Blood On The Clocktower Character Sheet Novels & Stories

William and the knights suddenly became alerted and their hands tightly gripped around the handle of their swords. The mysterious men and women stood in front of us. The man in a long black coat with hair that fell on his shoulders reached out his hand to my father to shake it. “Lord Zakariah Bathory,” he introduced himself as his eyes glinted into a red hue for a second. “The Clan of the Blood Moon is delighted to be here,” he added as his lips formed a smile. A smile that was wide enough that I was able to see his sharp fangs.

My wolf stirred uneasily, claws raking inside my chest, wanting to lash out, to hunt. Aaron crouched beside a body half-buried in ash. The soldier’s armor bore Eldoria’s crest, but his throat had been slit so cleanly it was nearly a second smile. “Not gunfire,” Aaron murmured. “Blades. Quick. Precise.” “Assassins,” I said tightly. “They came in shadows before the flames.” A groan caught my ear. I moved fast, dropping to my knees beside a man slumped against the charred wall of the tower. His breaths rattled, shallow, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes widened faintly at me.

Back in the Tower The moonlight had dimmed to silver-gray. I stood near the archway, the wind cold against my face. In my hand was the small locket Drake had once given me. Inside was a single drop of dried blood, sealed beneath an ancient rune. His promise. His bond. The proof that my soul was already marked. I turned it between my fingers and let it rest against my heart. “Sleep well, little sister,” I whispered. “You’ll need your strength when the moon turns red.” Then I blew out the lantern. The light vanished, and the tower sank into darkness.

“Twenty years.” Serafina fell silent. Darius looked at Kieran. “So he’s much older.” “Yes.” They kept walking. Until finally, the staircase ended. Before them lay a massive chamber. In the center stood an altar. And atop that altar stood a man. Long black hair. Pale skin. Dark silver eyes. On his chest was the Moon Blood mark, forming a pattern like cracks. Serafina knew right away. It was Lucien. The man opened his eyes. His gaze immediately fell on Serafina. For a few seconds, he just stared. Then he smiled.

“The room has been abandoned.” I stepped closer. “Was there anything inside?” He hesitated. “A bloodstained cloak.” Silence settled over the chamber and I turned toward Peter, but he looked as though he had seen a ghost. The color had drained completely from his face, and sweat had begun gathering at his temples. Damon noticed it too and he suddenly reached for Peter’s wrist and pulled back the man’s sleeve. A fresh red mark was visible against his skin. My breath caught, it was ink , the same kind of ink I had seen on Lyra’s wrist.

"How long before he can activate it?" Victor checked the files he had grabbed from the chamber, flipping through pages as he walked. His brow furrowed. "If he already understands the protocol structure…" A pause. "Less than an hour." Julian exhaled. "Great. Another race against time. Fantastic." "Then we beat him there," Scarlett said, and didn't slow down. The path to the clock tower cut through the heart of the central courtyard. As Scarlett ran, her thoughts refused to quiet themselves. Every memory of Alexander now felt like something contaminated the gentle warnings, the careful kindness, the way he had always seemed to appear exactly when she needed someone.

By the time I wiped away the last drop of bloodstain from the floor, my wounds had fully healed. Inside the castle, the servants had begun their night-shift routines. Lazarus emerged from his chambers slowly, a vivid, deliberate bite mark glowing crimson on his neck. His gaze fell on the mop, already stained deep red, and a flicker of something unreadable, something not quite indifference, lingered in his eyes. “Why is there so much blood?” His voice was cold, but the furrow between his brows betrayed a flicker of unease, not disgust.

He caught me mid-air and slammed me to the mat—without enough force to injure but enough to piss me off. I rolled, kicked up, and slashed at his arm. He blocked with his forearm, the wood of the practice blade cracking on contact. "You're holding back," I said, panting. "So are you." We locked blades again, his grip iron. His forearm flexed, and I couldn't help but notice the tattoo beneath his sleeve. It looked like... a raven. Black, simple, dangerous. Mafia elite. My suspicion deepened. With a snarl, I broke free, ducked under his arm, and landed a kick to his side. He grunted but didn't move.