hand — a small glass vial filled with deep red liquid.

Vael blood. His blood.

A shout split the night. More Wardens. At least six, judging by the pounding of their boots.

Killian turned to the woman — but she was gone, vanished into the smoke.

He looked down at the vial in his hand. The runes etched into the glass were unmistakable: Property of Lord Rhys Varrow.

The same name he’d sworn to kill.

He ran. Not away from the Wardens — through them. His magic flared hot and vicious, carving a path through the narrow streets until the city wall loomed ahead.

As he leapt into the dark beyond, the sound of the Wardens’ pursuit echoing behind him, one thought burned in his mind:

Varrow had his blood. Which meant Varrow knew exactly where to find him.

And worse — if the woman’s words were true — Varrow was hunting more than just him.