Beneath the surface of Eldhollow’s forgotten cemetery, Liora descended deeper into the underworld of the vampiric past. The ancient crypts, previously sealed by blood wards, had crumbled open under the celestial convergence. The moss-laden stairs spiraled downward into the long-rumored Necropolis of Eldhram—a place where the first vampires once ruled in blood and shadow.
Her breath slowed as the weight of ancient magic thickened the air. Torch sconces along the stone walls flared to life with ghostly blue flames as she approached, revealing murals of ancient battles, banished lineages, and the crimson mark of the original blood oath. Liora traced her fingers across the wall until they landed on a symbol—a crescent entwined with thorns, the crest of House Virelai. Her family’s legacy. Forgotten by time. Buried by betrayal.
At the center of the necropolis stood a circular chamber—the Whispering Archive. It was said to hold the memories of every vampire who had perished within the bounds of Eldhram. As Liora entered, thousands of voices stirred. Whispers floated like smoke, brushing her skin, entering her ears.
“Daughter of dusk... bearer of cursed flame… awaken what lies dormant…”
Liora knelt in the center of the chamber, blood pendant in hand. It pulsed violently, then shattered. From the shards, crimson mist rose and took shape—a memory, a figure cloaked in torn silk, eyes burning with sorrow.
“Aelis Virelai,” Liora whispered. “My ancestor.”
The specter’s voice trembled like wind through a mausoleum. “They betrayed us… your blood is the last key… the Crimson Manuscript must be claimed before the Harbinger rises.”
Before Liora could respond, the chamber trembled. From one of the dark corridors, shadows began to writhe and slither forward. Guardians of the archive—sentient beings of bone and venom—awoken by her presence.
Meanwhile, in the northern towers of Eldhollow, Dain and Seraphine faced conflict of their own. The Order of Thorns, long allied with the remnants of the vampire clans, had turned. Misled by the Archsage Venrick, they believed Liora sought to resurrect the Harbinger, not destroy him.
“She's unlocking forbidden paths,” Venrick bellowed to the council. “Even the archives whisper her name with dread!”
But Seraphine, bloodhunter turned protector, stood her ground. “You know nothing of what she’s seen. You chase echoes while the void moves beneath us.”
Dain unsheathed his blade, its edge lined with celestial glyphs. “If the alliance is broken, then we make our own path. I will not let her face what’s coming alone.”
Their departure was marked by steel and fire. Loyalists from the Order tried to stop them, but the loyal few who still believed in the prophecy joined Seraphine and Dain. The resistance had begun.
Liora escaped the archive with the help of the Archive Wraith—a being who once served her ancestors. With its guidance, she crossed the catacombs to an ancient vault sealed behind both blood and sacrifice.
Inside was the Crimson Manuscript, bound in skin, sealed in molten silver. It detailed the true origins of the Harbinger—a vampiric god born not of bloodlust, but vengeance. The Harbinger was once known as Vaelen, a high-born of the Virelai line betrayed by his kin to stop an ancient war. His soul, fragmented and locked away, had seeped into the world, haunting the bloodlines, driving them mad over generations.
Liora read the text, horrified and enthralled. To stop him, one needed to reunite the fragmented soul and destroy it during the eclipse—an event fast approaching. But to do that, the vessel had to be someone of pure Virelai blood.
It had to be her.
Outside Eldhollow, the skies darkened. Nature recoiled as the balance between realms began to tilt. Wolves howled without reason. Rivers ran with frost. The eclipse, a once-in-millennia event, had begun to cast its shadow.
In the mountain ruins of Vaelgard, the cult of the Hollow Vein prepared their final ritual. Their leader, Atherin—a former vampire priest turned zealot—believed that resurrecting the Harbinger would return vampires to godhood. He had consumed the memories of countless ancients, becoming a vessel twisted beyond recognition.
“Blood will renew. Fire will purify. The world will be reborn in crimson,” he chanted, as cultists around him carved sigils into their flesh, offering their souls to the abyss.
Liora returned to the surface, her eyes no longer just crimson, but veined with glowing gold—a sign that the Manuscript’s power had fused with her. Her aura was volatile, unstable. She needed control, guidance, and time she did not have.
Dain and Seraphine found her in the old chapel ruins, barely conscious. As the blood moon crested the horizon, the three formed a silent pact. They would not let the darkness win.
Using the Manuscript’s rituals, Seraphine traced the Path of Echoes—a hidden leyline beneath Eldhollow. It was a convergence point for ancient blood magic and the only place where the Harbinger’s soul could be sealed again.
But the cult was already on the move.
As the eclipse reached its zenith, Atherin’s ritual succeeded. A rift tore open in the sky above the Vale of Graves. From it, a figure descended—not yet flesh, but a burning wraith cloaked in wrath. Vaelen—the Harbinger—had returned.
Liora stood before him, the Manuscript in hand, its final page written in her blood. The ground cracked as Vaelen spoke, his voice layered with centuries of agony. “You bear the curse… but you are also the key.”
Atherin, expecting worship, was instead torn apart by the very entity he summoned. Vaelen had no need for priests. He was a god returning for vengeance.
The leyline pulsed. The seal could be enacted, but at a cost—Liora would have to merge with Vaelen’s fragmented soul, contain it, and be destroyed to seal him within.
Tears streamed down Seraphine’s face as Liora stepped into the circle. “There has to be another way!” she cried.
Dain, jaw clenched, drew a symbol on his own chest. “We share the blood now. Let me take part of it—split the burden.”
But Liora smiled, radiant even in despair. “It has to end with me. I am the last Virelai.”
She stepped forward and spoke the incantation. Vaelen lunged, merging with her. Her body shook violently, light exploding from within. Screams echoed not from her lips but from every corner of the leyline.
Then silence.
The eclipse passed. The sky brightened. The rift closed.
Liora collapsed, lifeless. But her face was at peace.
Weeks later, Eldhollow stood quieter than ever. The cult was gone, the order reformed under Seraphine’s leadership. Dain stood watch at the newly raised tomb—a monument to Liora, the Blood of the Forgotten.
The Manuscript had been destroyed, its knowledge scattered. But legends whispered that not all of Vaelen had been destroyed—that fragments remained, hiding in echoes, biding time.
Seraphine often visited the monument. “We guard your legacy,” she would whisper. “And if the darkness returns, so will the light.”
Far from Eldhollow, in the ruins of Vaelgard, a child was born during a blood storm. His eyes were gold-veined crimson, and on his wrist was a birthmark shaped like a crescent entwined in thorns.
The blood may sleep—but it is never truly forgotten.