The Ash Circle no longer felt like home.
Elira moved through the halls with quiet intent, catching fragments of hushed conversations that stopped as soon as she entered. There was something in the way the elders looked at her now—not fear, but restraint. As if they knew a truth they could no longer keep hidden much longer.
In the early gray of morning, Naerina summoned her to the sanctum.
A place rarely used.
Its stone walls pulsed faintly with enchantments older than the coven itself. Candles flickered in half-formed shapes, and ash lines were drawn in spirals across the ground—preparation for something more than ceremonial.
Naerina's expression was grave. "The blood moon rises in four days. The Rite of Binding must be performed."
Elira narrowed her eyes. "You told me the Rite was symbolic."
"It was," Naerina said. "Until now. The seals stir. The fifth most of all. Your presence is... awakening it."
Something in her voice trembled.
Elira took a step forward. "And what exactly is this rite binding?"
Naerina didn't answer.
Later that day, Elira found herself wandering near the back of the archives, where the walls still bore soot from an ancient fire. A memory flickered—brief but vivid—of her mother drawing a symbol in salt and smoke. The same symbol now appearing in her visions.
Something within the coven was *locking* those memories away—and the glyphs were fighting back.
As she turned the corner of the hall, a thin piece of paper drifted to the floor in front of her. She bent down. It was a *burned charm*, edges curled and blackened, bearing the same glyph she had seen in her mother's hidden chamber.
She reached out—and it pulsed, warm against her fingers.
Not ink. Not dye.
Blood.
Daggerdeep was wrapped in cold mist, and the Obsidian Hall stirred with quiet unrest. Vampires—elders, warriors, and scholars—arrived in silence, their faces half-lit by floating torches that never gave off heat.
Caelum stood apart, near the altar of ancient oaths. He was expected to speak during the Vigil, to renew his vow as keeper of balance.
But balance, to him, now felt like a lie.
Sahréa approached, her gown like dark water as she circled him.
"You should've let her die in the forest," she said, voice low. "She's unraveling everything. Don't pretend you don't feel it."
"She was never the threat," Caelum replied. "It was the ones who feared what she could become."
"Then perhaps we should fear her now," Sahréa whispered. "The fifth sigil hums. The old bloodlines stir. And the Court is watching you just as closely."
Later, alone, Caelum met Orien in the western spire.
"She's nearing it," Orien said, folding a map. "The glyphs respond to her presence. One of our envoys saw the Grey Watcher lingering near the Ash Circle."
Caelum stiffened. "The Watcher only appears before a breaking."
Orien looked at him. "And the blood moon is the blade."
Caelum turned toward the cold glass window. "I'll leave after the Vigil. She needs to know."
"You'll break the Court's command."
"I already did," he muttered. "When I chose to protect her."
---
That night, Elira stood at the edge of the grove where the Rite would be held. The same place her mother had once taken her, long ago. The trees were still dark with memory.
Something beneath her skin tingled—a memory, not of words, but of sound. Chanting. Smoke. Her mother's hand on her chest.
And a mark drawn there.
A mark to silence.
A rush of images burst behind her eyes—a red moon. Fire. Screaming. Hers? A child's voice shouting for someone not to go.
She gasped, clutching a nearby stone for balance.
And then she felt it.
She turned slowly.
Standing far off, past the tree line, cloaked in grey robes that moved like mist, was a figure. Still. Watching.
The Grey Watcher.
No face. No movement.
But it saw her. It acknowledged her.
Then—gone.
Elira staggered back, breath ragged.
The parchment in her pocket burned faintly against her chest.
She looked up.
High above, the moon—still pale—was beginning to darken at the edges. Not yet red. Not yet full.
But soon.