Villain POV — The Vampire Council
The chamber beneath the Dominion citadel was always cold.
Not the cold of winter, nor the cold of stone. A different cold—one born from age, from power, from blood spilled before language existed.
The thirteen Council seats formed a crescent around the obsidian table.
Tonight, twelve were filled.
The thirteenth remained empty.
It had been empty for centuries.
No one spoke its name.
A blood-red lantern flickered to life overhead, and the soft hum of the Dominion's wardstones vibrated through the floor.
Then the whisper began.
A tremor.
A ripple.
A pull in the air that every vampire in the room felt—down to the marrow.
The High Lord's eyes snapped open.
"Something has awakened."
A murmur passed through the chamber—silk and steel.
"Impossible," hissed one of the Elders. "The sealed bloodline was eradicated."
"Apparently not," another responded dryly. "We have felt the pulse. The star-venins stir."
A third Elder leaned forward, fingers ghosting the surface of the table. A ring on his hand—black metal, old as the Dominion—flared faintly.
"It is faint," he said, almost bored. "Like a heart trying to remember how to beat."
The High Lord did not share the amusement.
He rose slowly from his throne, red robes cascading like living shadows.
His voice carried the weight of empires long forgotten.
"The prophecy mark. The one we failed to destroy."
His jaw tightened. "It breathes again."
A silence followed—the kind that felt like a held knife.
Someone finally whispered:
"Where?"
A scrying bowl materialized at the center of the table, dark water swirling with restless energy. The High Lord pressed a single drop of his own blood into it. The water hissed.
Images rippled.
Favored hunting grounds.
Old battlegrounds. Ancient ruins. Cities.
Then—
A pulse of silver. Bright. Quick.
Alive.
A single location glowed on the map, though blurry—like something, or someone, was cloaking her.
One Elder leaned closer. "Valeries City."
Another scoffed. "The hybrid is there. The runaway."
"Yes," the High Lord said calmly. "And that… complicates the situation."
At the far end of the table, a younger Council member—sharp, elegant, lethal—interlaced her fingers.
"Send hunters?"
"No."
The High Lord's voice cracked across the room.
"We cannot risk provoking the hybrid. Not when we do not know how far he has evolved."
"Then what?"
A slow smile touched the High Lord's lips.
Something ancient. Something cruel.
"We watch," he said. "We wait."
A pause.
"And when she fully awakens… we claim her."
A hush fell.
The younger vampire tilted her head. "Assuming she is what we think."
"Oh," the High Lord said softly, eyes fixed on the shimmering spot on the map.
"She will be."
He lifted the ring on his finger.
It glowed faint silver.
The exact shade humming under Sarafina's skin.
"The artifact recognizes her," he murmured.
"The prophecy stirs."
His smile sharpened.
"And the Dominion… does not make the same mistake twice."
The blood lantern overhead dimmed, then flared bright again—like a heartbeat.
The Council bowed their heads.
The hunt had begun.